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“No, we have what we need," I say stubbornly.
Liam looks unconvinced but steps backward out of the bedroom doorway. “Come and lock the door, Liv." As he passes the playpen, he leans down and sets his hand on Brady's head. “See you later.”
His gentle touch and tone tug at my heart. I love the way he looks at his son, like he's amazed and enthralled all at once. It’s exactly how I feel when I look at Brady, and the way I wish my dad had looked at me.
I trail after the tall brothers as they leave.
Once they're on the porch, I hear Aiden say, “Beautiful kid. Looks like she takes good care of him at least.”
“Her and the landlady, you mean,” Liam says gruffly. “A random stranger that no one vetted.”
I wince.
“Yeah, dicey,” Aiden agrees. “Seems all right, though.”
When they’re halfway down the walk and I can’t hear their conversation anymore, I close the door and lock it. Then I pick Brady up and kiss him.
“That was your daddy and your uncle. A little scary, huh? But there’s nothing to worry about because they already love you. And that’s the most important thing.” I repeat that to myself because I’m upset about the way Liam’s arrival has caused my entire life to unravel.
Needing to do some things in the bedroom, I stroke the top of Brady’s head and set him in the crib. He immediately begins to fuss, thinking I’m going to make him go to sleep.
“Okay, okay.” I take him back out and set him in the playpen. “Mommy wanted you to keep her company while she packed boxes. But you can play. Want your pegs?”
I set the pegs in a row in front of the wooden sorter. He immediately leans forward to grab them, which makes me smile. He is very smart. He mastered the peg sorting almost immediately. He really needs a new learning toy, but there wasn’t enough money in the budget. At least that will be one advantage of living with Liam. I’m sure there will be no shortage of funds for Montessori toys.
Back in our bedroom, I lift one of the Lanley porcelain statues from the top of the dresser. The dancer figurine is dressed in a soft blue leotard and stands with her graceful limbs arranged in a gentle pose. My mother loved them, and when I was little, she told me bedtime stories about them. This is Grace who moved to New York from Idaho.
I pick up the dark-haired Clea who’s dressed in a flapper dress and holds a small white dog. She’s a city girl and accomplished poet. I hold her up to admire her beauty, tracing my finger over the intricate design of her golden geometric-print dress and matching cloche hat.
The figurines are worth a fortune, but I promised my mom I’d never sell them unless it was the only way I could survive. I’d rather eat ramen every night for a year than give them up. I can’t wait to tell Brady the stories I remember from when I was a baby.
The sound of the front door opening surprises me. It’s early for Mrs. F to be back and the Callahans just left. An angry little cry from Brady causes me to set the statue down and dart out of the bedroom.
Standing with my son in his arms is the greasy-haired stalker from two years ago. He wears grungy black army surplus clothes that stink of cigarette smoke and an unwashed body.
“Hello, Olivia,” he says in a smug voice.
“Are you crazy?” I demand, stalking toward him. “Put him down.”
“Ah ah ah,” he sneers with a shake of his head. When he moves his hand, I see the tip of a thin knife that’s an inch from Brady’s neck.
I lurch to a stop, my heart stuttering in my chest like it’s forgotten how to beat.
“Back in the room. Right now.” The man nods toward the bedroom.
I back up instantly, not wanting to give him any excuse to hurt the baby. “Please be careful.”
“Packing supplies, huh? Pretty convenient, actually.” He tosses a mangy backpack onto my bed. “Wrap up the Lanleys and put them in my pack.”
My brows shoot up. He’s here for them? How does he even know about them? I never mention them to anyone for this exact reason.
“Who are you?” I ask softly.
“Get moving,” he snaps, pushing the backpack closer.
I decide I don’t care who he is or what he takes. All I care about is Brady’s perfect skin that I don’t want to suffer even the slightest nick.
As I wrap the figurines in bubble wrap, I say, “He’s scared. Please put him down. You can have these. All I care about is my son.”
