Page 404 of Wicked Brutal

“Yeah.”

“You’re supposed to have more common sense than the four-year-old.”

“That feels like a lot of pressure.”

I point toward the back door. “Take the chips outside.”

He grabs the bowl from the counter, and I turn back to the cake and carefully dig into the corner with a butter knife. It doesn’t take long. The penny comes out covered in green buttercream.

Piper gasps. “My lucky!”

“Your choking hazard.”

I wash it under the faucet, dry it with a paper towel, and drop it into her waiting palm.

She closes both hands around it. “Still lucky?”

“Yes.”

“Even after cake?”

I look down at the penny. And something old brushes against my ribs. A lake. A boy. A penny. Luck. A version of myself who couldn’t imagine this kitchen because she couldn’t imagine getting far enough to have one.

I look back at Piper. “Maybe it’s luckier now.”

She smiles and kisses the penny before shoving it into the tiny pocket on the front of her dress. Louise made that too — soft green fabric, tiny embroidered flowers around the hem, a little Piper Jane label sewn inside, because somewhere over the last four years Louise Rorke went from making clothes for my daughter because she couldn’t help herself to building an entire children’s clothing line named after her. The first time she showed me the label, I cried. Piper screamed because her name was inside her dress. Very different reactions.

She pats the pocket. “Can’t lose it.”

“You’re not putting it in anything else we’re eating.”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Then she holds her hand toward Tobias. “Pozhaluysta.”

He’s almost through the back door. He stops. Looks at her. Looks at the strawberries. Then at me. “Don’t.”

“You created this.”

“She said please.”

“In Russian.”

“Still please.”

Piper wiggles her fingers. “Pozhaluysta.”

Tobias sighs, sets the chips down, takes a strawberry from the tray, and hands it to her.

“Spasibo.”

“Good.”

“Merci.”

He stares at her. “You already thanked me.”