Page 58 of The Witness

“I know you only ever took those other jobs to support your daughter. I wish you and her father had been—”

“Oh no, we’re not playing that game. George was a sperm donor. Nothing more. I raised her, and I didn’t need or want his help.”

God, it had been ages since I’d thought about George “The Sperm Donor” Lauder. A plastic surgeon cheating on his wife with me. If only I’d known. So much would have been different. I’d have cut him from my life like the scum-sucking bastard he was long before I got pregnant. But then I wouldn’t have had Hailey, so the past wasn’t all bad.

I met George when I was working the front of the house at an up-and-coming hot spot in South Beach. Twenty-four years old and learning the restaurant business from both sides. The ink on my degree from culinary school had barely been dry. I was busting my ass as a floor manager at the new hot spot. All I remembered about the place was the décor, not the food. Everything had been white inside except for a few red and purple accents in the art. The definition of hip in that era. I think they gave me the job because my red hair matched the theme.

I’d been a fool for George. When I figured out I was pregnant, I thought we’d be a happy little family of three. That fairy tale would never come true. But the life Hailey and I had shared had been a hell of a glorious adventure. The only shitty part had been the end. Outliving a child is a kind of hell on earth. It gutted me.

Mom squeezed my leg. She knew I was thinking about Hailey.

“She was an incredible girl. It’s not fair—” My heart ached so hard in my chest I pressed my hand to my sternum. If I started crying now, I’d need a month to recover.

“No tears. We promised her.” Mom dabbed at her eyes and blinked hard.

“Yeah, we promised. No tears, only happy memories.” Grieving my daughter was something I did daily, but it was also something I tried not to overdo. That time had passed. I had to keep living. Hailey wouldn’t have wanted me paralyzed by grief.

“She’s my motivation. I told her I’d open my own place.”

Mom sighed. “Honey, you can’t hide from grief by working.”

“I know, but it's not the worst coping mechanism. Just ask my therapist.”

“Okay.” She leaned over and hugged me.

Nothing like a hug from Mom; it heals all wounds from a scraped knee to a broken heart. We sat back in our chairs and dried the tears we weren’t supposed to be crying.

“So how was Cuba, really?” she asked with a look that saidplease distract me.

“Scary. Terrifying. But we did it.” I shook my head in disbelief, still amazed at what had gone down.

“Don’t you mean: you did it? I heard enough to know you were playing a very dangerous role.”

“We,” I emphasized. “I only succeeded because Michael wouldn’t let me fail. He was so worried for my safety that I knew with him beside me there was no way I’d get hurt. I had faith in him.”

“Faith. Humm, is that what you kids are calling it nowadays? Because he can’t keep his eyes off you.” She actually smirked. It was like I was back in middle school and she’d seen a boy walk me home from the bus.

“Mom, be serious. He offered to kill a man for me, and then he shielded my body from flying bullets with his own.”

“That is hot.” Quinn sighed like a smitten teen as she set down a frosty silver ice bucket. “I hope you two don’t mind if I crash your party. I brought the good stuff from Kira’s special stash.”

“Never, my dear, you are always welcome,” my mother said with genuine affection.

Mom had told me that Quinn had been her savior while I’d been in Cuba, keeping her sane by not only feeding her the information she craved but also supplying much-needed distractions from her fears.

“Awesome.” Quinn unearthed three elegant shot glasses from the ice in the bucket and filled them with vodka for each of us. The label on the bottle was all in Russian, and the clear liquid inside was thick from time in the freezer.

“A toast. To new friends.” Quinn nodded at my mom, then me.

We carefully clinked our cold glasses together, careful not to spill a drop.

I took a small sip; the icy vodka was smooth as silk. It slid down my throat, cooling any lingering heat from the Thai food we’d all had for dinner.

“Kira has tried to teach me a Russian toast, but I keep forgetting it,” Quinn said after her sip. “But that doesn’t stop me from liberating her vodka every chance I get. I think John buys this stuff on the black market for her.”

“My late husband always kept it simple: saluti.” Mom raised her glass a second time.

“Saluti,” Quinn and I echoed, lifting our shots in return.

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