Page 26 of Hot Shot

I turn on the little radio on the counter just in case, then pull out an island chair and help her into it.

“Now, let’s see,” I start, making my way to the fridge. When I open the freezer, a flicker of warmth sparks in my chest, despite my anger. Because there in the top drawer, as expected, is a gallon of dutch chocolate. “What do you say, Cricket? One scoop or two?”

“Two, please.” For the first time, she’s smiling, and I can see why the S in please was more air than sound—she’s missing two front teeth.

“A girl after my own heart,” I say, pausing in front of the cabinets, not sure where the bowls are. A few lucky guesses later, and I have two bowls, two spoons, and an ice cream scoop. I get to work. “I love your name, by the way.”

“It’s really Karina, but Nana always called me Cricket. I like it better.”

“Me too. So, let me guess—you’re…six?”

She nods. “Almost seven. How did you know? Are you…psychic?” She whispers the last word like it’s forbidden.

I accidentally snort a laugh. “Definitely not psychic. I teach first grade. When’s your birthday?”

“December thirteenth.”

I make a big, surprised face. “Okay, first, did you know that’s your dad’s number in baseball?”

She shakes her head, her eyes bright.

“And second—oh my gosh—you know that’s Taylor Swift’s birthday too, right?”

That earns me a smile. She nods again.

“What’s your favorite song?” I ask.

“’Bejeweled,’” she answers without hesitation. “What’s yours?”

“Today? ‘Down Bad.’ Yesterday it was ‘Fortnight’ though.” I push her bowl over and hand her a spoon.

“Mommy likes ‘Karma,’” she says, beaming. But before she elaborates, she pales, shrinking in her chair. She swallows.

Something in me breaks. I step to her side and shift to get eye level with her.

“I’m so sorry, Cricket.” The words are quiet, lacking.

Her face crumples the second before she flings herself at me. I catch her, pressing my cheek to her hair with my throat locked and nose stinging.

The angle of our hug is only awkward for a moment—she slides off the seat and into my arms, hers locking around my neck, legs around my waist as she cries. I hold her all the while, rubbing her back, whispering, “Shhh,” not so she’ll stop, but so she’ll know she’s safe.

The reality of the situation begins to dawn on me as I hold the crying, motherless girl. Wilder has a child, which is its own shock. But this little girl’s mother died, and for some reason, after all this time, her grandparents brought herhere. It seems unnecessarily cruel not to tell him alone, but I try to remind myself that their daughter is dead, and they’re probably doing their best. There has to be a good reason, some explanation.

I, for one, am anxious to hear it.

CHAPTER 9

BIG IDEAS

WILDER

Information washes over me, dragging me away in the undertow.

Memories of Ashley keep me company as I drown. She was something of a steady fling, someone I saw when I came back to town for the summers in college. We met through mutual friends from her hometown, about an hour away, and hit it off. Hung out at parties, hooked up. I remember her smile, her sense of humor, how smart she was. But I haven’t talked to her in years.

About seven years, if I do the math.

“Why didn’t she tell me about Cricket?” I croak, my throat full of sand.

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