Page 24

Aslan

I f I thought for one second that my husband would go to bed when he got home, then I had no right being married to him because it would have shown that I didn’t know him at all.

After a battle with Jordyn—Quaid adamant in his position that Imogen implicated Nixon again in the abduction of their son, and Jordyn stubbornly insisting the husband’s grief was genuine—I’d torn the two apart and called a time-out.

Quaid wanted to drive Nixon downtown, put him in an interview room, and make him sweat until he got answers.

Jordyn thought they should do the same with Imogen.

I reminded the pair that they were grieving parents with another child who needed attention.

They had to come up with a better solution for getting answers.

My comment earned matching sneers, and I was lucky they didn’t send me packing.

It took a miracle to encourage them to call it a night and revisit the case with fresh eyes in the morning.

Crowley had been gone since Tuesday. Four days and counting.

Ambiguous and dodgy Imogen was convinced the child would come to no harm.

We had to have faith that she was right.

At that point, the case had proven to be far different than a typical abduction, so perhaps the same rules didn’t apply.

I agreed with Quaid when he pointed out that Imogen’s hysteria and accusations seemed noteworthy, but I also agreed with Jordyn that Nixon seemed less suspicious than his wife. There was more going on that we didn’t know about. Secrets, lies, and a missing kid.

Finally, after hours of wildly debating the next course of action, I convinced them to agree that nothing would be solved at close to midnight.

Zoey was at the house overnight. If anything came up, she would call.

When we got home and Quaid set up a base of operations at the kitchen table, I went with it. At some point, I would physically remove him from his computer and drop his ass in bed, but he needed to vent and stew and ponder the evidence. Get it out of his system. It was his way.

I ordered his favorite cauliflower crust vegetarian pizza, chicken wings, and garlic knots from the pizzeria down the street. When it arrived, I plated him some of everything and set it beside his elbow.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, staring zombie-like at the screen.

“Fuel, Quaid. No arguing.”

“I need to call Edwards.”

“It’s after midnight.”

“Jordyn’s wrong about this.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.” Quaid violently moved papers around, skimmed notes, and took out his frustration on the keyboard as he typed.

I sat across from him, resting my foot against his under the table. “Hear me out. If Nixon’s responsible, where is he keeping the kid, and who’s taking care of him? Nixon has been at the house since he reported this, right?”

Quaid paused, gaze shifting back and forth as he thought.

“See?”

His tongue danced along his upper lip. “Maybe he’s not directly involved. His actions could be the catalyst for the abduction, and Imogen knows it, too. Hence, she blames him. She knows Nixon has the power to get Crowley back.”

“You’re back on the Jude bandwagon.”

Quaid slouched in his seat. “I don’t know.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? The man sets off alarm bells.

” He picked up a slice of pizza and ate, brows knitted together.

“Did Costa get a warrant to check Jude’s finances?

Shit. I didn’t touch back with him. I said I would.

” He dropped the food on the plate and snagged his cell.

I removed it from his hand, setting it out of reach and earning a sneer.

“Az.”

“It’s after midnight, hot stuff. You can’t hassle people at this hour.”

“I can when a kid is missing.”

“Ruiz got the warrant signed and was at the office until after seven looking into things. He texted that he was leaving because he promised Tia she could go out with friends tonight. He needed to be at home with his girls. It was supposed to be his weekend off. Cut him some slack.”

“He could work from home.”

I chuckled and pushed the plate closer to my surly husband.

“We aren’t all you, now eat. Besides, Ruiz mentioned doing exactly that, but I told him to forget it.

I know you think he’d move mountains for you, and maybe he would, but his kids and family need to come first sometimes.

He’ll be back at it first thing in the morning. ”

Quaid untwisted a garlic knot, tearing bite-size piece from the end and glaring at it like it offended him. “Do I abuse our bromance?”

“Sometimes, but Ruiz doesn’t seem to mind.”

Quaid ate robotically, staring at his notes. “I don’t understand Imogen’s silence. What kind of mother doesn’t do everything in their power to get their kid back?”

“Maybe you should be asking yourself what scary secret she has that makes her too afraid to talk.”

He nodded, setting his food aside again. Before he could dive back into work, I closed the laptop, moved the stack of files out of reach, and took Quaid’s hand. He tried to pull away, but I secured my grip.

“Enough for now.” I ran my thumb along his, gently stroking as I watched my tired husband process and think. He hadn’t objected to my closing the laptop. He’d also barely touched his food.

I brought his hand to my mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Fuel, hot stuff. The brain needs fuel to work properly, remember? Your gas tank is empty. Food and sleep.”

He scanned the mountain of paperwork I’d pushed aside before examining the plate of pizza and all that remained. Was the sneer present? Yes. Did he love the fact that I’d ordered takeout? No. Did he fight with me or lecture me about its nutritional content? No. Progress was beautiful.

Without arguing, Quaid ate the rest of his pizza with about as much enthusiasm as Nixon had done earlier. The garlic knots vanished without my help, but he pitched a face after two bites of a chicken wing.

“These are disgusting.”

He dropped them on my plate and glared at his sauce-covered fingers. I snagged his wrist and sucked the sticky digits into my mouth, swirling my tongue around and wedging it between his fingers as provocatively as I could to distract him.

It worked.

He laughed and tried to steal his hand back, calling me a pig, but I didn’t miss the heat in his eyes.

“That I am.” I leaned across the table and kissed him with a saucy mouth and too much tongue.

He squirmed away at first but eventually gave up and kissed me back. “They taste better on your tongue than from the box,” he mumbled.

I hummed. “Go shower your stress away, and I’ll clean up.”

“I’m not done kissing you.” He drew me back in for more, anchoring a hand on the back of my head. I indulged him, savoring every second.

Slowly, the kiss ended, and Quaid pulled away, lids at half-mast and a lazy smile on his lips. “Meet me in bed?”

“I’ll be there.”

By the time I finished tidying the kitchen, I still didn’t hear the shower running. Wandering upstairs, I discovered the reason for the delay and was not surprised. The door to the nursery was open, and a soft glow of lamplight pooled on the floor in the hallway.

I found my husband standing beside the crib we’d built together—solid maple, finished with a dark stain—peering down at the white eyelet comforter and the line of stuffed animals we’d arranged against the backboard.

The mobile sang and rotated softly overhead: dancing elephants, giraffes, tigers, and monkeys.

The shaded Pride of Lions lamp by the rocking chair was the source of the soft glow.

A dozen books about parenthood were stacked beside it, pages marked and highlighted, studied so hard and passionately there was never a man more prepared for fatherhood than Quaid.

He’d wanted to be a dad his whole life. Every step we’d taken to make it happen had been held sacred by the man peering into the empty crib, imagining his son or daughter asleep within.

My heart threatened to burst.

It wasn’t the first time I’d caught him lost in fantasy, dreaming about the near future, but it made my knees weak every time I witnessed it.

I couldn’t wait to see him rocking our baby in his arms, singing sweet lullabies, creating stories for the picture books he’d bought by the dozens.

I couldn’t wait to experience all the firsts with Quaid.

First tooth, first word, first step. Heck, even the first tantrum.

“Are you trying to come up with that elusive boy’s name?”

Quaid startled and turned, momentary embarrassment coloring his cheeks before he smiled and shrugged. “No. I was just…” He glanced into the empty crib.

“Dreaming?”

“Yeah. I guess.” He scanned the pale green walls we’d spent two weeks painting, lingering on the zoo animal decals meticulously arranged above the wainscotting. “It’s happening, but it’s so surreal. I keep waiting to wake up.”

I entered the room, spinning and admiring our hard work.

The shelves lined with board books. The empty frames on the dresser waiting for pictures.

The toys we’d spent way too much money on that Quaid claimed would enrich the baby’s life and help with brain development.

The Diaper Genie Amelia had insisted was a requirement—I’d bought it behind Quaid’s back, ignoring his adamancy that we wouldn’t need it since we were using cloth diapers.

The endless packages of soothers, teething rings, bottles, and other infant paraphernalia I never knew existed before now.

“We did a good job in here,” I observed .

The hospital bag and infant car seat waited in the corner by the closet for the inevitable phone call announcing Bryn was in labor. The contents of the bag had been double, triple, and quadruple checked by Quaid.

“Did you rewash anything?” His brows crinkled with worry when he saw where I was looking.

“I haven’t been home. You took a crazy case on the last day of work, and I’ve been helping ever since, remember?”