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Liv is upstairs, after she insisted she would put the boys to bed and take the room next to them to be close by.

Johnny’s standing like a sentinel by the door, but hasn’t said anything since the last time Norma tried to warn him they were shit out of luck if Tucker doesn’t come home. He retorted with a very simple, “I think his lawyers would disagree,” and Norma has been watching TV silently since. Almost like she’s got no worries and no places to be.

Okay, that’s unfair, I know she probably has lots of places she’d rather be, and to a degree, I respect how stubborn she is, but there’s absolutely no way Tucker isn’t coming back.

For one, I agree with Johnny—Tuck’s lawyer sounded scarily competent over the phone. I bet billionaires have the best lawyers, which is in and of itself an issue, but I don’t have the mental capacity to think too deeply about the inequality issues in this country, at least not right now.

Second in a very long list is the fact that there is no way anyone but Tucker will make me believe he had anything to do with his father’s murder. That’s crazy talk. He might put on a show of being the lazy heir who only cares about sports, but he has never seemed crazy. Even when he and Eli, and the man on the phone, were discussing bodily harming Henry and the PI, Tuck wasn’t talking about murder, or about doing anything himself.

Third, if I’m totally off base and Tuck did have something to do with the murder, I have to believe that he’d have enlisted Eli’s help, and Eli’s too good and too smart to get Tucker caught.

The list goes on and on in my mind, replacing the movements and sounds in keeping me sane, and I’m diligent about it.

Because I have no idea what is happening to Tucker.

Avery hasn’t texted me a single update—which she said she’d do—and I’m not going to be pushy when she’s obviously focused on something more important than her phone.

Tucker’s phone vibrates, but I can tell it’s another email. He gets one like every five minutes, and I don’t want to think about how long it must take him or his assistant to go through so many of them.

My eyes move down to my own phone and I see it’s been two hours, the longest of my life, just as new sounds ring out—the door opens, and feet stomp through the doorway.

I stand and then . . . can’t move another inch.

Norma doesn’t have that problem, or Johnny. He walks behind her toward the front of the house and I hear the tense conversation.

“Mr. Barclay, it’s worrisome that you were taken by the police today, so I’m sad to say I need to take the boys⁠—”

“No you don’t.” Tucker’s words each come out like a band of unbreakable and unbendable steel. “I am their legal guardian. I was granted this by a judge. I’ve let you into my home twice without protest, and the boys are obviously happy and healthy here. I don’t care what you think of me, but this is over. No one is going to take them away from me, and if you try, you’ll find out the same thing the detectives did tonight. My lawyers are too good, I’ve got nothing to hide, and unless you have proof that they’ll be better off somewhere else, and can convince a judge, my father’s wishes will be granted.”

Silence again, but this one full of so much tension it turns suffocating until another voice snaps it.

“Do you have a car? It’s late, so I’ll call you a cab to take you anywhere you wish to go.”

Avery, I’m guessing. She sounds scarily competent.

I can’t make out the next murmured words, but the door closes a minute later and then everyone is saying good night. Tucker asks where I am, Johnny tells him, and three sets of footsteps go up the stairs.

He walks in looking unfairly good.

How can he look so good with his tie all askew and his hair a mess? With bags under his eyes and his stubble longer than normal?

“You’re home,” I whisper, stating the obvious, but he doesn’t seem to care about that or that I’m still standing like a statue between the couch and the coffee table.

He solves my movement problem by rushing over and wrapping his arms around me, lifting my feet off the ground and slamming his lips down on mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back with just as much desperation.

I don’t try to pull away, to have him set me back down on the floor, I simply let the kiss run its course and cup one cheek as it slows.

“You’re really here. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Everything’s okay,” he says softly, smiling his real smile—so I know he’s telling the truth. “I’ll tell you everything in the morning.”

Hell with that.

Then he moves and I move and—oh.

“You’re carrying me around,” I point out uselessly, and the amused smile I get in return plus a kiss on the tip of my nose, makes me realize I don’t care.

“I am. We’re going to sleep. I’m dead on my feet.”