CHAPTER 12
Solving murders is exhausting, but being a mom to a ten-month-old is a different kind of battlefield—and tonight I get to experience both at the same time, which feels less like multitasking and more like a cosmic joke.
Once the lobster boil finishes up, Emmie and I walk back to my cottage in the dark with our feet dragging through sand that’s still warm from the heat. The air smells like saltwater and leftover barbecue smoke from someone’s early Fourth of July cookout, and there are red, white, and blue solar lights staked along the path like a patriotic runway.
“I’m too tired to function,” Emmie says.
“Same.”
“Like, genuinely too tired. I might fall asleep standing up.”
“I’ll catch you if you do.”
“You’re too tired to catch me.”
“Fair point.”
The cottage windows are glowing warm and yellow up ahead, and I can see shadows moving inside. Jasper and Leo seem to have survived. This is a good sign.
I push open the door and immediately understand why they survived.
Pizza boxes. Everywhere. At least four different kinds scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, one balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. Chinese takeout containers are doing their best to fill in the gaps—lo mein, fried rice, what might be an entire gallon of wonton soup.
And in the middle of the floor, illuminated by the glow of the television, are Ella and Elliot in matching star-spangled pajamas, absolutely mesmerized by a blue cartoon dog.
And that blue dog happens to be the patron saint of exhausted parents everywhere.
Jasper is sprawled on the couch looking like he’s been through his own kind of battle.
Leo is sitting on the floor next to the kids, and both men look up when we walk in with expressions that suggest relief and mild trauma in equal measure.
“They’ve been like this for twenty minutes,” Jasper says. “It’s the longest peace we’ve had all day.”
“That blue dog on TV is a parenting miracle,” Leo adds. “I’m building a shrine.”
Ella sits with one hand gripping her toes, completely focused on the screen. Every time the cartoon dog does something, she claps. It’s automatic. Rhythmic. And vaguely unsettling in its intensity.
Elliot is more interactive, pointing at the TV and babbling commentary that sounds very important even though none of it is actual words. But I get the feeling they will be soonenough.
“Did they eat?” Emmie asks.
“They had pasta,” Leo says. “And peas. And some mango. And then Elliot threw a handful of peas at the wall, so we decided dinner was over.”
“There are peas on the wall?” I ask, amused and horrified all at once.
“There were,” Leo says. “I cleaned them. Mostly.”
The door behind us opens and all five pets file in from whatever beach adventure they’ve been on. Gatsby first, then Cinnamon, then Biscuit Gravy, Fish, and Sherlock bringing up the rear. They’re sandy and damp and look extremely pleased with themselves.
The babies notice immediately.
Ella shrieks, and yet Elliot shrieks louder. Both of them start clapping and laughing and making sounds that are half joy, half air raid siren.
The small ones have lost all control,Fish notes, flicking sand off her paws like it personally offended her.Their volume is approaching criminal levels, but I’m willing to overlook it this once. Bizzy, please see that it doesn’t happen again.
“I’ll do my best,” I mutter.
This is the best welcome I’ve ever received,Biscuit Gravy announces.I’m a hero. I’m beloved. I’m the bearer of face licking.
