“Easy,” I murmur. “We’re here.”
Eddie’s eyes open—wide, glassy, confused. He tenses in my arms.
“Where…?”
“Safe place. My place.” I carry him up the steps, across the threshold. He’s light. So light I can feel the rapid flutter of his heart against my chest.
Inside, the house smells freshly cleaned, as expected. I set Eddie on his feet in the foyer. He sways, clutching the stuffie to his chest like a shield.
I flick on the low hall light.
“Do you have any idea who I am,” I say, less of a question and more a statement of intent.
He blinks up at me, lower lip trembling. Then the dam breaks.
Big, fresh tears spill over. His shoulders shake. A raw, hiccupping sob rips out of him.
I wait. Five seconds. Ten.
“Enough,” I say, voice flat. “You’re safe. That should be enough. Pull yourself together.”
He stamps one foot—small, furious, socked foot on hardwood.
“Like that’s going to make me feel better!” he cries. “People died! There was blood everywhere! And you’re just… just standing there like it’s nothing!”
My Daddy side, the one I keep locked down tight because emotion gets men killed, stirs inside me. I don’t appreciate being sassed under any circumstances. That’s simply not how I live my life. I wouldn’t expect it from a lieutenant, and I certainly don’t expect it from a boy.
I step forward, close enough that he has to tilt his head back.
I take his wrist. Firm. But not too hard, not enough to bruise.
“Listen to me, little one,” I say, low and deliberate. “You keep crying like that, you’re going to make yourself sick. And if you don’t stop right now, I will put you over my knee and spank your bottom until you can’t sit. Do you understand?”
His breath catches. Eyes huge. Cheeks flushed red.
But the sobs quieten down. He sniffs hard, nods once.
“Good boy,” I say. Softer now, but still like this is business. “Now be brave. Can you do that for me?”
Another nod. Salty, mutinous, butobedient.
“Come on,” I say, leading him by the hand.
I take Eddie through to the kitchen—big oak table, farmhouse sink, windows that look out over dark water. I point to a chair.
“Sit.”
He does. Backpack and stuffie on the table like offerings.
I move to the counter, pull bread from the breadbox, toaster from the cabinet. Two slices. Thin scrape of butter. Thinner layer of strawberry jelly. I set the plate in front of him.
“Eat.”
He stares at it like it might bite him. Then picks it up, takes a small bite. Chews slowly. Another bite. His stomach growls loud enough for both of us to hear.
“More?” Eddie asks, his voice small.
I make another slice. Same rules: butter, but this time no jelly. The last thing this boy needs is too much sugar this late at night.I need him as calm as possible—and this is what’s best for him too.
