Hadley & Grace(25)

Skipper squats in the corner on his heels and rocks back and forth, his eyes narrowed on the black and white tiles at his feet.

“Hey, Champ,” she says.

He doesn’t look at her, but she feels his stress. Slow and steady is the only pace that works for Skipper, and she knows this must be terrifying.

Awkwardly, being careful not to jostle the baby or put weight on her ankle, she lowers herself beside him. His eyes shift from the floor to the baby.

“Would you like to feed him?” she says, forcing the quake from her voice.

His eyes grow wide, and she watches as his stress dissolves into a look of awe at the prospect of being entrusted with such an important task.

“Sit crisscross,” she says.

He scoots onto his butt, then stares in wonder as the baby is placed in his arms.

The baby looks up at him, still contentedly sucking on his bottle, and Skipper’s face melts into an expression of pure love. Hadley adjusts his left arm so it supports the baby’s head; then she shows Skipper how to hold the bottle so there’s no air in the nipple.

“Got it?” she says.

He nods, his eyes still fixed on the baby, his gold hair draping across his forehead.

Mattie shifts to squat protectively beside them, there if Skipper needs her, but Hadley knows he won’t. Skipper’s incredibly trustworthy when it comes to being responsible.

Grace continues to pace—two steps, pivot, two steps—her brow furrowed. On her sixth rotation, she stops an inch from the wall and screams, “Fuuuudge!” the word ricocheting off the tile.

All of them freeze.

Grace spins to face Hadley. “What was he into? Frank? Why are they following you?”

“I . . . I . . . I don’t know,” she stammers.

“Dad?” Mattie says. “It’s Dad’s money?” She almost sounds disappointed to discover they’re not bank robbers.

Hadley nods as Grace runs her hands through her hair in frustration.

“What now?” Hadley says.

“I think he’s done, Blue,” Skipper says, and Hadley looks over to see the baby smiling up at Skipper, formula dripping from his mouth.

She places a burp rag on her shoulder and lifts the baby to drape him over her shoulder so she can burp him.

“What happens now,” Grace says, her eyes on the baby, “is that you are going to take your kids, and you are going to leave me alone.”

Hadley blinks at the harshness of her words.

“Right. Of course,” she says; then, without meaning to, she starts to cry. It’s not intentional. She’s always cried easily. Any emotion can do it—sorrow, fear, happiness . . . stress. She tries to blot the tears away with the hand not holding the baby, but they stream down her face faster than she can wipe them away.

“Christ,” Grace says.

“I’m s-sorry,” Hadley stammers. She uses the corner of the burp rag to dab at her face. “Of course you should go. Here.” She holds the baby out to her.

Grace doesn’t take him. Instead she glares at Hadley, her arms folded across her chest. Hadley pulls him back, cradling him against her as she sniffs back her emotions.

“Blue?” Skipper says, unsure what is happening.

“It’s okay, Champ,” Hadley manages. “We’re okay.”

“For criminy’s sake,” Grace says; then, with a huff of aggravation, she adds, “Fine. I’ll help get you out of here, but then, after that, that’s it. You’re on your own.”





21





GRACE


Grace has always had a weakness when it comes to crying. Whether it be Miles or a grown woman, tears set off an alarm in her brain that floods her with a crazed need to do whatever it takes to stop them. So now, instead of her and Miles being safely on their way to freedom with close to a million dollars in her pocket, she is in the bathroom of a Nordstrom arguing with Mrs. Torelli, which is making her seriously regret her impulsive, stupid offer to help her.

“No.” Mrs. Torelli shakes her head back and forth to emphasize the point, her black hair swaying in front of her face.

“We need a car,” Grace says, irritated beyond belief that this woman, who she is putting her neck on the line for, is giving her a hard time.

“I also need a smaller ass, but I’m not going to steal one.”

“We’re not going to steal one,” Grace says. “We’re going to borrow one. They’ll get it back in a day or two.”

Mrs. Torelli shakes her head harder. “We are not pointing a gun at someone and borrowing their car. Not for a day, not for a minute.”

“You have a better idea?” Grace seethes.

Mrs. Torelli’s green eyes snap wide. “Actually, I do,” she says, sounding surprised. She reaches into the backpack at her feet and pulls out a bundle of hundreds. “Catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” She waves the bills back and forth so they fan the air.

The statement catches Grace off guard. It was one of her grandmother’s favorites.

“You okay?” Mrs. Torelli says, stopping her money waving.

Grace manages a nod, the disconcerting feeling of free-falling returning.

“Better idea than a gun, right?” Mrs. Torelli says.

Grace blinks and nods again, a bit amazed that Mrs. Torelli, who doesn’t seem to have a sensible thought in her head, has had not only an idea but a rather good one—a very obvious, very sensible idea. They have money, a fact Grace keeps forgetting. Like june bugs bouncing off a windshield, the idea simply won’t stick. She has money. Lots and lots of money. Which means they can pay someone to borrow their car. Which is actually a great relief, since Grace really doesn’t want to stick a gun in some poor unsuspecting person’s face.