Page 113 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake had never actually dated as an adult. She’d barely dated as a teenager. Her experience with relationships was getting with Noah during her freshman year of high school and then riding that train to nowhere for thirteen years. She had no idea what the expectations were, especially with someone who was effectively a single parent.

But she couldn’t dwell on any of that right now.

Instead, she walked out of her office and into the hallway that led to the waiting room. “Do you want me to take her back to your house once I grab her?”

“It’s okay if you want to go back to the shop. I can just grab her there. I really don’t want to interrupt your workday any more than necessary,” Monroe said, relief in her tone. “She knows that she’s in trouble, so I don’t expect that she’ll misbehave there.”

“This really isn’t like her.”

Blake worried that she’d overstepped when Monroe didn’t immediately respond.

She sighed with relief when Monroe finally said, “I know. I hope she’ll tell me what’s going on later. But for right now, I just really appreciate you being able to pick her up. I’ll call the daycare now and let them know that you’re coming.”

“Hey—” Blake cradled her phone to her ear, waving at Mary Ann on her way out. When she was outside, she finished her thought. “It’s going to be okay. Kids have dustups all the time.”

A fight coming to physical blows was never ideal, but Blake felt like Maisie had a good reason to do whatever she’d done. Right now, they just needed to put one foot in front of the other and deal with the most pressing issue, which was picking her up from daycare.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. And I know that she’s the instigator, but I just feel sick to my stomach,” Monroe admitted, her voice wobbling.

The sound cut through Blake’s heart, and she crossed the parking lot faster.

“Just drive safely, okay? I’ll get her. She’ll be fine at the garage for as long as you need. I’ve got this, Monroe.” Blake had always liked being thought of as a dependable person, but this went beyond that, and she knew it.

“Will you text me when you have her?” Monroe asked. “I’m going to call the daycare now, so I need to go in case I can’t get through right away.”

“I will,” Blake promised. “We’ll be here when you’re back. It’ll all be okay.”

“Thanks, Blake,” Monroe said before disconnecting the call.

It was a short drive to The Little Peaches Learning Center, a one-story building about halfway between the garage and the dance studio. Blake passed it almost every day.

She pulled into the almost empty lot—this wasn’t a popular time for pickups—and cut the engine.

At the door, there was a buzzer, which she rang.

“Hello?” A voice crackled through the speaker. Blake looked up at the camera pointed on her and waved.

“I’m Blake Bettencourt, here to pick up Maisie Lockhart. Her aunt should have let you know that I’d be coming.”

“Come on in,” the voice said at the same time the door unlocked with a clicking sound.

When she entered the reception area, there was a woman in her mid-thirties standing behind a computer. Sitting in a row of chairs across the room was Maisie, who was holding her tiny backpack and swinging her legs.

“Miss Blake!” she said, jumping up excitedly and dropping her bag on the floor.

That shouldn’t have thrilled Blake as much as it did, but she was only human, and having mini Monroe look at her so adoringly made it impossible for her to do anything but smile in response. “Hey, kiddo. Your aunt is at a meeting, so you’re going to hang with me at the garage until she gets back.”

Maisie’s own smile faltered, and she looked down at the ground before glancing back up at Blake, worry written across her young face. “But she’s comin’ back, right?”

It hit Blake, then. Maisie had been at daycare the day her grandma had died. She’d waited to be picked up until the daycare had called child services after they couldn’t get in touch with Kendra, long after the pickup window had closed. Monroe had shared the story with her in bits and pieces over the last few months, but until this moment, Blake hadn’t grasped what that had meant for Maisie.

Blake wrapped her arm around Maisie’s shoulders. “She is one-hundred-percent-definitely-no-maybes-about-it coming back. I promise.”

That seemed to soothe something in Maisie, whose shoulders softened, and she leaned into Blake’s embrace. “Is she mad?”

Blake shook her head. “No. She’s not mad. She wants to understand what happened, though. You can talk to me about it, or you can wait until she’s back to talk to her.”

Now that Maisie felt safer, her annoyance at whatever had happened roared back to the forefront of the emotions she was cycling through. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Billy had it comin’.”