And Saint Lawson…
Is still standing.
That is unacceptable.
I don’t call Rourke.
He wouldn’t understand anyway.
This requires something different.
Something human.
Something messy.
I dial another number.
A man answers.
“Find me something that matters to him,” I say.
“Something that bleeds.”
There is a pause on the line.
Then:
“Yes, ma’am.”
I smile faintly.
“Oh,” I add softly.
“Make sure he knows this one is from me.”
74
Laney
Saint doesn’t sleep that night.
Neither do I.
The argument from earlier hangs between us like smoke after a fire. Not burning anymore, but still there.
We don’t talk much.
But we sit in the same room.
Watching the baby breathe.
Like if either of us looks away, something might come for her.
The soft glow of the night-light paints the crib in warm gold.
Emmy sighs in her sleep, one tiny hand curled against her cheek.
Saint sits in the chair beside the crib, elbows on his knees.
