Then a small voice pipes up from the doorway.
“Ryker!”
I lift my head.
Maisie stands there holding a wild bundle of flowers twice the size of her torso. Her frames tilt a little on her nose, and her smile looks like pure triumph.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say.
She barrels toward me and skids to a halt right at my boots, thrusting the flowers up proudly. “Look at what Uncle Jude got me! And look at my glasses! Dr. Austin said I can read the teeny-tiny letters now.”
I crouch so we’re eye level. The glasses really do suit her. She looks bright, curious, alive. The kind of kid who absorbs sunlight and gives it back twice as warm.
“They look fantastic,” I tell her. “But this place isn’t safe without a hat.”
I take mine off—battered gray, sweat-stained from years of work—and settle it on her head. It sinks low enough to bump her ears.
She beams.
Behind her, Jude steps in. He looks worn out in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are tense.
And when his eyes flick to me, something sharp passes through them.
“Can we talk?” he says quietly.
I know that tone. The kind that means something’s been gnawing at him for hours.
I rise. “Sure.” I glance down at Maisie. “Go help Chase. Tell him to show you where the volunteers keep the good stuff.”
She lights up. “Chase! Uncle Ry said you have good stuff!”
Chase shouts across the room, “Everyone, halt demolition. We have a kid around.”
Maisie pumps a fist. “Cool!”
She bolts toward the cluster of workers, shouting instructions she absolutely made up, and half of them follow her like she’s their foreman.
I turn to Jude. He pulls off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a long breath.
“Did you fuck her?” he asks.
I blink. “Fuck who?”
He shoots me a look that could peel paint off a wall. “Don’t play dumb. Norah.”
I exhale, sharp. “I didn’t fuck Norah.”
He waits.
I run a hand along my jaw. “She was drunk. She suggested it. I didn’t touch her. Not like that.”
His expression twitches—relief? irritation? both?—but he doesn’t settle.
“And you didn’t tell me? We tell each other everything.”
I jerk my chin toward the corner where Maisie stands, wearing my hat, shouting advice about how to hold a sledgehammer. “Didn’t feel like breakfast conversation.”
Jude’s mouth presses flat. I can tell he wants to argue more, but he can’t with her standing right there. He scrubs a hand through his hair instead, eyes darting around, and murmurs, “I don’t even know why I’m acting like this.”
