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A doctor passes by with a group of nurses. They enter Harry’s room. A moment later, they leave with a cot holding a corpse draped by a white sheet. The room spins. It’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
In my head, it’s clear that they’re taking Harry away. Probably to hold him in the morgue until we make his funeral arrangements. But in my heart, that’s some other poor schmuck who lost his life today.
Not my brother.
Not Harry.
Footsteps patter through my hazy mind. A pair of wrinkly knees appears in front of me. Soon enough, those knees bend—cracking and popping like that cereal Harry used to like when we were younger.
“Ben?” Lydia Stuart leans over. Places a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “We need to talk.”
One half of my lips curve up in a smirk. I’ve heard that phrase a time or two. Mostly from ex-lovers. Some from my dad. Looking at Lydia now, I can tell she’s probably said that to a few men in her day.
“Can you stand?” she asks.
I wave my hand. “Just talk to me here.”
Lydia looks uncertain, but I’m—quite frankly—dangling on the edge of insanity and the prospect of engaging my muscles to push myself up is the most daunting task I’ve ever faced in my life.
I’m relieved when Lydia doesn’t push the issue. “Before he died, Harry had a few instructions. His first was to get your number and call you.”
“Uh-huh.”
She licks her lips and stares uncertainly at my face. “The second was about Reece.”
“The kid. Harry’s kid.” My head feels heavy. Like my neck isn’t thick enough to hold it. I bob around, struggling to focus on Lydia’s words when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep.
“Yes. Ben, are you listening?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“Harry wanted you to take care of her.”
My body seizes. I slam back to reality like a man dropping from a plane and splattering to earth. “What?”
Lydia digs her fingers into my shoulders. “As of tonight, you’re Reece Duncan’s official guardian.”
Chapter 3
Logan
I look over at the little girl sleeping next to me. Reece’s small chest rises and falls rhythmically. She’s clutching her stuffed dog close, slender fingers digging into the cotton of the toy’s black tail.
Tear tracks are still drying on her light brown cheeks. The princess nightlight plugged into the wall near her queen-sized bed throws a golden shade on her braids—the ones I painstakingly installed last week.
I wish I could put her life in order the way I part and tame her hair. There’s no dragon I wouldn’t slay for her, but my hands are tied. Loneliness and grief are not monsters I can fight with my fists or my cutting scissors.
How can anyone ever replace her father?
My heart hurts for Reece. For everything she’s been through and everything she will have to face in the future.
“God, please take care of this precious girl,” I whisper.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen and wince. This isn’t a call I can take near Reece. Especially since she just managed to cry herself to sleep.
I sit up and scoot carefully to the edge of the bed. The steady cadence of Reece’s breathing eggs me on. I set one foot on the ground. Point my toe. Set the other.
She snorts.
