Page 42 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

Another silence.

My son had always hated being cornered by direct questions. As a child, he had tried charm first, indignation second, injury third. It had worked often enough with his mother that he’d mistaken it for genius. It had rarely worked with me.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

Mary’s gaze lifted to mine.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” I asked, staring at her.

Mary’s mouth tightened. She stopped breathing.

“What?” Damien asked.

“Her name.”

“Why?”

“Because if you want me to help you find her, I need to know who I’m looking for.”

Mary’s lips parted.

For the first time since she’d knocked on our door, she looked young in a way that had nothing to do with age.

“What’s she called?” I asked.

Mary’s expression changed. Not fear now, but recognition of the cliff edge.

Damien exhaled hard. “Marli.”

Mary closed her eyes for one beat.

I did too.

“Thank God for that,” I whispered.

Mary’s fingers dug into the sheet and her face went as white as the fabric. Lincoln’s gaze cut to mine.

“Call every clinic,” I said. “And if she contacts you, don’t shout at her. Don’t accuse her. Don’t make her manage your feelings while she’s trying to manage her heat.”

Damien swore under his breath. “Fine.”

“And Damien?”

“What?”

“If the fight was your fault, say so when you find her.”

“You don’t even know what happened.”

“I know you well enough.”

He said nothing.

For a moment, I heard him breathing through a phone held somewhere in Boston. My son. Our son. The boy Lincoln had taught to tape a hockey stick at the kitchen counter.

“Call me when you know she’s safe,” I said.

“Yeah.”