“Would it kill my kids to realize their father cares about them?”
“Why’d you really call?”
“It’s about the Ghost.”
I press the phone closer to my ear, waiting.
“He took out the man who hurt Daisy.”
My fingers squeeze against my phone. “That should’ve been my kill.”
“You’ve got enough going on as it is.”
“I know how to organize my schedule.”
“How about you jot down a time to come see your parents?” Dad advises.
“So that’s it? You and the Ghost are on good terms?”
“I suppose it’s what’s best for the city. Ren gave him my number.”
“This the same Ren you threatened to kill last month?”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat and I picture his shrug. “Like father, like son.”
I press down my urge to tell the driver to turn around and head for Fujimori’s. Neutral territory or not, I’ll teach Ren not to meddle in my affairs.
The memory of Russet standing in front of me asking for a divorce haunts my nights.
She spent a year taking the time to get to know me. To learn how I prefer the quiet and how I like savory desserts. She teased me and got under my skin. And she knew how important my brothers are, that’s why she wanted to learn more about them.
And in return, I learned about her love of baking and reality shows. It wasn’t just the superficial things I wanted to know like her favorite movies and books. I studied her face when she tipped baristas and how she always tried to protect me by never answering Elijah’s leading questions when he came over.
Life forced us together and we clung on to each other. It wasn’t always smooth sailing. My mother still deserves my fury. But we worked together. Protected each other.
Russet doesn’t like admitting it, but our unconventional marriage led to happiness.
It’s wrong to her. Marissa forced her into it and as such she should hate it.
But she doesn’t.
Dad stays on the line, studying my silence, until I end the call. The driver pulls the car into the underground garage and I take the elevator to my penthouse.
I frown before the elevator door opens.
Sailor Montgomery Smith Zimin screams her lungs out while Russet rocks her back and forth in the living room.
There’s no telling whose face is redder—hers or the baby.
“She won’t stop crying.” Her own tears emphasize the point.
It’s possible she believes this is all a fever dream. The stained shirt, unwashed hair, and mountains of baby objects littering the room point toward a rough afternoon.
She bounces the baby slightly, the shrieks unsubsiding as she stares at me.
I stretch my arms out.
She shakes her head.
