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“And a story?”
Henley’s breath fans my cheeks when she replies to Lucy’s numerous demands. “As many as you want. I just need you to give me a minute, okay?”
“Okay,” Lucy replies, her voice echoing down the stairwell.
We’re interrupted again—by my cell phone this time.
It is another message from Macy. It is more daunting than the first.
Unknown Number:
I can’t stall until morning. They’re gearing up to confront you, so if you want to tuck your daughter in tomorrow night, get your ass here now!
“I need to go.”
“Brod—”
I snatch my leather jacket from the coatrack while replying, “If you want me to keep my promise to Lucy, I need to do this.”
That instantly halts any further protest from Henley. She nods before shakingly gathering the key for my bike from a drawer in the entryway table I never use. “I found it in my room when I was packing.” After wetting her lips, she confesses, “I don’t remember much about what happened that night, but I’m reasonably sure I fixed your bike. My father and I—”
“Henley? Are you coming?”
Her smile at Lucy’s impatience decreases the angst on her face. “Yes. I’m coming now.” She squeezes my hand in silent moral support before twisting to face the stairwell.
I almost leave things there, but with my stomach refusing to stop flipping, I snatch up her wrist, tug her back to me, then seal my lips over hers before a single squeak can pop from her mouth.
I kiss her until the thuds of my heart overtake Lucy’s screams of jubilation, and then I kiss her some more just for the hell of it.
25
HENLEY
“Into bed, young lady.” I keep my voice stern, faking anger, but in reality my insides are dancing as much as Lucy’s.
After kissing me breathless, Brodie noogied Lucy’s head, promised he’d be back as soon as possible, then left us shuddering in the ripple of his motorcycle’s healthy roar.
Once I’ve placed Lucy’s water onto the bedside table, I bend the springs in her mattress by sitting on the edge before asking her what story she’d like to hear. They shifted from manufactured stories to real ones the past week. Usually, every one of them involves her mother, but occasionally, like earlier tonight, their focus shifts to me.
“Will you tell me what Daddy said?” Her red cheeks make her look like a little cherub. “Did he say he loves you, or did he noogie your head? I told him to kiss you, but Grandma Stell said he’d be too scared to do that.” Her smile is even brighter than the gleam in her eyes. “He proved her wrong.” She nuzzles into my thigh before peering up at me with wide, tired eyes. “I’m glad he’s not scared anymore. The bad man who hurt Mommy made him afraid.”
“Someone hurt your mommy?” I ask before I can stop myself, too shocked to hold back. I assumed Caroline died of cancer or a car accident. I had no clue she was murdered.
I hate my inquisitiveness when wetness pricks her eyes as she nods. “There was a big im-mesti-vigation, but they haven’t found him yet.” She looks as regretful as I feel. “That’s why Daddy works so much. He wants to find the man who took Mommy from us when I was just a baby.” Her head angles as her brow cocks. “Is that where he went? To help the people find the bad man?”
“Maybe,” I reply, stumped for a better answer. “But how about we don’t talk about that now? We’re supposed to share happy stories before bed.” It creates less nightmares that way. “Have you tried kissing Fernando yet?”
Lucy peers at her pet frog before shifting her focus back to me. “No.” She looks unimpressed. “Why would anyone want to kiss a frog?”
“How else are you supposed to find out if he’s a prince?”
When her eyes pop open, I realize she’s never heard of The Princess and the Frog.
“A long time ago, in a land far, far away from here, there was a princess named…”
“And they lived happily ever after.” My last two words are as faint as the tiny snores leaving Lucy’s gaped mouth. She crashed not even halfway through the story, so I skipped the part about Princess Tiana kissing frogs that weren’t princes and jumped straight to the happily ever after.
I love the time we spend together sharing stories and honing our crafting skills, but my stomach hasn’t stopped churning since her confession that her mother was hurt by a bad man.
When I stood across from her two weeks ago, I saw a reflection of myself, just several years younger, but I had no clue how profoundly similar our lives are. My mother was also killed. She was murdered by a man seeking revenge on federal agents who he believed…
My thoughts trail off when a disturbing notion hits my stomach with a brutal blow.
