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Jamie is waiting on the couch when I bring Simon home.
He sits up as soon as the front door opens. I back through it first, pulling the wheelchair over the threshold, and Simon’s head rolls toward his shoulder when the rear wheels bump across the sill. He stopped trying to hold himself upright halfway home.
By the time I got him out of the car, he could open his eyes when I told him to, but he couldn’t keep them open long enough to complain about being moved. I bought the wheelchair after I chose him. Pretty things shouldn’t be dragged across the floor unless they’re being punished.
Jamie gets to his feet.
I pull the chair the rest of the way inside and turn it so Simon’s knees clear the door. Before I can reach behind me, Jamie closes it.
He looks at the three deadbolts. I turn the first. Jamie waits. I turn the second, then the third. Only when the last bolt settles into place does he look away from the door.
The other Jamies always ruined this part.
The first taste of freedom made them greedy. They tried windows they already knew were locked or opened drawers that didn’t belong to them. One made it all the way into my office before I came home and seemed genuinely surprised when I was disappointed. Another broke a lamp trying to find something heavy enough to use on the back door.
This Jamie is the first one who got it right the first time.
His gaze drops to Simon. I let him look. Simon’s difficult not to look at even folded unconscious into a wheelchair. His shirt pulls tightly across his shoulders, and one muscular forearm rests over his stomach while the other hangs beside the wheel.
Jamie looks at him for another second before turning back to me. “I took a third cookie.”
I wait.
“You usually give me two,” he adds.
“I know how many cookies I give you.”
I glance toward the kitchen. “Did you make a mess?”
“No.”
“Did you go anywhere I told you not to go?”
“No.”
“Then you were allowed to have three cookies.”
His mouth stops preparing a defense.
“You brought me the evidence yourself.” I brush his hair from his face. “Next time, ask for the third.”
Jamie’s smile starts slowly and then takes over his whole face, chip and all. He’s one of the prettiest Jamies.
“Did you talk to Oliver?”
The smile changes. “Yeah.”
“How was he?”
“Annoying.” Jamie looks toward the stairs. “He thinks Juney’s going to keep looking for him.”
“She probably will.”
His attention snaps back to me. “You’re not worried?”
“No.”
Jamie steps closer, lowering his voice. “He said she won’t stop.”
