Page 46 of Her Faithful Protector

Jack kneels behind me, and his body presses against my back, his strong arms enveloping me. I can feel his chin perched on my shoulder, his warm breath caressing my earlobe.

“I love you, Ava,” he whispers, his words like a gentle river flow.

Emotion fills my chest. I tilt my face, meeting his gaze as I accept his declaration and his kiss. “I love you too, Jack.”

16

JACK

The doctor at the hospital popped my dislocated shoulder back into place. Despite managing to ignore the pain while I was with Ava and Quinton, the doctor’s touch served as a harsh reminder of my injury. But I’ve been mended and allowed to go home. Baby Quinton has also been given a clean bill of health, although the pediatrician has asked us to monitor his behavior, particularly his reaction to noise and being in a stroller for an extended period.

Sam and I are convinced the bearded man is the motorcyclist who killed Greta Hall. Unfortunately, the elusive villain has managed to erase any evidence of Willem’s involvement in the Clancy house, including the paperwork Ava was coerced into signing and the sound machine that supposedly imitated Quinton’s cry.

What is left looks like a scene from a bad prank, with the crib and doll—not accounting for the two dead men that Sam took down. The most troubling part is that nobody knows the bearded man’s identity, almost as if he were a creation of Willem’s artificial intelligence. But we all know he is flesh-and-blood.

My partner for the day, Huxley Cometti, was able to keep the round-faced man under control in the Townsend house until the police arrived. But the criminal has been stubbornly keeping mum about implicating anyone. The only thing he told the police was that he and his group were planning to leave town this morning, but Quinton wouldn’t stop crying. They believed the baby wanted his giraffe. So, while the round-faced man returned to retrieve the missing toy, the babysitter was attempting to calm Quinton by taking him for a walk—a move that ended up changing everything in our favor.

I am certain it wasn’t the toy that made Quinton cry then. When I showed him the matching one I bought from the bookstore, he threw it to the floor and never wanted to see it again. So, in Townsend, he cried because he was afraid of going back to the house.

Huxley is driving us to the safe house, and we’ve welcomed him to stay and be our bodyguard tonight.

“You’re good back there?” I swivel in the passenger seat to see how Ava and Quinton are doing. She hasn’t let him out of her sight, not even for a second.

After sleeping for most of the afternoon, Quinton has been vocal throughout the journey. There’s no sign of hisPaw Patrolcalls. Instead, he’s been uttering different sounds as if singing a story.

“I think he’s saying he’s happy to have his favorite back,” Ava says while Quinton gazes up at me with wide eyes. His tiny fingers grip his beloved giraffe teether.

I feel pride and humility, realizing that my gift has remained his most cherished possession.

As we arrive at the safe house, Quinton’s content expression crumbles into tears.

“Do you think he’s afraid of this house?” I query,concerned that the repercussion of today is starting to manifest itself in him.

Ava shakes her head gently, her fingertips tracing circles on Quinton’s belly. She appraises him, then coos, “No, I think he’s hungry again. Yes, baby?” She cradles him close, peppering his belly with sweet kisses and making playful sounds to distract him. Quinton’s cries grow louder. “That’s definitely his hungry cry.”

As soon as we open the door, Elmo greets us. The mutt jumps up at Ava’s leg, seemingly wanting to comfort Quinton. When he doesn’t receive any attention, he starts barking.

Quinton’s cry softens into sobs, his hand reaching down to Elmo.

“Good dog!” Ava praises as she settles on the sofa and gently rocks Quinton on her lap, suggesting, “Let’s feed him formula tonight.”

“I can help,” Huxley offers, eager to raid the diaper bag he’s just set on the kitchen bench. That shifts Elmo’s attention, and the pup starts circling the Comet, sniffing him. “Just tell me how many mils and scoops.”

Ava is amazed and amused. “I didn’t know you had kids! No wonder you got everything on my shopping list right.”

“No, ma’am,” Huxley chuckles. “I used to help my mother take care of my brother, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Ava exclaims. “That’s remarkable!”

“Thanks.” He blushes.

“All right. Two hundred ten mils, with seven scoops, please.”

“On it,” Huxley replies and begins fussing in the kitchen.

I’ll let the Astro Boy steal the limelight for tonight, but I need to step up my game and learn more about the culinary needs of infants.

Then Ava approaches me. “I think he wants you.” She hands Quinton to me, and I happily oblige.

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