Page 100 of Desperate Games

Fear?

Why is she afraid?

Fuck.

We need to talk. We need to strip this down to bone and blood, because whatever shifted while I was gone—it’s written all over her.

But not now. Not while Callie’s tucked in my arms.

So, I nod toward the door.

“Let’s go inside.”

Then I dismiss the driver with a dip of my chin.

I wait for Andy to precede me, and I watch her go, her hips swaying, leather boots tapping against the stone like a drumbeat I can’t tune out.

And the whole time, one thought loops through my head like a curse.

Something changed.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t find out what it is.

I carry Callie upstairs, her little head lolling against my shoulder. She’s out cold, the kind of deep sleep only kids seem capable of.

Andy trails behind me, silent, her presence like a ghost brushing the back of my neck.

The house feels different.

Not hers. Not mine. Not ours.

Something in the air has shifted, and it’s making every muscle in my body coil tight.

I settle Callie into her bed, tucking the blankets under her chin, kissing her forehead the way she insists every time she naps.

She doesn’t stir, just sighs, clutching her stuffed owl like it’s her lifeline.

Andy lingers in the doorway, arms folded, watching.

Once, that look would have undone me.

Now? It makes me ache with something I can’t name.

I straighten and brush past her gently, needing to touch her even if it’s just the slope of her shoulder.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lean in either.

Fuck. I just stand there and watch her walk away from me, and it’s breaking my heart.

By the time I get downstairs, she’s already in the kitchen.

The kettle’s on the stove, water just starting to hum.

She’s moving with quiet precision, laying out a mug, setting her favorite little tin of loose tea leaves on the counter.

Like she doesn’t feel me there.

Like she doesn’t feel the weight of my stare boring into her spine.