Page 120 of Single Mom's Daddies
So, I pick my words carefully. “We’ve been out of that business for a long time, Agent.”
“You sure about that?”
“We’re art dealers now. Clean ones. Remember?”
There’s a long pause on the line.
Then Ruger says, “Right. And I’m Mickey Mouse.”
Despite myself, despite this delicate dance of a conversation, I laugh. “You’d make a terrifying mouse. I saw you with your sidearm. Moreover, mice don’t usually use fake warrants to plant illegal bugs the way you did today.”
He chuckles too. “And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been here to see what they tried to do.”
“Mm.” Maybe he’s not trying to trap me. I lean back in the chair, watching the fire burn low. “Good thing you’re a little crooked, or we’d be screwed.”
“Good thing I couldn’t find anything illegal in those art deals of yours. You boys really cleaned up your act.”
“We run a tight ship.”
“I’ll make sure the brass knows, Victor. You’re off the board. All of you.”
“Glad to hear it.” Truly, I am. Less bullshit is a win.
He clears his throat. “I’m off duty next Thursday. You into symphonies?”
“I’ll leave you two tickets at will call,” I say. “Box, as a token of gratitude for today.”
“No need?—”
“This is how we do it now, Agent. Good will, extending olive branches.”
“Might be mistaken for a bribe.”
I huff at that. “If that’s all it takes to bribe a federal agent these days, we got out of the game too soon.”
He snorts a laugh, we say our goodbyes, and that’s that. For the first time today, I let myself exhale. I’m not good at it right now—broken ribs are a bitch. But it’ll get better with vodka and time.
I clean up a little more and make my way down the long hallway to Ivy’s room. The lights are dimmed low, soft yellow halos lining the ceiling. I tap the door open gently and step inside.
It’s quiet here. Ivy’s asleep in her bed, curled on her side with her arms wrapped around that battered pink owl. Her little chest rises and falls in slow, even rhythm. A soft monitor hums beside her, green lines stable, untroubled.
I take the chair near her bed and ease down without a sound.
I pull out my phone and put on one of my favorite pieces—Saint-Saens’ “The Swan.” Something lush and aching, the kind of music that curls into the soul and lingers. I set the phone on the side table and lower the volume until it’s just a whisper in the room.
Then I take her hand in mine.
Her fingers are tiny. Warm. She shifts a little in her sleep, and when I squeeze gently, she squeezes back. My chest tightens.
I could have lost her.
I could have lostallof them.
The door creaks softly behind me, and I glance over to see Saffron step into the room. She’s wearing one of my cardigans over a long nightshirt and nothing else. Her honey-gold curls sit loose around her shoulders, deep green eyes still a little puffy from everything.
“You look like a wreck,” she whispers, crossing the room.
“I feel like one.”
