Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(103)

“How is he?”

“He’s asleep.”

Ethan exhaled slowly. “Good. He sounded scared before.”

“Yeah. It was…intense.”

They were quiet for a long minute. “It’ll be good to have you both home,” Ethan said eventually.

“I can’t wait,” she said honestly.

“Me, neither.” Ethan sighed. “This hiding thing…it can’t happen again. He did it in Muir Woods, ducked behind a tree, didn’t answer when we called, and I almost lost it. Gave him a mammoth lecture, took away dessert, made him go to bed early. I thought he was over that phase.”

“Well. Seeing everyone looking for him drove the point home, I think.” She traced the outline of their son’s ear.

“Good.” There was another silence. “Poor James. He must’ve been scared shitless.”

“He was.”

“Well. I hope you get some sleep tonight, Parks. Here, Lucy wants to say hi.”

“Hey, sweetie,” Lucy said, and the sound of her voice caused more tears to flow, but when Parker hung up sometime later, she was calmer. These things happened. Parents lost years off their life simply by being parents. The vision of the dive team in the water, looking for her son…that would haunt her forever. But Nicky was safe, and nothing else mattered.

The exhaustion of the day caught up with her in a wallop, and suddenly her eyes burned. She turned out the bedside lamp and cuddled her son close.

Just before she fell asleep, something clicked.

James had been wet because he’d gone in the water, looking for her son.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

JAMES LAY AWAKE all night, adrenaline still flying through his veins, his heart stuttering and racing in fits.

The day with Nicky had been pretty okay, up until then. They’d gone for a walk on the beach and climbed the rocks exposed by low tide. Had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. James had read Hungry, Hungry Sharks four times in a row. They’d played hangman and tic-tac-toe. Drew pictures. Told knock-knock jokes.

The whole time, James had watched the kid like a hawk. Didn’t let him out of his sight. Said no to every dangerous activity the kid suggested, which had ruled out climbing trees, jumping on Parker’s bed, a game of hide-and-seek and swimming.

“Let’s use the nail gun,” the kid had suggested.

James had considered it. Pictured taking Nicky to the E.R. because he had a nail through his hand. “Maybe tomorrow.”

The kid pushed out his bottom lip. “You kissed my mom.” It was an accusation.

James took a slow breath. “Right. I did.”

“Why?”

What do you say to that? “Well, she’s nice.”

“She’s my mother.”

“Oh, definitely. Your mother.”

And the kid had seemed satisfied with that. Then he’d asked if he could play his little handheld computer game, and James said sure, he had to make a quick phone call. Went into the kitchen, called Goldman Sachs and told Mitch Stravitz no thanks.

Because Parker Harrington Welles loved him, and he wasn’t going to move a hundred and fifty miles away from her. No way.

He hung up, gave the mac and cheese a stir, glanced into the living room. The kid was gone.

At first, James had thought Nicky had gone to the bathroom. A minute or two later, he knocked. No answer. Opened the door. No kid. “Nicky?” he’d called.

Not in either bedroom. Not in the kitchen. Not on the patio. Not in the yard, not in the truck. James heard his voice growing louder, then more desperate.

The dock.

The water had been as cold as death, and it was hard to see, the salt stinging his eyes. Rocks. A beer can. A school of fish, darting away into the dark, deep water.

The lake water had been much clearer the day Mary Elizabeth had almost drowned. Her little hand, so peaceful almost, no resistance left in it, like an underwater plant, drifting in the current—

“Nicky!” he heard himself yell, his voice hoarse with terror. “Nick!”

Two more dives before he realized he needed help. Called 911. Went back in the water until the dive team came and James was shaking so hard with cold that he couldn’t speak.

Then Parker’s face, utterly white in the deepening gloom of the night. You lost my son, her eyes said. You killed my baby.

And then she found him. All by herself, she figured out what the entire fire and police department and twenty-five volunteers couldn’t.

The little bastard was hiding.

“Didn’t you hear James calling you?” she’d asked sharply, even as she clutched him against her.

“We were playing! It was a game!”

“Now, now, don’t be too hard on the little guy,” the fire chief had said. Easy for him to say. In that moment, James was so, so glad he wasn’t a father, because honestly, he could’ve killed the kid, he was so relieved.

Parker hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the night, too focused on her son. A doctor was there—Maggie’s brother-in-law—and he’d checked Nicky out for any concussion or whatnot. Hard to believe the kid had slept through fire sirens and all, but Parker confirmed her son slept like a rock. Her eyes slid off James’s face as if she hated him.

Twenty-four hours from love to hate.

He couldn’t blame her. He’d lost her son, and the kid could’ve just as easily gone into the water and died, all because James had no f**king clue. You should’ve paid attention, his father had screamed at him in the hospital after Mary Elizabeth had been whisked away. You stupid, selfish little shit, each word a bullet.