Page 41 of A Convenient Secret

My phone continues to mock me from the counter. The clock does as well. It’s six-fifteen in the morning. My fatigue presses against my eyes.

“I’m just helping your daddy while he can’t be here, Zach.”

“Why is he not here?” Zach demands, and Zoya turns her curious eyes to me.

Do not scare them.

“Your dad had a minor cut and needed to see a doctor, but he will be back any minute now.”

“He cut himself when shaving?” Zoya asks, seemingly unperturbed by the fact her father needed to see a doctor.

“And then you will go?” Zach asks, but it sounds like a demand.

We got along this past week, but I was right: his acceptance extended to the limited time frame of my stay with them.

It breaks my heart a little, but this is not the time orthe place. Certainly not the circumstances to win him over.

I’ll be gone in an hour. Probably forever banished from this house.

“Yes, Zach, I’ll go.” His rejection stings more than I would have expected. I force yet another smile this morning. “Let’s focus on making the best French toast ever.”

I look at the counter. Shit. Somehow, while I talked to Zach, Zoya attempted to crack a few more eggs. Eyeing the egg massacre, I bite back a sigh and dip my fingers into the bowl, fishing out all the shells.

“Step two is adding milk.” Zoya yanks open the fridge door and takes out the carton.

“I’ll do it.” Zach snatches it from her.

I turn to wash my hands.

“Zach,” Zoya screams as drops wet my ankles.

I turn so quickly I get dizzy. Zach stands, smirking at me, the cartoon in his hand turned upside down, milk seeping quickly across the tiles.

He really is unhappy with me still being here. Is this what chased all the nannies away? I know this is deliberate behavior. I experienced this boy at his best.

He might be overly serious for a six-year-old, but he is also fiercely protective of his sister, funny, and smart. He is not a bully.

The gleam in his eyes right now suggests otherwise,but I decide to believe my intuition. If he’s trying to rile me up, he’ll be surprised.

“Zach, did you miss the bowl?” The cheer in my voice is forced but sounds genuine.

He drops the carton. More droplets land on my feet. “I’m not hungry. I’ll be in my room.”

“Daddy,” Zoya cheers, and Zach and I turn.

Declan glowers from the dining room, but his expression softens as Zoya runs to hug him. Her bare feet splash through the milk.

Declan squats to hug her. “Careful, my arm hurts a little.”

“How did you cut youwself?” Zoya wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. My ovaries decide this is a good time to shimmy.

Declan’s eyes find mine, and now I understand the expression, ‘Please, ground, swallow me,’ because that’s exactly what I need to happen right now.

“I was a bit clumsy, sweetheart.” He stands up.

Still in his pajama pants and wearing a black T-shirt, he sports a large sterile patch above his elbow. Some blood—far less than last night—and a yellow disinfectant stain his arm.

His gaze lands on the milk puddle. “What happened here, Zach?”