I expect him to argue. To tell me I did the right thing by taking the prison job. To give me more platitudes about saving the world, or hell—to urge me to look in that envelope.
But Noah opens the door without another word. He casts one look behind him before closing the door and vanishing into the night.
Chapter 16
Hazel
“So then he left.” Sniffling, I stroke a hand down Squash’s sleek back. “He broke his promise and chose the criminal life over me and our daughters.”
Squash squints her eyes and lets out a sweet little blurt.
“Exactly,” I mutter. Not that Luke is the first man to make that same choice. “Maybe there’s something about me that makes men choose lives of crime over being part of my life.”
I’m being dramatic, but my cat mulls it over. Lifting her butt, she invites me to scratch the spot near her tail. I’m happy to do it, though if I’m being honest, happy doesn’t describe how I’m feeling.
Crushed.
Heartbroken.
Disappointed.
Like somebody ripped out my heart and rubbed it on the ragged stone surface of my Cardoso Brazilian slate fireplace.
Stroking a hand down my cat’s back, I swipe at the fresh flow of tears. “When will it stop hurting so much?”
She doesn’t have an answer. Just a sweet series of blurts and a head butt to my knee.
“At least I’ve got you, Squash. You’ll help me be the best mom I can be, right?”
With another soft blurt, she agrees that she will.
“You’re sweet.” My phone starts to ring, and I sigh. “Probably Luke. He’s called a million times already.”
I try to roll over and look at my phone, but my belly impedes my movement. By the time I complete the herculean task of reaching the far side of my bed, the phone has stopped ringing.
“Guess he gave up already.” Ignoring the sinking sensation in my gut, I squint at the screen to see who just called. “What the hell does my cousin want?”
Squash doesn’t answer, but the phone rings again. This time I catch it in time.
“Hi, Noah.” I try to sound normal, but I probably fail. “What’s up?”
“Good news,” he says without preamble.
“Great. I could use some.”
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
“Nothing.” Like my cousin needs to hear about my problems. “What’s the good news?”
“I rattled some old connections and found a guy who’s established eight different foster centers in Eastern Europe. He’s hoping to build a ninth one this year.”
“Really?” That is good news. “I assume he’s seeking a financial partner?”
“You assume correctly.”
I scramble around for a notebook. “What can you tell me about him?”
“The guy comes well recommended. He’s done this enough times that he can get a center up and running within six months of breaking ground. And he’s an expert at assembling the right team to run it. Locals—not wannabe saviors who make aid contingent on converting to a particular religion.”
