The kid scowls. “She’s my fucking aunt. Who the fuck is she to you?”
“I used to know her a long time ago,” King says. “I’m looking to catch up with her.”
The kid’s scowl intensifies. “Yeah, well she’s on one of her benders, so good luck with that.” He slams the door shut, leaving us staring at the graffiti-covered door.
“What a fucking ray of sunshine he was,” King says, turning to face me.
My thoughts exactly. “You want me to organise for Striker to keep an eye on the house for when she returns?”
“Yeah. I wanna know why Moses is living with her.”
I frown. “How do you know that was Moses?”
“The little shit looks exactly like his father.”
“So Eloise was his sister? Or was she related to the mother?”
“Neither. My guess is she took the baby and ran, but we’ll confirm that. Whatever the reason, though, it’s good to know he’s alive.”
“Christ.” This shit is all kinds of fucked up.
My phone rings.
“Axe,” I answer it. “What have you got for us?”
“Nothing much unfortunately. The preliminary checks we ran on Leif Jensen revealed nothing except that he’s a ghost. He disappeared off the radar about ten years ago after serving in the military for fifteen years. There’s not been a whisper about him anywhere since. Zane’s digging deeper, though, so we’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
“You think it will?” I’m running out of patience with this gang. With this whole fucking situation.
“Sometimes we get lucky, but I’m not expecting much, so keep your expectations low.”
Something I appreciate about Axe is his practical, no-nonsense approach. I always keep my expectations low, but I welcome the reminder. “They’re lower than even yours, brother.”
We end the call and I relay the information to King before saying, “I wanna pay another visit to Albert. See if we can’t get him to squeal.”
King’s eyes glitter. “I fucking like the way you think, brother.”
I make a call to Striker and organise him to get over here to watch for Eloise’s return. Then, King and I head to Albert’s club. The last time we visited him together didn’t end well for Albert. I’m in the mood for more of the same if he doesn’t have anything useful to share.
It’s nearly midnight by the time I arrive home. After King and I visited Albert, and got nothing new out of him, we made a few more visits around town, all yielding the same result. People’s lips are sealed tight. Either that, or they really don’t know more than we do.
I’m surprised to find Birdie still awake, working at the kitchen counter. I shouldn’t be, though; gone are the days where she would fall asleep by 9:30 p.m. These days, she’s up late most nights working. Since she miscarried, she’s thrown herself into work, often leaving home by 7:00 a.m. and working late most nights. Her business has grown significantly in this time, which seems to fuel her to work even harder.
“I’m worried about you,” I say as I brush a kiss across her cheek on my way to grab the whisky bottle.
She catches my eye briefly as she glances at me while I continue walking. “Why?”
“You work too much, angel.”
“And you don’t?”
I pull the whisky down from the cupboard and look at her across the kitchen counter where she’s set up with her laptop. Pouring some into a glass, I say, “Yeah, but your body never got the rest it needed before you started pushing it this hard. I want you to take some time off.”
“I can’t take time off. You know that.”
We’ve argued over this a few times the last four months. It was barely two weeks after she lost the baby that she was back at work with a vengeance, and she hasn’t stopped since. She doesn’t often take days off on the weekends either.
I throw some whisky down my throat. “It’s your business, Birdie. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”
Her lips flatten and she leans back in her seat and runs her fingers through her hair. “Can we please not do this tonight? I really need to get these budgets finalised by tomorrow, and at the rate I’m going, I’ve still got about two hours work to do.”
“We need to make a time for when we will do this, then, because you getting four hours of sleep a night needs to end.”
She stares at me like she’s not happy with what I’ve just said. “I get that, but our bank balance doesn’t.”
“Life’s not all about money. I’d prefer a wife who’s home more.” Not to mention, a wife who smiles a fuckuva lot more.
“So I thought we decided to knuckle down and pay off our debt. Did I misunderstand that?” Her attitude doesn’t escape me.
IVF left us with a massive debt after we refinanced our mortgage at one point. Neither of us want to sell my parents’ homes I inherited, so instead of doing that, we did agree to do everything in our power to pay off the debt as fast as possible. I didn’t fucking mean for Birdie to work herself into the ground, though.
“Yeah, you did,” I say. “I’d rather take longer to pay it off than the situation we’ve got now.”
“Well I wouldn’t. We’ve already lost eight years to IVF sucking us dry; I want us to start living again.”
“We are living, Birdie. We don’t need cash to do that.”
She watches me silently for another minute before placing her fingers back on her laptop and saying, “We do need cash for that.” With that, she directs her attention back to her work and I know the conversation is over as far as she’s concerned.
This kind of exchange has become our routine. I try to broach the subject with her; she engages briefly before shutting down on me. It’s like we’re back in the cycle of IVF where she became hard for me to reach. Where I have no fucking idea how to connect with my wife except for the few fleeting moments we have every now and then.
We might be done with IVF, but it still fucking haunts us.
29
Birdie
* * *
I search madly in my make-up drawer for my favourite pink lipstick while Eminem blares from the bedroom speakers. I need him loud today to drown out the noise in my head. Also, I need this bloody lipstick because I’ve got a meeting with an Instagram influencer this afternoon, and I really want to make a good impression on her so she agrees to work with Cleo and me. My favourite lipstick always makes me feel like a goddess, and when I’m feeling as far from a goddess as possible like I am today, I need the freaking lipstick.
“Bloody hell!” I shriek after I trash the make-up drawer without locating it. Today has gone to shit in a big way and I’m ready for it to be over. And it’s only 10:06 a.m.
I need Cleo to talk me down.
I turn Eminem off, pull Cleo’s number up on my phone, and put it on speaker so I can continue fixing my hair and make-up.
“Hey, babe,” she says. “You all ready for this meeting?”
“No! I can’t find my lipstick.”