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Emails. Texts. A cacophony of people wanting my attention. But nothing urgent. No missed calls. No SOSs.
“I have a little time this morning, Fletch.” I set the phone on the counter and pick up the coffee instead. “Want me to swing by and grab Mia?”
“Really?” He sits taller and studies me through stunned eyes. “Why?”
“Why not? I have time. She’s my pal. I can pick her up, take her out for breakfast, then I’ll get her to the nursery and text you when she’s in-house. She knows me, so you not being there might be a little less jarring.”
“And, just so we’re on the same page, Delicious… you’renotavailable to be her stepmom?”
“Dude!”
I snigger and set my coffee down. “Nope. I said I have time this morning. Not a whole lifetime. Besides, I kinda like this other cop. He’s an arrogant douchebag most of the time, but—”
“But she’s into that kind of thing.” Smug, Archer looks to Fletch and smirks. “She’s mine.”
“I belong to me,” I counter. “But I spend time with Archer. And now I’m offering to spend time with Moo. You can say no—it’s your call, Fletch.”
“I mean,” he nods even before the words come out. “Sure. That’d be great. And I have an interview set up this morning at nine for a nanny, so I’m taking steps to get this—”
“It’s cool.” I stop his rushed sentence before he thinks he owes me for taking his daughter to breakfast. “You do you. Work. Interview. Do whatever needs to be done, and I can take her to breakfast. It’ll be fun.”
The guys linger for only a few more minutes, then they let themselves out of the apartment, and Archer makes certain to lock the door on his way. I set a bowl of dry cat food on the floor for Chloe, then I go back to the bathroom to squeeze as much water from my hair as I can manage.
Ten minutes after that, I step into my own apartment and finish what I started at Archer’s, but I use my hair dryer to make my strands smooth, then I swap out the cozy hoodie for clothes that are more appropriate for work. Black pants and nice heels. A white blouse and a spritz of perfume.
Snagging my jacket on the way out the door, I head toward Fletcher’s apartment with a fresh text sitting in my inbox indicating his address, apartment number, and neighbors’ names.
Knocking, I dig my hands into my pockets and shiver under my coat, while on the other side of the door, I catch the gentle sounds of slippers shuffling on the floor. Murmured voices. Soft whispers.
It takes a minute and a good long look through the peephole, but the door opens, and I’m welcomed by a pleasant-looking woman in her forties or fifties. She’s blonde and petite, but her age is apparent by the loose skin at the base of her neck. Beside her is a young teen who is clearly her daughter—blonde, petite, and tall, the girl was blessed with the same cheekbones as her mother.
“Hi.” I keep my voice down, since everyone else in the building seems to be doing the same. “My name is—”
“Minka Mayet?” the woman interjects with a kind smile and wraps her gown tighter across her chest to battle the cold. “Detective Fletcher already called to let me know you’d be by. He also sent a picture of you, so we’d know who to open the door to.”
“Oh.” Surprise flickers through my mind. “Okay, great. Is she still asleep?”
“Yep.” The girl grins wide and beaming. She’s young and beautiful, and if I could judge a body upon one meet, I’d say she’s a gymnast too. “She hasn’t woken once all night.”
“She sleeps better than my daughter ever did,” the mother murmurs.
Looking a little to the left, she grabs a set of keys and a cell phone, then we do an awkward shuffle as two exit and I enter.
“We’re one floor down if you need anything. But other than that, Detective Fletcher said to remind you to lock up on your way out.”
“Okay.” Pulling out my phone and checking the blank screen, I look back at the woman and nod. “I’ve got it from here. Thank you.”
Closing the door and walking the length of Fletcher’s open-plan living room, I note the nice leather couch, though it’s worn and well-used. The fridge tucked into the corner of the kitchen is large, but an older model. The television is a luxurious fifty or so inches, but boxy and heavier-looking than those on the market now.
Fletcher’s apartment is comfortable, but not extravagant.
Cozy, and not at all what I would have imagined for the slutty cop who enjoys women more than he enjoys oxygen.
I cast a glance into the dark hall, then back to the living room and out the windows that look straight across to another apartment building. The clock on the wall says it’s still not quite six, and though my phone buzzes with emails and notifications from work, it remains void of ‘right now’ calls and texts.
The city is still sleeping.
Except for a couple of cops trying to solve a murder and search for a missing infant.
