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I say it with more confidence than I feel. But how hard can it be? I mean, it’s not like you need a license to have a kid. Hell, you have to fill out more forms just to get a library card than to, like, birth a child. I might be a dumbass, and the other guys might be various other flavors of dumbass, but we can figure it out.

Especially with Tink.

Wendy stares at her pancakes. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it,” I say in a tone that suggests I’m almost insulted. “You’re great. Sis,” I add, as the waitress slips by with another full tray and a pot of coffee. Wendy giggles.

“Seriously, whatever it takes, we’ll figure it out,” I say, and point at her with my fork. “Now eat your pancakes before I do, okay?”

CHAPTER 27

BLUE

Late in the afternoon, fifteen or so minutes to close, and of course I get a walk-in. Two girls, but just one of them wanting jewelry: a bellybutton ring. Cute.

“This place is a lot less ratchet on the inside,” the friend observes, arms folded and hip jutted out as I dab chlorhexidine on her bestie’s skin and mark the dots, top and bottom. “You should really fix up that window, though.”

I glance up at the plywood.

Maybe, I think. If it even matters. The vacate order still sits crumpled in the shop desk somewhere. Pan never did find the cash for bribery and no one ever showed up to inspect. To be honest, I don’t think Hook ever had a second step beyond the cinderblock scare tactic. He knows our address, I guess—so what? Not like he’s been back here to storm the gates. Maybe he just likes fucking with people, with us.

And maybe he and Pan have that in common.

Bellybutton girl doesn’t scream, faint, or even wince, to her credit. And she paid cash.

“Saline spray to clean,” I say, wiping the blood with gauze. “Stay out of pools. And don’t twist it. Six months before you can call it fully healed.”

I’m just shucking off the gloves when I hear the bell over the door ring. Again.

“We’re closing,” I call over my shoulder. “Come back tomorrow at noon. Or don’t. Whatever you⁠—”

I turn around and stop short. Guy doesn’t look like the usual customer—not mine, not Kit’s. Gray polo, slacks, sunglasses, middle-aged with a tightass look about him, a briefcase, and a piece of paper in one hand.

I don’t like it.

“Can I help you?” I fold my arms, not taking another step closer.

He smiles. “Depends. Is this”—he unfolds the paper and reads off it—“2160 Estrella Boulevard?”

Shit. “Who’s asking?”

He tucks the paper in the breast pocket of his shirt and takes off his sunglasses. “Eric Morris. I’m with the county. Department of Children, Youth, and Families.”

Shit. “Okay.”

Behind me, I hear the kitchen door slam. Voices.

Shit.

“Hello?” calls Fox’s voice. “Anyone home?”

“Olley olley oxen free,” adds another one.

The kid’s.

“Maybe they all left,” I hear Fox saying. “We should, like, TP Kit’s station, or⁠—”

Their footsteps stop as they cross the threshold to the shop. I spin around.