“Very fortunately, not many five-year-olds lose their dad atthat age.But grief seals memories hermetically, I suspect, even forfive-year-olds.”
Dutch didn’t suspect shit.
He knew she was right.
“She talked about him to you?”he asked.
Her expression grew concerned.“She doesn’t with you?”
“We avoid it.Losing him broke her.Bad.”
“You need to talk to her about him, honey.You need it.Andshe needs to give him to you.”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
She smiled, small and sweet, pushed up to kiss him under hisjaw, then she whispered, “I’ll order Chinese.What do you like?”
“Sesame chicken.Orange chicken.Kung pao chicken.Cashewchicken.”
“So something chicken.”
“And egg rolls and pot stickers.Fried, not steamed.”
She smiled again and then…
Fuck…
She kissed his Chaos patch where the scratch was.
Then she turned and walked out, scooping up Murtagh alongthe way.
He wasn’t thinking clearly, but still, he could swear thatcat was looking over her shoulder at Dutch, his eyes screaming, “You!Come getme!”
So he wassortasmiling when heshrugged off his cut.
But he wasn’t smiling when he ran the pad of his thumb overthat scratch.
Now, in his way, he had them both too.
“Hope I did you proud today, Dad,” he whispered.
Then he cleared his throat.
Turned.
And shouted into the living room.“If you pay for that onyour credit card, no sex tomorrow night either!”
To which he got, “Dutch!”
So he entered his living room grinning.
ChapterTwelve
Cerebral and Long-Lasting
Dutch
Dutch did a double take when Georgie walked into hiskitchen the next morning.
