By eight the studio was dark and Jamie was asleep against her shoulder in his pajamas.
She had kissed Roman Bellamy and thrown him out in the same minute. Her mouth still felt bruised.
Calla: Time for bed, baby.
Her phone lit up on the table and she read the message twice.
Calla: Not tonight. Not in my house.
Then the doorbell rang, and she knew it was already too late.
He stood in the rain with no apology anywhere on his face.
Calla: You don't get to come to my house.
Roman: We finish this tonight.
Roman: I want a test. A swab, a lab, a piece of paper. That is all I want.
Calla: Touch my son with a swab and my lawyers will bury you by morning.
Roman: Then it's a court order. You'll like that a lot less.
Roman: I had you for a year. I know how you work.
Roman: I fucked you in that bed upstairs and you cried after. Don't tell me that boy isn't mine.
Calla: Get out of my house. Now.
The sitter came out of the hall with Jamie's blanket and stopped dead.
Roman: Ask her. Ask your boss who she was sleeping with four years ago.
Calla's face burned. He was doing it again, in her own house, in front of her staff.
She shoved him back toward the door with both hands.
He caught her wrists and held them, and it was the same grip from the winter show.
Calla: Let go of me.
He let go like her skin had burned him.
Jamie: Mama?
Jamie stood at the top of the stairs with his bear, blinking in the light.
Roman looked up at the boy and forgot the whole fight.
Roman: Hey. Hey, buddy.
Jamie: Mama. Who is that man?
Roman: He has my eyes. Everyone in this room can see it.
Roman: I'm not leaving until you say it out loud.
Calla: Say what? That you're a stranger standing in my house?
Jamie's hand slid off her neck. His head dropped heavy against her shoulder.
Calla: Jamie?
He did not answer.
She laid him on the rug and put her hand on his chest. It was moving, but too fast and too shallow.
Calla: Jamie. Baby. Wake up. Wake up for Mama.
His eyes stayed closed, and his lips were turning gray.
Calla: Jamie! Open your eyes!
She shook his shoulders, gentle and then hard, and he moved like a doll.
Roman: Calla. Let me.
Calla: Don't touch him!
Roman was on the floor beside her before she could stop him, two fingers at the boy's neck.
Roman: St. Cline. Pediatric emergency. Four years old, unresponsive.
Calla could not wake him. Her son would not wake up.
Calla: Roman. Roman, please.
She hated him, and he was the only other person in the room.
Roman: Ambulance is coming. I've got him.
She still could not wake her son.