Kit is careful without making a show of it.She laughs a broken laugh that’s really a sob.“You absolute menace,” she says, because love has its own dialect.“You didn’t call me.”
Cleo makes a face that’s half-apology, half-I know.“I’m calling you now,” she says.
“Fair,” Kit says, and the two of them fold into a hug that’s brief and real and doesn’t try to fix anything.When they break, Kit wipes her face and does the practical thing: “You have to tell me everything.
Cleo nods, then immediately shakes her head, as if correcting herself, before clearing her throat.“We’ll have time,” she says softly, like the days ahead stretch wider than the handful they’ve been given.
I’m not sure Roderick will be comfortable staying that long.Eddie plans to extend the invitation anyway—tell them they’re welcome as long as they want—but he’ll also have to warn them.When they leave, they can’t mention Cleo.Not to anyone.Out there, they’ll need to play the part of grieving brothers.
Rod steps forward, slow and hesitant, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.His eyes shine, glassy with unshed emotion.“Hey, Cleo,” he says, his voice breaking into something between disbelief and joy.
And then he moves.He closes the distance, sweeping her up into his arms.Cleo clings back, both of them laughing and crying at once, the years of separation collapsing into that one tight embrace.He lifts her off her feet, holding her like he’s afraid to let go, as if he finally has his sister back.
When Rod finally eases her down again, Cleo wipes at her face, breathless, and her gaze drifts—only to catch on the bundle cradled in my arms.Her expression softens.
“Can I—?”she asks, and the question is so simple, so ordinary, that the entire room exhales.
“Of course,” Kit says at once, pulling a cloth from the bag because she’s a mother now and mothers always seem to have magic pockets.I ease the baby into Cleo’s arms and watch her gather him carefully, as if he might break.But when he doesn’t, when he just settles against her, she relaxes.She studies Arlo’s face with quiet curiosity, then offers him a smile—small, private, the kind I haven’t seen since before she left us.
“Hey, little guy.I’m your favorite aunt, Cleo,” she whispers, her voice breaking into tenderness as she strokes his tiny hand, as though she’s imprinting herself into his world.
Eddie watches from the corner, new cell phone in hand, the camera already clicking.He’ll find another moment later for the perfect picture—one worthy of a frame—but it’s clear enough what he’s capturing now: Cleo as part of a family, children included.It’s the life Eddie seems to want, though that’s something we’ll have to figure out later.Today isn’t the day for it.
Rod clears his throat.“So we’re here, and we’ll stay as long as this asshole—” He cuts a look toward Eddie.“—doesn’t kick us out.But we need an explanation.I’m glad you’re okay, Cleo, I really am.But a lot is going on here, and you’re hiding something.Aren’t you?”
ChapterTwenty-Four
Eddie
At night, the house finally settles.Cleo is in the middle of everything.So far, nobody’s asked why the fuck she’s here—they’re probably just grateful she’s safe and not in a ditch.Or was it a car on fire?Or drowning and found mostly decomposed?Fuck, I’m too tired to keep the plan straight.
Arthur’s working with a team putting together the evidence.He’s got a buddy who owns a production company.Not sure how that’s supposed to help, but they say everything’s under control, and I have to believe them, even when it takes everything in me not to take control of this.
Cleo sleeps.
Barret sits in the armchair by the window, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.He’s been staring at the closed curtains so long, I think he’s counting the threads.I’m on the floor beside the bed, just close enough to Cleo to convince myself I’m part of the reason she keeps sleeping.
Barret glances over without moving his head.“You’re gonna kink your neck,” he whispers.
“I already did.”I shift my weight.The floorboard under my thigh complains.“You should sleep.I’ll sit up.”
“Why are we doing this again?”he mumbles, half-absent.
I frown.“What are we asking?”
“We usually sleep in your bedroom.Today ...it seems weird you want us here.”He plays with his lip, and for a second, I want to kiss him—or fuck him.
I’m in that mood that sex might calm me down, but the house is full and I don’t want anyone asking about our situation because it’s too fucking complicated to explain—not because I don’t know what’s happening, but because I don’t know how to get from point A to point B.
He lets out a quiet sound that could be a laugh.“Earth to Eddie, what’s happening, Reznor?There’s a lot going on in that head of yours.”
“I want to be here in case she has a nightmare,” I remind him.
“She hasn’t had one in the past week,” he states, then he studies her.“You just don’t want to share her attention with them.”
The way he smirks, like he just found the problem and can’t believe I’m being so possessive.
“Is it wrong?”
