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“And call Bryn.”

“I’ll call Bryn.”

“And Amelia.”

“Quaid—”

“We still don’t have a name.”

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against his. “Not into Daisy, huh?”

I felt more than saw him wrinkle his nose. “No.”

“We’ll figure it out?”

“When? At this rate, they’ll be in university before we decide anything.”

“Then stop being so difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult.”

“Quaid, we’ve gone through no less than six baby name books, and you have nixed everything.”

“Not everything… Just everything you’ve suggested.”

I deadpanned.

“What? You pick horrible names.”

“I do not, and PS, the ones you’ve picked aren’t much better.”

Quaid peered into the house, perpetual fret marring his features. “What the hell are we going to do?”

“I have a thought. Boy or girl?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think we’re having?”

Quaid considered carefully. Over the long months of Bryn’s pregnancy, he waffled.

Some days, he was convinced it was a girl.

Other times, he was certain we were having a boy.

Then, he would read something in a book about how a woman carried or what they craved during pregnancy and change his mind again.

He refused to find out at every ultrasound, determined that it should be a surprise.

“Boy.” He cringed as though still uncertain.

“Are you sure?”

“No. Yes.” He nodded with more determination. “A boy. I don’t know why, but it’s what I envision when I see us parenting a child.”

“You envision us parenting?”

“Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Okay, so here’s what we’ll do. Since this has been such a hard decision, we’re splitting it. You get to pick the boy’s name, and I’ll pick the girl’s name. No vetoes. If it’s a boy, you name him. If it’s a girl, I name her.”

“That sounds dangerous. No vetoes?”

“One veto.”

“That’s it? I’m not sure I trust you enough to do this.”

I chuckled and kissed my husband again. “Or we can fight about it until they’re a teenager and let them name themselves. You’d better get going.” I planted one last kiss on his lips as I opened the door and backed him onto the stoop.

He didn’t turn to leave and stared at me with a piercing gaze. “I love you, Az, but I’ll divorce you in a heartbeat if you name our child something stupid.”

Laughing, knowing he was kidding, I tapped my chest over my heart and earned a soft smile.

“I’ll call you,” he said as he backed away.

***

“At a restaurant? ”

“Yes, shocking, I know. Quaid’s orders.” I swerved around a slow-moving vehicle and darted back into the right-hand lane in time to take my exit.

My sister’s voice came through the Equinox’s speaker system. “And no games? Baby showers need fun games.”

“Quaid’s not a game person. Keep it simple. He has enough going on, and once this baby arrives, he’ll be beside himself learning the ropes. Remember how you felt when Graham was born?”

Amelia sighed. “Yes.”

“Amplify that anxiety by about twenty-five or thirty thousand percent. My husband’s OCD is better, but his ability to appropriately manage overwhelming situations is still weak. Keep it simple. Don’t apply any undue pressure.”

“Mom’s going to be pissed. She had a whole menu planned.”

“I trust you to take care of that. Blame me if you have to.”

“When do you want me to book it?”

I considered. It was June fourteenth. Bryn was technically due on the seventeenth, but she was already dilating, which the doctor said was a good sign she might go any day.

“How about the twenty-eighth? That’s two weeks from today.

That still allows us to settle if Bryn goes past her date.

The doctor told us he would induce labor on the twenty-fourth if she hadn’t gone by then. ”

“All right. The twenty-eighth at a restaurant. Mom won’t like this,” she sing-songed.

“I don’t care,” I sang back. “You know as well as I do that Mom and Dad are going to be practically living at our house, driving us up the wall the second we bring that baby home. This isn’t about them. It’s about us and Quaid’s comfort level.”

Part of me wished it was winter, and my parents were at their summer house in Florida. With them in the city, Quaid and I were doomed to be smothered by my overbearing mother, who couldn’t take a hint.

“Your funeral.” I sensed Amelia’s smile through the phone. She was probably glad it wasn’t her for a change. “I’ll make the reservation.”

We hung up, and as I turned down Ruiz’s street, my phone pinged with a message. I parked and dug the device from the cupholder, opening a text from my husband.

Quaid: Check your email. I’ve sent the footage. Five camera feeds. Red zone is between 5:30 and 6:30 on Tuesday night.

Aslan: On it. Just got to your boy friend’s house. Could you send me a picture of the kid?

Quaid: Lol. That might help. Give me a second.

I landed on Ruiz’s doorstep and stabbed the ringer.

A moment later, I was greeted by a clamor of squealing children and running feet before the door swung open, revealing two girls close in age.

Maddy, who was eight or nine, was blonde and fair like her mother.

Her sister, Anna, was seven and the spitting image of Ruiz, with a darker complexion and brown locks that swept her shoulders.

“Hi, Prince Charming,” they said in unison, giggling like little girls often did. Quaid and I were both Prince Charming, having earned the nickname after celebrating our wedding in a castle.

Before I could properly greet them, Ruiz appeared, landing a hand on each of their shoulders and redirecting them out of the doorway. “What did I say about answering the door without an adult present?”

“Don’t do it,” Anna said, wearing a shit-eating grin not unlike the one I saw frequently on her father.

“Exactly, and yet, here we are. Go play Barbies or something. No more TV. It melts your brain. Daddy’s gotta work, remember?”

They ran off with the same high-pitched squeals as when they arrived, shouting claims for this Barbie or that Barbie .

Once they cleared out and the noise calmed, Ruiz opened the door wider. “We can work in the kitchen. Did you get Quaid’s email?”

“Just now. Still waiting on a picture of the kid.”

I accepted Ruiz’s offer of coffee and sat at the table. He had two laptops up and running and a stack of folders that must have been other work he’d brought home for the weekend.

My phone pinged with a message and an attachment.

Quaid: Crowley Thomas Davis. 8yrs old. Height 51 inches. Weight 53 lbs. Both stats were taken at his last dr. apt in May.

The photo was a picture of a picture. A school shot Quaid had probably been given that would live in his pocket until the case was solved. The image was clear and showed a gangly child with shaggy brown hair, round cheeks, and a smile that showed oversized adult teeth in front.

Another text landed.

Quaid: Lab emailed. No fingerprints on the note except those belonging to the parents. Still waiting to hear from FedEx about who the driver was. I also want to know if we can trace the package back to where it was mailed .

I relayed the FedEx issue to Ruiz.

“Tell him I’ll take care of it and not to worry.”

I passed the message along, and we settled into the task of reviewing security footage, hoping we might discover if Crow had arrived at the Soccerplex and, if so, who he might have left with.

A familial abduction meant he would likely have gone willingly with whoever showed up, given they gave him a reasonable enough excuse.

The entire time we worked, it was to a background of giggling, playing, and singing, along with constant interruptions for Daddy to help with an awkward Barbie shirt or shoes that wouldn’t stay on and requests for juice and snacks .

It amazed me how well the surly IT guy maneuvered from one task to the next—professional computer nerd to loving and attentive father—never losing focus and always ensuring his kids were indulged.

To some, his morning might have seemed chaotic, and it was, in a way, but I couldn’t wait for it to be me.