Page 103 of The Woman in the Warehouse

The love and attention had done wonders for Petunia, who no longer panted and struggled to breathe or walk around.

But she had done wonders for Keith too, who was now getting out of the house and his video games daily, interacting with people, getting some sunlight and exercise.

He wasn’t so damn pale anymore.

And he’d put on a solid fifteen pounds of muscle.

He’d even quit his energy drink habit, claiming he had to keep himself healthy for Petunia.

He’d made a lot of strides.

But he was still Keith.

I didn’t want to know how he’d managed to get a key to our place.

“Uh oh,” he said as the cries of both Saylor and the baby met his ears. “What’s going on? Are we hungry?”

I wanted to say that Saylor probably was, and it was likely part of the reason she was so miserable, but I felt like it wasn’t the time to tease her.

“No. He ate. He got changed. He just won’t stop crying,” Saylor admitted as I jiggled our son to no avail.

“He’s probably got gas,” Keith said, walking over to set down his basket and wash his hands, then making his way toward us, doing gimmie fingers at the baby.

“Ah…” I said, not sure I trusted him with my son.

“I’m just gonna put him on the couch,” Keith said, taking him from me with surprisingly careful hands, setting him on his back on the couch, then sitting as well.

Reaching, he started to rub his hands down his belly while counting. “One and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight,” he said. Then, switching to move his hands in a wave, he counted again. “And running man!” he said, unbothered by the baby’s wailing as he gently grabbed his ankles, then ran them up into his belly quickly as he counted. “High knees!” he went on, quickly bringing the baby’s knees into his belly. “Around the world!” Keith cheered, moving his legs in circles. “Downnnnn,” he said, pulling his legs straight. “And release!” he declared as he pressed the baby’s legs up by his shoulders.

Yeah.

Let’s just say Keith was right.

The kid had been full of gas bubbles.

But not anymore.

And he immediately stopped crying.

“How the hell do you know that?” Saylor asked, tears gone, brows pinched. “God, please don’t tell me you do that to Petunia.”

“Nope,” Keith said. “I did once have to pull—“

“Good God, don’t finish that sentence,” Saylor said, picking up the baby, and putting him to her shoulder, where he quickly settled down, exhausted from his pain and crying.

“I learned the trick from my mom,” Keith said, and I was pretty sure it was the first time in the several years we’d known him that he’d talked about a family. “She used to run a daycare out of our house when I was growing up. Lots of miserable babies. That trick always worked.”

“Does she still run it?” Saylor asked, likely thinking it might be a viable option if we ever needed someone to take care of our son when the family members were busy.

“Mom died,” Keith said, gaze cutting away. “It’s just me now,” he said, tone sadder than we’d ever heard it. “And Petunia,” he added, putting some pep into his tone.

“And us,” Saylor said, making Keith turn, eyes bright.

“I’m gonna teach my little nephew all about video games,” he decided, tone serious, like it was his new life’s mission.

“So long as you don’t try to teach him about nutrition, I’m fine with that,” Saylor agreed.

“Oh, speaking of,” Keith said, hopping up to grab the basket he’d brought in with him, then handing it to Saylor.

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