Page 33 of Paternal Instincts
Not once did Nixon contradict his brother’s assessment, so I figured it was a watered-down version of the truth.
“Do you get along with Imogen?”
Flynn’s face softened as he glanced at his brother. “I love Imogen. Nixon got the cream of the crop with her. He’s a lucky man. Married his high school sweetheart and fuck the world who told him not to, ain’t that right?”
They shared an intimate smile. Even though Nixon’s eyes were swollen and a cloak of misery surrounded him, their brotherly love still shone.
A tiny pang of jealousy tugged at my heart. I’d never grown up with a sibling or was able to form an unshakable bond like Nixon and Flynn. That opportunity had been stolen from me when I was no older than Sparrow. I didn’t want my fate to be hers, so I needed to bring Crow home safe and sound.
I checked my notes, deciding that was enough for now. Leaving the brothers alone, I wandered the house until I located what I assumed might be the couple’s bedroom on the second floor. I’d passed two other bedrooms along the way, decorated in bright colors and with shelves and dressers full of toys and books. I assumed they belonged to Sparrow and Crow. Both of those doors stood open. The bathroom door was ajar.
The room at the end of the hall, which I surmised belonged to Nixon and his wife, was hidden behind a closed door, so I knocked lightly.
“Imogen, it’s Quaid Valor from the police department. Can I come in?”
For a long moment, I didn’t get a response. Figuring she might be asleep, I moved to retreat when a meek voice called out, “It’s not locked.”
I poked my head in, finding Imogen sprawled on top of the covers of a queen-size bed, propped up on several pillows. Her dark hair fanned the white satin sheets, limp and unwashed like the previousday. She stared at the ceiling, not acknowledging my presence. Numb, like Zoey had described.
“Can we chat for a minute?”
“Sure.”
I moved into the room, noting the quality of the furniture and tasteful decorations on display. The bedroom was modest. Clean and orderly, if not slightly stuffy and warm. The only disarray was a pile of dirty clothes on top of the hamper.
I bit back a smile. Aslan wasn’t the only person unable to lift a hamper lid and put dirty laundryinside. I’d learned to live with his quirks despite not understanding them. Considering the clothing appeared to be trousers and a dress shirt, the culprit must have been Nixon.
The morning sun slanted across the floor in a triangle from the unshaded window. A sprawling oak blocked most of the view of the street. Hanging from its branches were several bird feeders. Several feathery friends hopped limb to limb, pecking the seeds from within. A proud blue jay lorded over a conical tube-like apparatus, not allowing anyone else in the vicinity to steal from his treasured spot.
The feeders made me think of the children’s names. Sparrow, Crow, and Aslan had shared the new baby would be Robin. All birds. The Davises clearly had a passion for Aves. From there, I recalled Sparrow’s suggestion that should Aslan and I have a girl, we could name her Daisy. It was not to my liking, but not as horrible as some of the suggestions Aslan had brought to the table over the past few months. At this point, it felt like we would never find a suitable baby name, and we were running out of time.
I considered Aslan’s suggestion from that morning. Could I trust him to name our baby if she was a girl? Was I confident Bryn carried a boy? And if the baby was a boy, what the heck was I going to name him?
“He’s a bastard,” Imogen said, drawing me from my internal musing.
“Excuse me?” I immediately thought of Nixon but was corrected.
She motioned to the domineering blue jay. “He’s here every day. Never lets anyone else eat from that feeder, and he’s a glutton. Do you know how often we fill that thing?”
The question felt rhetorical, so I didn’t answer, watching the blue jay torment the other birds with flapping wings and a puffed chest as he hopped about, blocking their attempts at sneaking a seed.
“Are they still here?” she asked.
I turned from the window.
Imogen’s face sagged with weariness. Dark circles hung under her eyes. Her nose shone red, likely from abrasive tissues and excessive blowing.
“Nixon’s parents are outside with Sparrow, chatting with my partner.”
“And Flynn?”
“He’s consoling Nixon.”
She nodded and glanced out the window as the blue jay landed on top of the feeder and proceeded to peck upside down at the seeds.
“Mrs. Davis—”
“You can call me Genie.”
