Page 75 of The Silence Between

The scene that greeted us at the apartment building made my blood run cold. Miguel swayed near the building entrance, gesturing expansively while arguing with our downstairs neighbor Mrs. Guzman, who stood with arms crossed, blocking the doorway. Even from the parking lot, I could see he was significantly intoxicated despite claims of sobriety he'd apparently been making around town.

“Stay in the truck,” I told Diego, who immediately protested.

“But that's Dad, I want to...”

“Stay. In. The. Truck.” I rarely used that tone with my siblings, the one that brooked no argument. “Lock the doors. I'll handle this.”

As I approached, Miguel spotted me, his expression shifting from belligerence to a terrible attempt at warm familiarity. His acting skills had not improved with age.

“Leo! My boy! Tell this lady I'm here to see my kids. She won't let me up.” His words slurred together, body swaying slightly with each gesture.

Mrs. Guzman gave me a sympathetic look. “I told him he needed your permission to enter the building. He's been here twenty minutes already.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly to her, then turned to Miguel. “Dad, this isn't a good time. The kids have homework, and you're not in good shape for a visit right now.”

“Not in good shape?” His face darkened. “What's that supposed to mean? I'm their father! I have rights!”

“You have supervised visitation rights when sober,” I corrected gently, painfully aware of Diego watching from the truck, of neighbors potentially observing from windows, of the custody review hanging over every interaction. “We can arrange something for later in the week if you'd like.”

“No! Now!” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, producing a crumpled paper. “I got this from a lawyer. Says I get fam'ly reunification consideration. Says you can't keep my kids from me.”

I took the document, recognizing immediately it wasn't official court correspondence but something printed from a template website, filled with legal-sounding language that held no actual authority. The term “family reunification” jumped out, matching Townsend's policy phraseology too precisely for coincidence.

“This isn't a court order, Dad,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It's not legally binding. We need to follow the actual custody agreement.”

His face contorted, volume rising. “You turned them against me! They'remychildren! You had no right to take them!”

“I didn't take them. You surrendered custody voluntarily after multiple CPS interventions.” The facts tumbled out before I could soften them, stress fracturing my careful diplomacy.

“Liar!” he shouted, lunging forward suddenly.

I stepped back, maintaining distance while blocking the doorway Mrs. Guzman had retreated through. Other neighbors had emerged onto their balconies, witnessing the confrontation unfolding on our front walkway. Perfect timing, creating documented family dysfunction for anyone connected to our custody review. Just another day in the Reyes family circus.

“Dad, please. You're making a scene that won't help anyone.” I tried again for de-escalation, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. “Let me call you a ride home, and we can talk tomorrow when you're feeling better.”

“I don'tneedto feel better! I NEED to see my kids!” He moved closer, alcohol fumes washing over me. “Theywantto see me! Sophie told me herself she misses me!”

The manipulation tactic was as transparent as it was effective, concern spiking about what interactions might have occurred without my knowledge. Had he approached Sophie alone? What had he said to her? What promises or threats had he made?

“Step back, please,” I said, my voice hardening as protective instinct overrode diplomacy.

Miguel's expression twisted further, decades of addiction and disappointment crystallizing into focused rage. “You always thought you were better than me. College boy. Too good for your old man's life. Now look at you, playing daddy to MY kids while scrubbing floors at night.”

The words found targets with unerring accuracy, striking vulnerabilities I thought I'd armored over years ago. Before I could respond, movement behind Miguel caught my attention.

Ethan walked up the sidewalk with casual confidence, as if his presence at our apartment was perfectly normal. He carried a stack of books, expression neutral but posture alert.

“Evening, Leo,” he called, his tone conversational despite the obvious tension. “Brought those reference materials we discussed for the project.” His gaze shifted to Miguel. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Ethan stood between Miguel and the building entrance, creating both witness and barrier without overtly acknowledging the confrontation. The apparent coincidence of timing was obviously anything but, his arrival precisely when intervention was most needed too perfectly timed for accident.

Miguel spun unsteadily. “Who the hell are you?” His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of foggy recognition crossing his face. “Wait... you seem familiar.”

“Ethan Webb. I teach at Riverton High.” He extended his hand with apparent obliviousness to Miguel's aggression. “English Literature.”

“Webb...” Miguel mumbled, the name stirring something in his alcohol-soaked memory, but not quite connecting all the dots. “You taught with... someone I knew?”

The social gesture momentarily confused Miguel, automatic response overriding anger as he automatically shook the offered hand. The disruption broke his focused rage toward me, creating space for de-escalation.

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