Page 126 of The Perfect Mistake

“They took everything. Our phones, keys, wallets…”

“She’ll sleep here.” I’m already getting out of bed, and I grab a pair of slacks I’d left thrown over the dresser. “I’m putting you on speaker. Tell me the address. Are you safe now?”

She rattles off the location, and I jot it down on my phone. They’re by some fast-food restaurant a few blocks away from where it had happened. But from her voice, she’s calm and in control… probably in shock.

I don’t blame her.

The need to grab the car keys and go get her myself is overwhelming. It’s nearly strong enough for me to say fuck it, the kids are asleep and will be all night. But I can’t take that risk. I need to call Katja.

“I’ll come get you. Stay inside, in the fast-food joint.”

“What about the kids?”

“I’ll solve it.”

“Okay. I think I have to go now.”

“I’m coming,” I tell her. “Don’t worry.”

She sighs softly. “I’m not anymore.”

We hang up, and I immediately call Katja. I put the phone on speaker and pull on a sweater while the ringing echoes through the room. She answers on the fourth ring, and I explain the situation as succinctly as I can.

My housekeeper sounds horrified. “What? Go get her!”

“That’s my plan. Can you come over? If one of the kids—”

“Yes, yes, of course. Putting on my shoes now.”

I’m forever grateful she lives two buildings away. Buying that condo four years ago had been worth every single penny I’d spent. With the highly reduced rent I’d offered her, it allows Katja to be close by in case of emergencies.

She shows up a few minutes later and we meet at the door. I already have my car keys in hand. Mac might drive my car most days, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how. It’s waiting for me in the building’s quiet garage, pristine in the parking spot closest to the door. I’m pulling out thirty seconds later.

She was robbed.

At knifepoint? Gunpoint? The roar in my head is loud enough to drown out the sounds of traffic around me. I drive on autopilot, toward the bridge and out to Brooklyn. How was she robbed? Robbed.

I never want to let her out of my sight again.

It’s far too long before I finally pull up at the busy intersection. The neon sign of a burger place and people lingering outside, smoking, talking, laughing. It’s a weekend night in a hip area of Brooklyn. The city is alive.

I idle by the curb and roll down my window. It only takes a second before I see her, pushing open the front door of the restaurant. A short-haired woman, in an oversized jacket and boots, follows her.

Isabel’s face softens when she sees me.

I get out, and I’m by her side in seconds, my hand on her waist. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. We’re fine. Just shaken up.”

“What happened?”

“We’ll tell you in the car. Let’s go,” she says. She turns to her sister, and my hand falls from Isabel’s waist. Right. “This is my little sister, Elena. Elena, this is Alec Connovan.”

Her little sister is clearly cut from the same cloth. Similar genes, just rearranged in a different way. An inch shorter, slightly wider shoulders, but with the same black, glossy hair. Hers is shoulder-length, and dances over a well-worn leather jacket. She has a septum ring and bright eyes.

“Hello,” she says. “You’re our shine in knighting armor.”

“Knight in shining armor,” Isabel corrects.

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