Page 66 of His Greatest Treasure

It doesn’t matter that seven years have gone by. I still have no damn clue what to do half the time. Raising a child is a guessing game where every option is probably wrong in one way or another. There’s never one right answer, and learning that lesson on my own was torturous.

They say to find a support system for a reason. Between hormones, stress, and fear, raising a child is a test of will. And doing it alone tested me more than I anticipated.

Peeling my face from my palms, I let my arms fall to my sides. The new cash register rests on the counter in front of me beside the monitor that cost far too much of my budget. I’m sure it will be worth it in the long run, but as of now, all it is is a paperweight.

The grout between the floor tiles has gotten dirtier as the days have passed, and with only half the shop painted . . . I try as hard as I can not to get discouraged.

This was never going to be easy or quick, and it won’t suddenly be just because I’m tired and want it finished. A few more weeks and I’ll be surrounded by the smell of fresh flowers and chatting with husbands who need advice on what type of arrangement to order their wives to apologize for a stupid fight.

I swipe at the screen and start the process of connecting the monitor to the store’s Wi-Fi, getting it taken care of quickly before powering on the handheld card reader.

It only takes a few minutes to get everything set up, and when I check the time, I’m relieved to find there are only a few more minutes before I have to pick up Nova. Maybe I’ll stop and grab her an ice cream on the way. With any luck, it will win me back some po?—

A crash fills the street, the sound of metal hitting metal so loud I cover my ears and curl behind the counter out of fear. My skin flushes cold as I round the counter a heartbeat later and tumble out the door.

The commotion along the curb is almost as shocking as the crumpled car in the exact same spot mine was parked all day. I blink, ears hot. The crumpled carismine.

Or it was.

I lift a hand to my mouth and gawk at the smooshed hood of a truck that’s pressed against the driver’s door of my car. Smoke leaks from beneath the truck as I clear the sidewalk, racing to where a man runs shaking fingers through his hair and rambles curse after curse.

“Did you hit my car?” I shriek, jabbing a finger at him.

Whipping my head to the side, I gape at the damage the entire left side of my car took. It’s completely crumpled, the frame shoved inward, glass shattered and spread all over the pavement. The fuzzy dice hanging on my rear-view mirror are still intact, so that’s a win.

“I didn’t mean to!” the man shouts.

“No shit! You just don’t know how to drive.” The shop is at the end of one street with another running horizontally past it. “Where did you think you were going? It’s a flower shop, not a McDonald’s drive-through! Did you completely miss the stop sign, or did you ignore it?”

He breathes quickly, continuing to make a mess of his hair. Glasses slipping down his nose, he makes no move to push them back up.

“I don’t know! It just happened. Do you think that I wanted to ruin my truck? I still have three years of payments on this thing!”

“I’m calling the police,” I hiss, patting my pants for my phone before remembering it’s inside. “I have to go back inside, but don’t you dare move! I swear to God that I’ll hunt you down and hit you over the head with a brick if you do.”

“I’m not running.”

I don’t trust him in the slightest, but I leave him anyway, knowing I’m fucked out of any real choice. The first thing I have to do is call the police. Then I can properly freak out. Because what. The. Fuck!

There’s no time for this. No money, no second vehicle I can use while I get mine towed to a junkyard! Oh, my God. Nova. School. Pickup time.

My phone is still on the counter beside the register, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m dialling the first person that comes to mind.

“Come on,” I whisper, tapping my foot on the tile.

The line rings and rings until it catches on his voicemail. A gruff, blunt greeting reaches me before I end the call and try him again.

Oliver’s at work. I know it, and I still call him a second time. Every ring in my ear is a shove further into the pit of embarrassment I can feel my heels sinking into. I shouldn’t be bothering him at all, let alone when he’s working. It’s needy, but still, I can’t hang up. Can’t call someone else. Don’t want to.

“Avery?”

My eyes water immediately, throat tightening up. “Hi.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nova—”

“Bateman? You good, Lieutenant?” a man whose voice I don’t recognize asks, voice deep and cutting. It’s a shock to my mess of a system right now.

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