Page 324 of Wicked Brutal

Something in his face eases, and it isn’t about the list. It’s that I did the thing he’d have done. He nods once.

“Good.” Then he starts to open his mouth again—

“Walter.” Mom steps closer. “The baby is good. Ally is good. Ryan made the doctor go through half of it twice. Breathe.”

Dad looks at her. Then at Ally. And everything in his face changes. His eyes fill. “I was scared.” Ally’s face crumples. “When Cassandra called and said you were bleeding—“ He can’t finish. Ally reaches for him and he pulls her back into his arms. “I wanted to come.”

“No.” She shakes her head against him. “Tobias needed you.”

“He wouldn’t let go of me. I couldn’t leave him.”

“Good. You stayed with him.”

“Every second.”

“Thank you.”

“Never thank me for that.” Dad kisses the top of her head. “Never.”

She stays there another second. “Tobias?”

“Upstairs. Asleep. Finally. He ate — sandwich, strawberries, a little of whatever Katya got into him. He cried a lot. He asked for you all night.”

Ally closes her eyes. “And Mom?” Dad’s face breaks. He nods. “What did you tell him?”

“That you were both with the doctors.”

She looks down. Nobody fills the silence. Then Ally looks toward the stairs. “I need to see him.”

Dad takes her hand. “Come on.”

We go upstairs once. That’s all she’s doing tonight. Dad on one side of her, me on the other, Mom and Darla behind us.

Halfway up, I look at her. “Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Cramping?”

She turns her head, tired — so tired. “No dizziness. Cramps aren’t worse. Nothing feels different. I’ll tell you. I promise.”

I press my mouth to her temple. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “Stop looking at me like I’m going to break.”

“Can’t.” That gets the ghost of something on her face. Not a smile. Close.

We reach the second floor. Dad leads us down the hall, past my room, then stops two doors before it. I frown. The door’s cracked open, warm light spilling into the hallway. Dad pushes it wider.

And I stop.

I know every room in this house. I’ve lived here my whole life. This isn’t the room that used to be here. It’s Tobias. Every inch of it. Deep green and warm wood. A countryside scene painted across one wall — trees and water and tiny animals hidden between them. Green striped bedding. Low shelves full of books. Frog and Toad. A little green lantern glowing near the wall. A frog holding an umbrella beside the bed. Little pieces of him everywhere. Just enough that I know exactly whose room this is before Dad says a word.

Then I see the shelf. The leprechaun trap. The one Tobias and Dad built together. Sitting there like it belongs. Because apparently it does.

I look at Dad. Then Mom. “What is this?”

Neither answers.