Page 170 of Things We Burn

He dropped both then took Mabel into his arms. “How’s my baby?” he murmured softly.

I just stared at him. “Where did you get a shotgun?”

“Baby gift,” he replied. “From Knox.”

I nodded, dragging a hand through my hair. That made sense.

“I don’t think that photographer is going to be quiet about that,” I told him.

Kane kissed Mabel’s head. “I hope to fuck he isn’t. I told him to inform his friends they wouldn’t get a warnin’ shot next time.”

I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. There was no point in even trying to dissuade Kane from such things. A stranger had taken a photo of me nursing his baby. He was lucky there had even been a warning shot.

Not long after that, there was a call from the gate. The sheriff, Finn, had arrived.

Kane greeted him with a smile and the offer of coffee.

Finn accepted it, friendly enough as he sat at the breakfast bar and smiled at Mabel. She smiled back, which was rare for her. She was an immensely happy baby with her father and me but was picky about which strangers she smiled at.

She was a mix of Kane and me, my ice and his fire.

After five minutes of small talk, Finn casually said, “Got a report of an attempted shooting from this property.”

“Is that right?” Kane replied just as casually, holding Mabel upright on the counter.

Finn nodded.

“They happen to mention they were trespassing and takin’ photos of my woman nursing my daughter?” He spoke in a calm tone, but it was impossible to hide his underlying fury.

Finn’s face became stony, no longer the friendly neighborhood sheriff. “They did not,” he murmured, putting down the coffee cup. “You got a permit for that?” He jutted his chin to the shotgun that Kane hadn’t even bothered to hide.

I’d have to have a conversation with him about deadly weapons being left around when there was a baby in our house close to crawling.

“Yes,” Kane lied easily.

If the gun came from Knox, there was absolutely no way he had a permit.

“Pftt.” Finn took another sip of his coffee. “Well, then I’m going to have to inform that photographer,” he snarled, “that he’s lucky I’m not charging him and inform him that I’ll have that same sensibility with any of his friends.”

The message was clear. The town of Jupiter, law enforcement included, was on our side. Everyone had closed ranks around us. This didn’t immediately stop the circus, but it helped assuage it.

Our life continued on.

Twenty-Eight

My fingers were itching.

They had been. For a while.

They itched for knives. For pans. Pots. Minor burns.

A culinary kitchen.

And not rushed meals I threw together, panic racing through my veins even though Kane promised he ‘had’ Mabel. I was unable to slow down in our house. I knew that everything I was experiencing were common traits of motherhood—the sense of constant urgency, that no task could be done properly, only rushed through. It would all pass, my sister and the books promised. But this new way of life felt cemented into my personality.

I tried to grit my teeth through it.

But I was grinding them to dust.

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