Page 49

I can’t believe I asked him to father another baby.

I hang my head in my hands, feeling the hot blood rush to my cheeks. All my attention and focus keeps drifting back to that moment in his truck. Why the fuck did I say that? Why did the thought even enter my damn head?

Why did he say yes?

Milo made good points. Using the same donor would give Charlotte a full-blooded sibling. Couples use the same donor all the time to do just that. There’s nothing unusual about it. Nothing to be ashamed of about it. He’s got the good stuff and I might want to partake in it again in the future and — oh, god — did I just think about his good stuff?

I groan, letting my head fall to the table. There’s a simple explanation for all of this somewhere and Trevor’s right in thinking that I’m a bit too entranced to see the forest for the trees. I should apologize. He’s just looking out for me like a good partner should.

My hand slinks sideways, slowly searching for the wineglass near the edge of the table. I pinch the stem and pull it closer, but groan in defeat when I see that it’s empty.

Dammit.

I slink off my chair and open the refrigerator behind me to fetch a refill. My eyes land on that Hot Sauce to-go cup sitting on the shelf. A twitch trembles my tongue as a bit of sensory memory brings that taste back.

I set my wineglass down and reach for the cup. I should probably just throw it away. I’m not a fan of spicy foods, but I don’t stop myself from cracking the lid and taking a quick whiff of it.

Spicy yet sweet. It’s strong but not unpleasant.

The doorbell rings.

I jerk my head to check the clock. It’s after nine.

It rings again. And again.

I grit my teeth. Whoever is out there is about to wake my damn child.

I put the hot sauce back and close the fridge, rushing down the hall toward the foyer. My patience dies a little more with each new hit of that damned doorbell.

“Detective, open the door!”

I halt, furrowing my brow. “Milo?”

I flick the lock and swing the door open. He stands with his back to me on the porch. I look down at his hands locked in handcuffs. His fingers drop from the doorbell and he spins around to look at me, covered in sweat and rainwater.

My jaw drops. “Milo, what the hell⁠—”

“Do you have handcuff keys?” he asks, out of breath.

“What?”

He turns around, revealing his cuffed wrists again. “This is really inconvenient and uncomfortable.”

“Why are you handcuffed?” I ask. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

He rushes inside and I hop back as he kicks the door closed behind him.

“You need to come with me,” he says, trying to flick the lock with his elbow. He fails, repeatedly, before I reach out and do it myself. “People are coming.”

“What people?” I ask.

Milo nudges the light switch, knocking out the porch lights. His wild eyes scan the walls and he walks around me to flick off the foyer one, too.

“Milo, stop. What are you⁠—”

“Mommy?”

I look up the dark stairwell. Charlotte’s little shape lingers in the shadows, just barely lit by the nightlight behind her in the hallway.