Page 2 of The Devil of Downtown

“Okay, Missie,” she says. “It’s way past your bedtime. Bath and bed for you.”

“Goodnight, munchkin,” I say, planting a peck on her nose. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Auntie Ivy,” she says, yawning, eyes already half-closed.

Elsie clings to Sloane’s neck, her small arms locked around her like a baby koala. In the hallway light, I catch the shadows under Sloane’s eyes before she turns away. She won’t say it, but I know it’s hard.

Sloane’s single act of recklessness resulted in my five-year-old niece, Elsie—a one-night stand in her final year of college that rewrote everything. Until then, Sloane had her life mapped with meticulous care: a coveted internship at a Fortune 500, a clean ascent through glass towers and corner offices. Then diapers replaced boardrooms, and her polished blueprint went up in smoke.

While Sloane traded spreadsheets for sippy cups, I chased a different discipline. After graduating dance school, I lived in studios and auditions, in aching muscles and mirrored walls.Our lives spun in opposite directions, but Elsie stitched us back together when we might have drifted. Our schedules tangle together out of necessity now. It’s messy but it works.

I hum under my breath as I fling open the fridge, rescuing a half-drunk bottle of wine. I grab a couple of glasses, and it’s not long before Sloane appears in the doorway.

“Emergency provisions,” I say, handing her a glass. “Don’t ask about the vintage.”

“I’ll take anything right now.” She takes the glass, shoulders easing as she lifts it in a small, grateful salute.

She follows me through to the living room, collapsing beside me on the sofa, tipping her head back against the cushion with a groan.

“Elsie was out in seconds tonight,” she says. “I hadn’t even got through half her story.”

“She was running wild at the park,” I say. “Perhaps she wore herself out.”

Her head lolls toward me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. With your schedule, and all the help you give with Elsie—”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell them about Elsie. Pretending you didn’t have a kid just to land the job?” I shake my head. “That’s a lot to carry on your own.”

Sloane winces, lifting her wine for a sip. “You know I didn’t plan it. HR kept harping on about how brutal the hours were, how it wasn’t a job for anyone with commitments. And before I knew it, I told them I was free.”

“You’re not free,” I murmur. “And Elsie is the best attachment you’ll ever have.”

She smiles faintly, but the exhaustion on her face says she doesn’t believe she has the luxury of choice.

I swirl the last of my wine, hesitating. “Speaking of attachments... Brody texted me.”

Her head snaps up. “Please tell me you didn’t answer.”

“I did.” I wince, my gaze dropping. “Just once.”

Her mouth hardens. “Ivy. That man love-bombed you into oblivion for two years. Then he went on one stupid guys’ trip and came back a stranger. No explanation, nothing. You deserve better.”

“I know,” I murmur. “But he’s... he’s been struggling. In and out of rehab. I can’t just—”

“Please,” she bites back. “He’s a cokehead who pulls in tens of thousands as a DJ. That’s not struggling.”

She sweeps her hand across the room, heat rising in her face. “This is what struggling looks like, Ivy.”

Before I can reply, a cry splits the air.

Sloane bolts upright, and I’m right behind her as she rushes down the hall to Elsie’s room. She’s curled in on herself, face pale, tears streaking her cheeks. Sloane presses a hand to her forehead and goes rigid.

“She’s burning up.”

“Shoot,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll get some medicine.” I dart for the bathroom, yanking open the cabinet and dragging everything out until I find a half-used bottle shoved at the back.

But as the evening drags into late night, Elsie’s temperature keeps climbing, her skin burning hot beneath our hands. When she vomits, it comes out of nowhere, her small body jerking forward before she slumps, drained and shaking, against Sloane’s chest.