She met him at the door, her things bundled in her arms.
“I can’t handle him, Mr. Queen,” she said. “I quit.”
“The agency said you were trained to work with children.” He stood in the doorway, blocking her escape attempt. She shook her head, a frazzled curl falling to roll along her brow.
“Not him. Not enough.”
“Shondra, please,” he said, arms out in supplication. “He’s a ten-year-old who just lost his mother—have compassion.”
“I can’t do therapy with him.”
“He has a therapist,” Oliver protested. “I need someone to be here with him while I work.”
“Mr. Queen, please don’t make me feel bad about this.”
Yet he wanted to make her feel bad about it. The protectiveness he felt toward William surged inside him. He wanted to lash out, to berate this woman who had insulted his flesh and blood. At the thought, he closed down those emotions.
She hadn’t insulted William.
She was just leaving.
“Of course.” He stepped aside, holding the door. “I’ll make sure you are paid for today.”
Shondra watched him for a moment, waiting for more argument. Oliver returned her gaze with a blank expression. So she shrugged her backpack onto her shoulder and walked out, not looking back.
Oliver shut the door behind her and turned, looking around the apartment. With the childminder gone he was alone, William probably in his room. The apartment seemed to hang around him, loose at its joints as if it could collapse and fall apart at any moment. It was a nice apartment, a place Felicity had found for them, spacious enough for two people who were still strangers.
The thought sent a pang through him and the regret for all the missed years seared his heart. He moved through the space, around the couch, heading toward his son’s bedroom. He could face criminals with guns and not have as much tension as he had just walking toward a room.
He passed an abstract painting on the wall. It had been there when he took the apartment, part of the staging he’d purchased. It was a nice piece of art, a Holmquist, and he appreciated it aesthetically, but it held no connection to him. It was just art on the wall—he owned it, but it wasn’t “his.”
Sometimes he felt that way about everything but being the Green Arrow.
Stopping outside William’s shut door, he listened. No noise came through. He knocked softly and reached for the knob, turning it and opening the door. William sat on his bed, reading, the covers crumpled and off on the floor. He didn’t look up as Oliver entered, just stared at the book on his knees.
He looked small, hunched over the book. The emotions inside Oliver roiled around each other. Concern, pride, a need to protect, and guilt—all coated in a layer of fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear that William would hate him, first for abandoning him and then for letting his mother be killed.
“Hello, William,” he said, and instantly he regretted it. Crap, what was that? “Hello, William,” like I’m talking to an adult I’ve just met. “Hey.” He moved to sit on the end of the bed. Two action figures—the Flash and Captain Cold—lay there. He picked them up, setting them aside as he sat. He looked sharply around the room. On the floor, half under the edge of the dresser, lay the Green Arrow action figure.
William didn’t move, other than turning the page.
“What are you reading, son?”
William didn’t respond.
Oliver reached out, moving slowly, waiting for his son to flinch. Gently he touched the corner of the book, lifting it just enough to read the title. My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George.
“I’ve read that book.”
His mind flashed back to the years in exile on Lian Yu, living off the land, hunting, foraging, scavenging. Harsher, uglier than the survival shown in the book— but then again, Lian Yu wasn’t a children’s book.
William didn’t look up.
“Do you like it?”
William shrugged, but kept his head down.
“Have you gotten to the part with the falcon?”
William twisted, drawing his knees up and turning to face away from his father. He pulled the book up closer to his face. As he did, Oliver’s chest felt like it had been filled with cement. He watched the son he didn’t know, but loved so much it hurt in a way he didn’t know things could hurt.
Slowly he stood, “I’ll go make dinner. If you need me, I’m here.”
William didn’t respond.