I squeeze his fisted hand until he’s writhing, and then I shove him into the wall. He slides down, his skinny body landing in a heap on the foyer floor. “Get out of my face, and don’t you ever ask about that child again.”
My brother braces himself against the wall as he rises to a standing, and then he shows himself out, shooting me daggered looks all the while.
When he’s gone, I call my private investigator.
“Have another job for you,” I say when he answers. “If I give you a cell number, can you pull text message records from six, seven years ago? Maybe longer?”
“Without a court order?”
“Do you need one if I own the line?” A decade ago, I purchased a cell plan for Larissa—mostly for safety reasons. There was a brief period when I hadn’t heard from her and I wanted to ensure she’d always be able to reach me if she needed anything. Not only that, but it was a lifeline for her, a way to call 9-1-1 should she have an emergency.
As the years went on and she began to abuse my generosity and willingness to help, I may have stopped taking her calls, but I never stopped paying her cell phone bill.
He’s quiet. “There might be a way, yeah. Not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Email me the account number, phone number, all of that.”
I end the call and email him immediately.
If my brother gets a wild hair and tries to pull some stunt again, I’ll be better equipped to handle his threats with one of my own—transcripts of every text message the two of them ever exchanged.
If that sick bastard wants to raise Honor, he’ll have to pry her from my cold, dead hands.
Twenty-Three
Astaire
* * *
“What are you doing?” Bennett asks from the other end of the phone Sunday afternoon.
“Hey, stranger.” I turn down the volume on my Bluetooth speaker, Radiohead fading into nothingness. “Thought you fell off the face of the earth for a hot minute.”
“No, really. What are you doing?”
“Cutting apples.”
“You know you can buy them that way. Already cut. Or you can eat them the way God intended.”
I sniff. “Paper apples. Construction paper. It’s for a unit we’re doing this week. Want to help?”
“As enthralling as that sounds, I’m actually in the midst of a project of my own, and I was hoping you’d have a couple of hours to help.”
“I don’t hear from you for nine days and now you want my help with something?”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Are we?” I count six apples. Twenty more to go. And I haven’t even gotten to the seeds or stems yet.
“You’re one of maybe five people in the world who now knows my life story and I’m well versed in yours, so yes. I suppose I consider us friends now.”
“Funny. You don’t strike me as someone who tends to label things.” I cut the next one. “But maybe you do when it’s convenient. You know, when you need something.”
“Are you upset with me for some reason?”
“Upset? No. You just brought me flowers, took me out on a fancy date, engaged in deep and meaningful conversation, walked me to my door like a perfect gentleman, and then didn’t call me for nine days. Why would I be upset about that?”
“Fair enough. But in my defense, I’ve been dealing with a personal issue the past couple of weeks, and this last week it required all of my focus and attention.”
“Well, when you put it that way …”
Bennett sighs into the receiver. “My sister, the one that died … she had a daughter. A five-year-old daughter. And I’ll be taking custody of her soon. I’ve been preparing for her arrival, interviewing nannies, furnishing her room ... My apologies if you were hoping to hear from me sooner, but I can assure you, you’ve not once left my thoughts.”
“You’re taking in your niece?”
“I am.”
“Huh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
I move onto the next apple. “You don’t strike me as the father-figure type, that’s all.”
“I’ll give you that. I don’t strike myself as the father-figure type either.”
“So crazy that we actually agree on something for once.”
“First time for everything,” he says. “Now back to that favor … I need to purchase some toys for her room. I have a list of things she likes, but I haven’t the slightest idea what any of these things are, and since you work with children her age, I thought you’d be better equipped to—”
“—you want me to go toy shopping for you? Don’t you have assistants who do this stuff for you?”
“Not for me.” His words are terse, slow. “With me.”
To say Bennett looks out of place in this four-story toy store in the heart of Chicago would be an understatement.
He examines a baby doll, flipping the box and reading the back. “I don’t understand how this … pees.”
I laugh, swiping it out of his hands and placing it in one of our two overflowing shopping carts. “All you need to understand is that she’ll love it.”
We push our carts out of the baby doll aisle and head for the STEM section across the way. He’s been loading up on Barbies, babies, and bejeweled craft sets, but it’s time to home in on some learning-related toys.
I grab a talking microscope off the shelf. “We have one of these in my classroom. It’s got these little plastic slides, and you press these buttons on the bottom and it tells you what they are. My kids love it.”
He takes it from me, places it in his cart, and then reaches for a volcano-making set.
“You do realize how messy that’s going to be, right?” I wink.
I’m not sure how experienced he is with children, but I’m willing to guess his floors have never seen a crumb and his counters have never seen a baking soda and vinegar explosion.
“Does she have a toy kitchen?” I point to another section filled with miniature kitchens arguably nicer than the one in my apartment. “At this age, kids love to role play. It’s good for the imagination, too.”
Two children chase each other through the aisles, ducking around us and squeezing past, giggling. One of them says, “Excuse me.” I watch for his reaction. Some people might mutter under their breath, annoyed. Others might laugh, finding it endearing. Kids being kids.
He does neither.
I lean in and keep my voice low. “Sometimes I think it’s good to remind ourselves that children are children and not soldiers.”
When I was eight, I lived with a family for six months. The father was retired military and he ran the household with drill-sergeant precision. We weren’t allowed to talk out of turn. We weren’t allowed to giggle or laugh or run amok, not even in the backyard.
In my opinion, children should have childhoods.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Yeah. We should probably check out. I think she’s all stocked up on toys.”
“No.” I laugh through my nose, placing my hand on his arm. “I mean … are you ready for this? To be a dad?”