Page 6 of The Art of Ruin

Halfway through her toast, she leans sideways, her shoulder pressing lightly into my arm like she forgot she moved away.

I don’t shift; the contact is for her, but it soothes me too.

“You have preschool,” I say.

“I know.”

“You’ll need your new shoes and your book bag.”

“They’re by the door.”

I glance toward the hallway, and sure enough, she’s set them there, ready.

“I put them there,” she adds, not looking up.

“I can see that.”

She nods, satisfied, and takes another bite of strawberry.

“And Isabella’s mother will be here after you finish to take care of you.”

That slows her down. “Just today?”

“Today and tomorrow. Maybe the rest of the week.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “Because Mrs. H left?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Her husband took a job in Chicago.”

Letty thinks about that, serious in the way only children can be serious, like she’s trying to measure Chicago against the rest of the world. “Is Chicago far?”

“Far enough.”

“Farther than Uncle Nico’s?”

“Yes.”

“Farther than the moon?”

“No.”

She nods. That settles it.

“Who comes after Isabella’s mommy?”

“Someone Isabella knows.”

“Do I know her?”

“You met her once at Uncle Nico’s house. Her name is Casey.”

“Is she pretty with hair like Belle?”

I grit my jaw as I try to temper my reaction to that comment. Because yes, Casey is pretty. More than that, she’s beautiful. She’s also loud and brash and overly confident and grates on my nerves, but also, if her references are real, which they are because I checked—a damn good nanny. I obviously don’t voice that. “Yes, she has hair like Belle.”