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Chapter 11
“What about this one?”
Her newest charge, Jacob Howard, glanced at the black graphic t-shirt that was almost identical to the one he was wearing and shrugged. “I don’t see why you’re spending money on clothes for me. I ain’t gonna stay long. I never do.”
“You’ve only got a handful of shirts and two pairs of jeans, Jacob.” She gave him a smile and wished he’d accept a hug. He stood so stiff and brittle, it was a wonder he didn’t break. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t like doing laundry any more than necessary—and I hate wearing dirty clothes. A couple pairs of jeans and a few new T-shirts will make it easier on everybody.”
“Spend the money on the baby instead.” He poked at Mariah’s foot.
The baby gave him a big grin, which he ignored.
“Everybody likes babies,” he mumbled.
“Well, I like you just fine and I think you need a few more shirts and some jeans. Plus a jacket. The nights are already getting cooler.”
His eyes slid away and she knew he was thinking she’d boot him out before fall really had time to settle in. But Isabel didn’t go into anything planning to fail.
“Come on,” she cajoled. “Pick a few things out and we’ll grab some food before we head home. You like pizza?”
His gaze flicked up to hers, then away. The first sign of interest she’d seen from him in the hours since they’d met. “At a restaurant?”
“Yeah. I was thinking of Spinelli’s. You been there?”
His mouth twisted. “You rich or something?”
“I do okay.”
“Taking in brats from the state?” He sneered now.
“No, although taking care of you all can definitely be work.” She did get the checks from the state for them, which she used for their clothes or school supplies, and the allowance she paid each of them, but she didn’t need that money. She and her sisters had inherited a rather sizeable fortune after their mother had died, a fact that had shocked the hell out of all three of them. They hadn’t realized their momhadany money that wasn’t also tied to their father.
But there had been a house that had been left to their mother by her father—a house that could goonlyto their mother—and it had been stipulated in the will that upon her death, it would go toherchildren, or be donated to an arts charity.
Isabel’s grandfatherreallyhadn’t liked Wilson T. Steele.
Along with the house, there had been money left in trust for each of them, money their father couldn’t touch.
They’d needed Miles’s help to deal with the money, since by that time, they’d all been living under witness protection, but it had been a simple matter for Miles. The house had been sold, the money split between the three of them and he’d handled transferring the money out of the bank into undisclosed accounts—how, she’d never asked—until he had new identities set up for them.
As long as they were careful, they’d have easy, comfortable lives. Pizza at a nice, small-town Italian restaurant every now and then was no big deal.
“So ... you hungry?”
She’d heard his stomach rumbling several times already, but she’d pretended not to. He was too thin and not just the lanky thinness of a boy hitting puberty, but the kind of thinness that came from going hungry too often.
“I guess I could eat,” he said with feigned disinterest.
She watched as he grabbed the T-shirt she’d suggested, and several others, then followed up with a couple of pairs of jeans. While he was trying them on, she picked out a package of socks and another one of boxer briefs—her experience with teenage boys had told her that they tended to prefer them.
