“Thank you.”

Clarisse left the room, and when Melanie turned back, Hope was already asleep.

Jo started into Nathan the minute the three of them were clear of the lobby doors.

“How stupid can you be? Hope has a head injury, you asshat. The last thing she needs is her sperm donor coming in to screw things up more inside her head.”

“Fuck you, JoAnne. She’s my kid. I have rights.”

“You have squat. You gave up your rights when you walked away.”

Wyatt didn’t want to yell at the man, he simply wanted to punch him. Maybe bruise up his left fist to go with his right.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about. And if you try a stunt like that again, I’ll slap handcuffs on you so fast your cocky grin will slide right into hell where you belong.”

Nathan took a step way too close to Jo for Wyatt’s comfort.

“Just try it. False arrest, false imprisonment.”

“Obstructing justice, threatening a peace officer, interfering with police proceedings.”

“All right, enough.” How the hell did Wyatt become the calm one? “Much as I’d love to kick your ass right now for what you pulled in there, the last thing Melanie needs is this.”

Nathan put both hands in the air and waved Wyatt toward him. “Let’s go, Redneck. You just throw the first punch.”

Wyatt clenched his fists, his jaw tight. It would be so nice to see blood on Nathan’s three-piece suit. He heard his father’s voice inside his head . . . “Don’t throw the first punch, son; throw the last.”

He forced his fists to unwind and turned his attention toward Jo. Without turning his back on Nathan, he said to her, “I think Mr. Lewis has a few questions to answer.”

“Damn it.” She waved a hand in the air at Nathan. “We’re not done.”

“Not by a long shot.”

Then Jo ran toward her squad car, leaving the two of them behind.

Wyatt took one last look at Nathan, turned on his heel, and walked to his truck.

His mother answered on the second ring. “Well, if it isn’t our long lost son calling, even if it’s close to eleven.”

He hadn’t even thought of the time when he dialed their number. “Yeah, sorry. I should call more.”

“And visit more.” His mom was the quintessential housewife during Wyatt’s youth and still took the role seriously while heading up a dozen charity organizations and causes that helped define her as something other than the wife of William Gibson, otherwise known as the defense attorney to some of the most prominent people in the country, the man you called when you knew damn well you were guilty but had enough money to pay your way out of jail time.

Wyatt was the polar opposite of his father, but unlike most of the kids he grew up with who were all but bullied into the family firm, big companies, or startups that dotted Silicon Valley, William always encouraged Wyatt to take his own path.

He remembered once, when he was a kid, the road trip that took them up the coasts of Northern California, Oregon, and into Washington State. The three of them had stopped in a town a lot like River Bend, and he and his father tried to toss poles into a stream to fish. They didn’t catch anything, probably because of all the talking they had done. William had confessed that if he were to do it all different, he’d trade his life for something simple . . . like a small town in a nowhere place where people were kind to each other. Where defending property lines and lot usage would way outnumber violent crimes and the nasty people who did them.

Wyatt knew, deep down, that was why he’d chosen the life he had.

And his parents had always encouraged him to do it.

“I need to make the time,” he told her.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. Your father was saying the same thing the other day.”

“Yeah, uhm, about Dad . . . is he there?”

“Of course.” She paused. “Is everything all right? You don’t sound yourself.”

“I’ve had a long day and I need to talk to Dad.”

“All right, I’ll go get him.” He knew his mother was tuned in to his problem.

He heard the muffling of the phone, his mother speaking to his father, but not the words that were spoken.

“What’s the matter, son?” William skipped hello and how are you.

“Have you watched the news today?”

“I’ve been in court all day. Why? Are you in trouble?”

“No, Dad. I’m not. C’mon.” Wyatt took a deep breath. “I met this woman . . .” For the next ten minutes Wyatt told his father briefly about Melanie, about Hope . . . about the past twenty-four hours.

And he told him about Nathan. “He’s a weasel, Dad. He doesn’t give a crap about his daughter.”

William chuckled. “Most lawyers are weasels, son.”

“Yeah, you’ve told me that before. But this guy. He’s going to cause trouble. I feel it. The thing is, I don’t know why. It wasn’t like Mel was going after him for a dime.”

“Have you considered him having a change of heart about his kid?”

“He caused chaos in the ER, stressed out Hope, made a scene. Does that sound like a man caring about the health of his kid?”

“No. Sounds like a man trying to make a scene and gathering witnesses.”

Wyatt hated that he’d picked up on that.

“You told me once that half your job was being a private investigator. Can you look into him for me?”