I did, and the crying cut off like a blown fuse.
Jasper watched this. Then he said, “He’s imprinted on you.” It was an observation, not an accusation, but I felt the heat crawl up my neck anyway.
“He was left on the porch,” I said. “Bassinet and all.”
“Any sign of who did it?”
I shook my head. “Nobody, nothing. If there were tracks, they’re gone now.”
He grunted. The kind of grunt that said he was filing it away for later.
I looked down at the baby, who was now totally still against my chest, like a small, warm grenade. He blinked once, twice, then decided I was not going to explode and let his fingers rest, curled soft as new leaves against my collarbone.
“Hooper,” Jasper said, voice shifting up, and I knew he was about to ask for more details. Except the next sound wasn’t his voice at all.
Rawley’s footsteps were a metronome on the stairs: measured, even, heavy. He didn’t wear a shirt, just a pair of cargo pants, boots half-laced. His head gleamed in the light and his eyes were flat and gray as winter road slush. Jojo trailed behind him, still in pajama bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, hair glued to his head in wild cowlicks.
Rawley took in the scene: me, the baby, Jasper standing there with his arms folded. He didn’t waste a second on drama.
“Hoop. You find him out there?”
“Porch,” I said. “No clue how he got there.”
“Perimeter?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t see shit.”
Rawley nodded, like this confirmed something he already expected. “Stay here.” Then, to Jasper: “Stay with them.” And then he was gone, door banging behind him, the night swallowing him like it owed him a favor.
Jojo lingered at the threshold, staring at the baby with an expression I’d never seen before—part horror, part awe, part pure, stupid delight.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “He’s so tiny.”
“Yeah,” I said. I could feel the heat of the baby, even through two layers of fabric.
Jojo padded over and poked at the bassinet, flipping up the little sunshade and inspecting it like it was a piece of machinery.He leaned in and sniffed, then, for reasons known only to Jojo, sniffed again.
“Brand-new,” he said. “No stains, no dirt. Bought this week, maybe. That means—”
“Someone wanted him to make it here in one piece,” Jasper finished.
Jojo frowned. “So why not bring him to the door?”
That was a good question. I looked down at the baby’s face. He had settled in, eyes rolled up in the way that meant he was either about to sleep or about to pass judgment.
Probably both.
Jasper reached out and touched the back of my hand, light as static. “May I?” he asked, and I realized he meant the baby.
I shifted him over, slow. Jasper took the kid with both hands, one under the head, one under the butt. For a long time he just stared, eyes soft, lips pressed flat. Then he did something I’d only ever seen him do with Burke’s kid: he hummed, low and sweet, a sound that seemed to vibrate up from the floor itself.
The baby blinked. Blinked again. Then relaxed, arms going loose at his sides, mouth twitching up at one corner.
“Definitely a boy,” Jasper whispered. “And definitely not local.”
I had been thinking the same thing. There wasn’t a baby under a year old in three counties that Jasper couldn’t identify by birthmark or parentage, and if he was surprised, so was I.
Jojo rummaged through the bassinet. It was one of those high-end numbers, a brand name I recognized only because Decker had tried to buy a similar one for Jasper’s baby shower and Jasper had threatened to set it on fire if he did.
