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Can I walk? Should I run? I can’t run, not with this bowling ball of a belly.
I can call Darragh, only…
I don’t know his cell phone number. He gave his card to my lawyer. Who I also have no idea how to reach.
I climb the stairs and go into Darragh’s bedroom to look for more business cards, then remember Sophie has a phone.
On a white lacquered desk, the hutch above it filled with colorful books, an iPhone sits attached to a charger.
Damn it, it’s probably locked.
Only… It’s not.
Makes sense. She’s seven, and if she’s in trouble, she might forget a passcode.
A picture of her and Darragh on the lock screen stills me. He’s smiling, kissing her cheek. I’ve only seen him smile a few times since he plucked me out of that courthouse.
I scroll through the contacts and look for Darragh’s phone number.
Daddy.
I tap the call icon.
“Pick up. Pick up. Oh Daddy, pick up. Please.” But it goes right to voicemail.
What the heck?
Maybe he’s in that tunnel we drove through to get here from SeaTac Airport.
I start to leave a message, but he may never see it. Closing the message app, my eyes snag an Uber app.
Uber for a kid?
But, again, if she’s in trouble, and Darragh’s phone is off because he’s got a precious child on his operating table, it’s for Sophie’s protection.
I set up a ride then waddle downstairs to wait.
Minutes later, clutching the knapsack, I get into the car that pulls up. I have no choice but to leave the house unlocked.
“Hi. I need to go to this address.” I shove the invite at him, annoyed that the sedan smells like smoke. “I don’t know where it is. I’m new in town.”
“You are new to Seattle?” His accent freezes me like ice injected into my veins.
Russian.
But it’s silly and paranoid to think this random Uber driver in Seattle has any connection to my father, pakhan of the Astoria Brotherhood.
He glances at the house and knows Darragh’s name. It’s on the account, along with his credit card.
“Yes. I’m… I’m the new nanny. And my boss forgot his daughter’s medicine. Please, can we hurry?”
“Da.” He takes a drag of a long, black, Turkish cigarette, like Papa.
Shuddering, I mumble, “I’m pregnant, asshole.”
“Kak the menia nazval?” he spews in Russian, sarcastically asking me what I said.
“Nothing.” I won’t repeat louder that I called him an asshole.
