Page 63 of Daddy P.I. 3.0

Miranda cries, big gasping sobs that seem fake to me but there’s no way I’m going to accuse her of acting. Not in front of this crowd that could so easily swing against me. I totally understand how Shannie felt. This situation is teetering, dangerous. My breath is coming in small pants and I feel like crying, too. But I don’t. I’m a fierce, white dragon standing tall,protecting my baby dragon. I’m not scared of the Mir-witch. She can’t hurt me. Her tears are fake. Her words are lies.

“I think you should go, Miranda,” I say.

With a rattle, the door on the other side of the crowd bursts open. Brenna rushes out onto the sidewalk in a flurry of bright blue dreadlocks and oxblood leather.

“Miranda, get the hell out of here,” Bren growls.

Miranda blots at her wet cheeks with the backs of her gloves before holding them up in surrender. “I just want to see my baby.”

“You saw her,” Brenna says, her low voice going even lower. She almost sounds like Daddy. She herds people into her shop, even though all eyes remain riveted on our little drama. “Now go. And if I find you loitering near my place of business again, I’ll call the cops.”

“No, there’s no need,” Miranda says, blinking and talking in a low, sweet tone. Like she’s the victim trying to soothe the crazy tattooed bully. “I’ll go. I’m not trying to make trouble. I just wanted to see my baby.”

She backs up a few steps but it doesn’t look like she’s actually going anywhere. Certainly not fast. Bren makes it to me, grabs me with one hand and the stroller handle with the other, and pulls us into the shop. She shuts the door firmly.

I sigh and let the colorful, familiar interior calm me. Brenna grabs me and hugs me hard. “You okay?”

I hug her back, then bend over to check on Livvy. She’s sucking on her paci, looking around with interest. No tears. When she sees my face, she wriggles and waves her fists at me.

I unbuckle her from the stroller and hug her. She wasn’t at risk and she isn’t really my baby but I need to hug her, so I do.

“She’s psychic,” I tell Bren.

“Huh?”

“She’s been quiet all morning. She knew this was coming.”

Bren tilts her head to look at me. “Sure.”

“Just go with it. Psychic Baby.”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est. Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better run-run-run-run-run-run-run away,” Bren sing-songs.

I shake my head at her. “That’s Psycho Killer.”

“Same thing,” Bren says, slinging her arm around my shoulder.

She snags the stroller and pulls it after us as she leads me through her shop and upstairs into what used to be her apartment. Master Mac’s daughter is living in it now and what used to be a living room with big storage spaces has been opened up and transformed into Master Mac’s daycare. Bren’s painted bright murals on the walls. There are play mats on the floor, a row of swings for the babies, a quiet tent for naps and time-outs, and a big, central table piled with coloring supplies where the first activity of the day is set out, ready for the kids who are already circling the table like tiny vultures.

Mac and his daughter, Naomi, are smiling, talking to the parents as they sign in their kids on a big white-board mounted on the wall near the door. Naomi’s already got a baby in her arms and the excited squealing filling the room makes up for Livvy’s silence.

I stay for a while, making sure Livvy’s settled, helping Naomi sort out bottles for the babies’ mid-morning feeding. The other two babies are older than Livvy. One’s already crawling a little. Mac organizes the kids like a military unit, which is no surprise, and gets the three who don’t want to color playing a game of “Simon Says” that has everyone giggling.

I don’t realize Bren’s waiting for me until Naomi takes Livvy out of my arms and casts a pointed glance at the door. I startle and trot over to her. She wraps her arm around my shoulders.

“Come downstairs and have a cup of coffee with me.”

“Tea.”

She rolls her eyes. “Tea.”

I wave to Naomi and Mac and let Bren escort me downstairs.

“Was I hovering?” I ask her.

“Like a stealth bomber.”

“Sorry.”

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