“They were peanut,” Bryan answers on speakerphone.
“Just get the police over to my house,” he snaps before hanging up. He runs his hand through his hair and down his face. I have to admit, he’s pretty hot when he’s frazzled.
“He’s probably hungry,” I say.
“So feed him,” Zane says.
“With what?” I ask, and Zane’s eyes land on my breasts.
“You do know that’s not how that works, right?” I ask.
“I don’t know anything about babies,” he says. “I never had any.”
“Clearly,” I say as I bounce and sway. As the baby continues to fuss and rub his face into my chest, I offer him my pinky to suck on. He takes it, and while I can tell it’s not what he wants, it suffices enough to calm him for now.
“You’re really good with him,” Zane says, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
“I’ve worked with a lot of babies,” I say softly, and Zane’s eyes land on mine.
“You know you never said why you quit that job,” he says, and I feel something inside of me tighten like a layer of protection around my heart. Then I stop, my eyes catching something on the floor below the carrier.
“What’s that?” I ask, and Zane looks.
“It looks like an envelope,” I say. He bends down and grabs it. Sure enough, that’s what it is. I watch as Zane tears it open. But before he can read it, there is a knock on the door, and he sets it back down again.
Zane lets the police in while I continue to sway and cuddle the baby. Despite how wild this whole thing is, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying holding him. It’s been so long. Well…since the daycare.
“So you woke up–”
“To a security notice on my phone,” Zane tells them.
“And it doesn’t show anything?” they ask.
Zane shakes his head and proceeds to show them the footage. “Whoever it was stayed low to the ground.”
“And walked,” one of the cops says.
“If they were on foot, they would have had to pass Bryan,” I point out.
“Maybe they gave him peanut M&M’s,” Zane mutters.
“M&M’s?” the other cop says and scratches his head. I bite my lip, and Zane waves it off.
“What are we supposed to do? I mean, I’ve never seen this baby in my life,” Zane says.
“We have a system for things like this. Surrendered kids, that sort of thing,”
“There’s a whole process,” I add because I know. Working in the child care field, you deal with CPS from time to time. With the baby in arms, I go over to the counter, curious about the letter Zane was looking at. It’s a handwritten note. I start to read it but stop abruptly.
“First things first, we need to get him to a hospital. Make sure he’s healthy, no neglect or abuse,” the first cop says. “Next, we need to find out who he is.”
“That might not be too hard to figure out,” I say, setting the letter down.
“What do you mean?” Zane asks.
“It looks like his mom left a note with him. It’s not signed, so I have no idea who she is. The baby’s name is Bentley, and according to his mama…” I trail off for a moment, running out of steam. Because the next words, if they’re true, seem to have knocked the wind out of me.
“He’s yours,” I say to Zane.
