“He lied.”
Heath looks at me then, sharp and sudden. There is no surprise on his face. “I knew it.”
The three words are too flat for a child. I want to reach for him. But I refrain.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks away. “People say that when they can’t fix something.”
“They do,” I agree.
“Can you fix this?”
I think of Stefano’s file. Leon’s name. Five days. The deal I have made because the alternative is failing them a second time.
“I can’t bring her back,” I say. “But I can be there for you. Once I take care of a few things.”
Erin wipes her face with the sleeve of her new shirt. “Are we going back to Dad?”
“No.”
The word comes out before I can measure the truth of it. I shouldn’t promise what I do not fully control. I know that. I know better than that. But there are moments when caution becomes cowardice, and this is one of them. I look at both of them.
“You aren’t going back to him.”
Heath studies me for a long time.
Then he asks, “What if Mr. Stefano says we have to?”
From behind me, Omar says, “Mr. Stefano does not enjoy being called Mr. Stefano.”
Erin turns toward him. “Then what should we call him?”
“Don Savarese.”
“That sounds like a cheese.”
For one perfect second, Omar looks as if he has been shot.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to behave. Heath’s mouth twitches. Not a smile, but close enough to hurt.
Omar looks at me. “This is your influence. I’ll blame you personally if they tell him that.”
“I’ve been here for ten minutes,” I object.
“Obviously, it’s been long enough to be a bad influence.”
Erin looks pleased with herself and takes another bite of toast. Jam gets on her cheek, and I reach for a napkin, then stop halfway, placing it on the table within her reach instead. She takes it without flinching.
Breakfast becomes something that resembles normal if I squint hard enough. Erin asks questions in bursts: Where do I live? Do I have a dog? Am I married? Why not? Do I like pancakes better than waffles?
Heath says almost nothing, but he listens to every answer. I tell the truth where I can and step around what I must. No dog. No husband. Pancakes, but only if they have crispy edges.
I don’t tell them I live wherever an undercover assignment needs me to live. I don’t tell them my apartment in Chicago has more weapons than furniture. I don’t tell them the FBI is probably tearing Miami apart looking for me.
After a while, Erin asks if she can do my hair later. The question knocks something loose in my chest. Alice used to braid my hair when we were children, badly at first, then in more complicated braids with the kind of detail that required patience I’d never had. I haven’t let anyone play with my hair in years.
“Yes,” I agree. “Later.”
