Page 27 of Fractured Destiny

Diego’s eyes narrow. “Now?”

“Yeah.” I gesture for him to follow me.

“Lake.” He puts his hands on his hips. “You’re in the middle of recording.”

“All the more reason.”

He follows, slower than me, hope making him cautious.

I turn, clap a hand on his shoulder and steer him toward the studio.

“Let’s go talk to Ty.”

eight

One Year Later

Levi refuses to hold my hand.

He’s eighteen months old and has recently decided independence is worth face-planting into concrete.

“Slow down.” I pick up my pace.

He glances over his shoulder long enough to make sure I’m following, then keeps marching along the Alki path with all the confidence of a tiny dictator who’s never once paid a bill. His dinosaur rain boots slap against the pavement. The hood of his little yellow slicker bounces with every determined step, dark curls escaping around his ears.

Objectively, he’s a physically beautiful child. Strangers stop us every ten minutes to tell me so.

His personality is what makes Levi special, though. The way he wrinkles his nose before he laughs. How he waves at every dog we pass as though they’re old friends. His whole face lights up when he finds a rock worthy of adding to whatever imaginary collection he’s building in his tiny jacket pockets.

Suddenly, he squats beside a driftwood log, studies three pebbles with complete concentration, then proudly chooses the flattest one. “Mine.”

“Obviously.” I cross my arms and wait.

He grins at me. There’s sand on his cheek.

“Do you want me to take some of them for you?” I hold my hand out.

“No.” He pats his pocket protectively.

I stifle a grin. “No?”

“Mine.” He stomps his foot.

“I stand corrected.”

Behind me, Ingrid laughs. “I’ve been trying to convince Minnie shells belong on the beach. I give up.”

I turn. Her daughter, Minnie, wears pink leggings, tiny white sneakers and a ridiculous little crossbody purse covered in glittery strawberries. She’s spent the last twenty minutes filling it with shells, then dumping them onto the sidewalk before starting over.

“I like your purse,” I tell her.

She beams. “Pretty.”

“It is pretty,” I agree.

Ingrid hands her another shell. “There. One for the collection.” She looks at me and mock whispers, “I’ve created a monster.”

“You absolutely have.”