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“Of course not.”

He settled in his recliner. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

“I don’t think it’s the wicked who need resting,” I muttered, and Dad laughed.

“How’s the side?” he asked me.

I experimentally tensed the muscles. “Hurts,” I answered. “Could be worse, though.”

Dad snorted. “I’m taking the car in tomorrow to get that window replaced,” he told me. “The detective took pictures of it.”

“SOP,” I told him.

“What?”

“Standard Operating Procedure.”

Dad picked up the TV remote and fiddled with it, but didn’t turn it on. “They’re not going to get him, are they?”

“The rock thrower or the guy with the knife?” I asked.

“Either of them.”

“No, probably not.”

Dad sighed. “Your mother seems to think they will.”

“Not unless the Shawano police are a lot better at their jobs than the Richmond or Milwaukee police, and also have the ability to conjure up some non-existent camera footage of the street.”

Dad nodded. “She likes to be optimistic.”

“As long as she doesn’t rely on it,” I muttered. My mother’s optimism was fairly legendary, but it was starting to worry me. Because if Mom started running around Shawano talking up her elf son, she might be drawing the wrong kind of attention. I didn’t really think she’d be in any physical danger herself, sinceshedidn’t have pointy ears, but that didn’t mean people were going to be nice about it.

I suppose like when my parents left their church over what people’d said about how I deserved Arcanavirus because of my ‘lifestyle.’

It hadn’t impacted Mom’s optimism all that much. At least not from where I sat, although I suppose she wasn’t exactly going to tell me how much flack she took on my behalf.

“You know she just wants the best for you,” Dad said, interrupting my morose musings.

“I know, Dad.”

We both turned to look in the direction of the kitchen as a wonderful smell started wafting in—garlic and onions, tomatoes.

“I have no idea what those two are up to,” Dad said. “But it sure smells good.”

I smiled. I might be a kickass baker, but Taavi was the cook. Mom wasn’t a slouch, either, but her cooking was very much midwestern traditional. “Has he cooked for you?” I asked Dad.

“As though your mother would permit such a thing.”

I laughed, then cut it off as it caused a slice of pain in my side. “Shit. Ow. Don’t make me laugh. She should. Taavi’s a great cook.”

My dad studied me, warmth and something else in his brown eyes. “You’re really serious about this one, aren’t you, son?”

Oh, boy. I didn’t really want to have this conversation, but I guess I wasn’t going to be able to avoid it. I was a captive audience, thanks to my own bullheaded stupidity. “Yeah, I am,” I told him.

I was expecting more, but Dad just nodded. “I can tell,” he said.

“Tell what?” I asked, a little ruffled by that.