Thirty minutes later, I leave the store, carrying way more items than I’d intended to buy. Pink unicorn PJs, as well as tops, skirts, and pants in a variety of colors and styles, fill my arms.
Hopefully, Peony likes something in the pile.
I drop off the clothes in the Explorer and head to the bookstore in the mall, like I do whenever I’m in the city. It’s one of the places where I’m most comfortable, along with the library. Both of which might seem odd, given I was a reluctant reader and struggled with the skill in my earlyyears. It was Zara who taught me the power of getting lost in a story. Who got me addicted to books.
And who inspired me to one day become an author.
Now, reading all genres—but especially thrillers—is part of the job. A very enjoyable part of the job.
I walk past the tables at the front of the store that hold the latest new releases and Booktok bestsellers and head to the children’s section. It’s a section I haven’t been to since I was a kid, when it brought me comfort, when it brought me joy. Here, in this store, they’ve gone all out to entice kids into the space, with the bright-colored rugs and kid-sized furniture.
I pick up a board book with a pigeon on the cover from the display of colorfully illustrated picture books.
“Hi, Garrett.” Camila’s faded English accent curls around her vowels. If Zara is the inspiration for my protagonist’s love interest, Camila is the inspiration for the antagonist’s wife. She’s tall and willowy, but unlike the villain’s partner, she has a big heart. “Are you here to sign our recent shipment of your last release?”
“I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by.”
Camila peers at the book in my hand, and the thin dark line of her eyebrows lifts.
“I also need to get a few kids’ books. For toddlers. Any recommendations?”
“Absolutely.” She rattles off a few titles, grabbing two of them from the table where I got the pigeon book, and hands them to me.
The illustrations are eye-catching—not that I know anything about what toddlers like. “These look good. I’ll take them. Where are the books you’d like me to sign?”
I sign the twenty copies they have in stock, pay for the kids’ books, and enter a store farther down the mall that sells toys and furniture for babies and small children.
A toddler not much older than Peony climbs onto a kid-sized armchair and sets it off rocking. She giggles and beams up at her parents.
Her father crouches next to her. “Do you like this chair? Or would you prefer that one over there?” He points to the other option, but I can tell from the way she clutches the arms of her seat, and her grin, the chairshe’s on is the clear winner. Can’t say I blame her. The other chair doesn’t rock.
“Chair!” She taps her palms on the armrests, her grin widening.
I pretend to examine a squirrel-shaped pillow and covertly watch the family checking out the rest of the toddler furniture. I take mental note of what items the little girl approves of, which seems to be a fair amount, and what items barely get a passing glance.
“Is there something I can help you with?” a man wearing a blue store vest asks.
“Yes, I need to order some furniture. For my niece. Do you ship to Maple Ridge?”
“We do.”
We walk around the section, with me pointing out the things I want to order. The toddler bed. The rocking armchair. A little bookshelf that goes with the other two items. A rug that also got the little girl’s stamp of approval. And finally, neutral-colored bedding with cute woodland critters on it…but no pandas. Hopefully that’s okay with Peony. If not, I’ll find something else she likes more.
I also grab toddler-appropriate wooden puzzles and stacking toys, along with a few other toys Charles recommends for Peony’s age.
“Your niece is a lucky girl to have an uncle like you,” he says, surveying the toys and squirrel pillow on the counter. He checks the computer. “They can deliver the furniture next Tuesday.”
I agree to the delivery-time window, pay for everything, and leave the store with the bedding, the pillow, and the toys.
I might have been a little too enthusiastic with everything, given I don’t have the paternity test results. And I’m positive once Zara gets over her shock and grief about Kenda’s death, she’ll be highly amused at just how overboard I went with my purchases.
As I walk to the mall entrance near where I’m parked, I pass a women’s clothing store with a Taylor Swift song playing in the background. Unlike the other stores I passed earlier, this one seems to cater to women Athena’s age.
I double back and stare at the store. Yes, Athena was offended when I offered to buy some essentials for her, but she has nothing left after theapartment fire. The least I can do after everything she’s been through—with the fire and witnessing the murder of her former employer—is to get her some clothes.
Thoughts of Kenda bleeding out in the Greensboro mall tighten my throat, and I have to stop to catch my breath. Much like I did a number of times last night, staring at my computer screen, the words failing to come.
Dead.It still doesn’t feel real. Being a single father to a toddler feels more real than knowing I will never see Kenda’s smile again. Never hear her view on issues that are important to her.
