by Elise Faber
I skirted the mess of toys on the floor, picking my way across with all the finesse of an American Ninja Warrior.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.
“I don’t—”
I was already reaching for her when she exploded.
Okay, not exploded exactly. More like Poltergeist-vomited, all over me. It dripped down my hair, soaked into my blouse, my jeans, the carpet, and bedding.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Allie began crying in earnest, and I soothed her as I swept her into my arms. We made it to the bathroom in record time.
I set her down in front of the toilet, holding her hair back when she gagged again and again. “I’m sorry, honey,” I said when she stopped. Then I wet a towel and wiped her face and neck. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
She was shaking, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“Shh. Not your fault.” I wrapped her in a towel and cuddled her close until she stopped shivering. “Let’s get you a quick bath, and then I’ll set you up on the couch, okay?”
“O-okay.”
Fifteen minutes later she was in clean pajamas, wrapped in blankets, and tucked into the couch, a bucket within arm’s reach.
I went back upstairs to strip the sheets and clean the carpet. Then I carried all of the dirty linens back down to the laundry room and tossed them in the washer. By now the vomit had mostly dried on my clothes and hair, and I was in desperate need of a shower.
Time would tell if this was the stomach bug plague or if Allie had just eaten something that didn’t agree with her.
Would one fall? Or would they all?
I snorted quietly as I slipped back into the bedroom, only to be bowled over by Rocco, wagging tail and wriggly butt. Rob must have let him out. He sniffed the carpet, did a one-eighty.
Uh-oh, potty time.
“Come on,” I said, opening the door.
He pushed past me and sprinted down the stairs. I hustled after him, not wanting him to wake up Allie, who’d finally fallen back asleep.
But I needn’t have worried. He bypassed the living room completely and went straight to the back door. “Good boy,” I told him and opened it just wide enough for him to slip out. The icy morning breeze shot through the gap, having the dual effect of kicking up the smell of puke on my person and cutting directly through my still-damp clothes.
I shivered. “Hurry up, dog.”
Rocco took a few more minutes. It was too cold to leave him outside, young as he was. Of course, he was the one with the thick fur.
Finally, he was done and sprinted for the opening into the house.
Or rather, crashed into the door, since those brakes were still under training.
“Come on, goofy,” I told him as I snagged his collar and corralled him past the sleeping Allie on the sofa.
I’d already lost count of the trips up and down the stairs and it wasn’t even six yet. Who said my butt wasn’t high and tight? At this rate, I’d be a Kardashian in no time. Rocco wriggled his way alongside me, not fighting when I stuck him back in his kennel. Though that was probably because I promised him breakfast after I’d showered.
The bathroom light shone through the crack in the bottom of the door, and the bed was empty.
That plus the absence of chainsaw sounds told me Rob was in the bathroom.
Who was the detective now? I thought with a smirk.
I crossed to the bathroom and opened the door.
Or tried to.
It was locked.
I frowned.
Tried again.
“Rob?” I knocked, tilted my head when I heard . . . was he talking to someone? “Rob?” I asked louder.
The sounds inside the bathroom cut off. After a pause, he called, “Miss?”
“The door is locked.”
Another pause. Then footsteps. The locked clicked before the door swung open. Rob was wrapped in a towel, his chest bare and glittering with drops of water. Normally, I’d have been distracted by those little beads of liquid. Today I barely noticed because there was a mark on his neck.
A suspicious bruise on the base of his throat—
Where someone might have kissed him.
And that someone had not been me.
Rob smiled, but it looked strained. “Sorry, hon. Force of habit.” He turned and walked into the closet, closing the door behind him.
I was still on the threshold, blinking after him, when the door popped back open and he stuck his head out. “You look cute, by the way.”
Before I could stammer out a thanks, the door shut again.
Had he not noticed the puke? Or was he trying to be nice because it looked like I’d been put through the wringer?
Or perhaps most important of all, had I imagined the mark?
4
As with most moms, my shower was short and cold.
Between Allie’s bath, the laundry, and Rob’s shower, all the hot water was gone. Again.
Which didn’t normally bother me, except I was coated in dried puke, had to wash my hair, and it was approximately minus eight thousand degrees outside.
Okay, fine. I exaggerated.
But still.
I rushed the shower, hissing as the cold water streamed from my hair and down my back.
Rob came out of the closet just as I stepped out, shivering more violently than Allie had been an hour earlier. He wore a button-down shirt, tie, and slacks.
“You look nice,” I said, unable to ignore the fact that the shirt covered his neck. Should I pull it down and confront him?
“Meeting with the chief today.”
Darlington was too small for its own police force. Rob worked at the county sheriff’s office. The bigger force meant more resources for our little group of towns and better coverage.
“What about?” I asked as I wrapped a towel around my head.
“A case I’ve been working on.”
“What case?” I ran the towel up one leg, then the other. Rob’s eyes followed the movement.
“Can’t talk about it yet,” he said. I frowned, but before I could press his answer—we always discussed his cases, if not in specifics then at least in generals—he went on, “When was the last time you had something besides a salad?”
I straightened, pulling the towel around my breasts. “What do you mean?”
“You’re too thin, Miss.”
“What?”
He crossed over to me, pulling the towel open and splaying one hand over my side.
My heart skipped a beat. Calloused fingers. Rough skin against smooth. I forgot about the bruise on his neck, about the phone and suspicions. I wanted his hand to move.
Up or down. I almost didn’t care.
I needed him to touch me.
His head dropped next to mine, hot breath on my neck, my ear. “You need to eat more.”
It took a second for the words to process. I stiffened, leaned back.
Not that it mattered since Rob had already stepped away.
“This isn’t like college,” I said. “I am eating.”
He studied me for a long moment, dark eyes piercing, black hair slightly damp and hanging over his forehead.
I wanted to push the strands back, like I used to.
Instead, my throat tightened when he tugged the sides of my towel together, tucking the cotton sheet under each arm.
“Keep it that way,” he said.
“I like salads.” My tone was defensive, but then again so was his.
“Add some protein to them.”
Eyes burning, I turned away. “Check on Allie before you leave, she woke up puking but is back asleep on the couch. I’ll be down in a bit.”
I walked into the closet and closed the door, leaned back against it.
We used to leave doors open, no barriers between us.
And now . . .
I was glad the wood was there.
The house was quiet when I made my way downstairs, hair in a ponytai
l, jeans and blouse swapped for sweats and a T-shirt.
If Max was next on the plague patrol, I wanted to be prepared.
Rocco’s crate had been empty when I’d gotten out of the bathroom, so I hustled to the back door, in case Rob had taken him outside to go potty and forgotten to let him back in.
I flicked on the floodlights and saw the yard was empty.
Hmm.
The pup was usually great about staying nearby and out of trouble. He didn’t go to the bathroom in the house—at least not too often anymore—and there wasn’t any food out for him to snag off the counter. He also didn’t chew anything except shoes, and we’d taken to keeping those in our closets so—
My flats. I’d left them at the top of the stairs when I’d gone to Allie. I ran up the steps and groaned.
One was missing.
It was always the left shoe.
I snagged the right one and ran back to the kitchen. No Rocco. He wasn’t in the laundry or dining rooms either.
Which meant.
I walked into the living room and saw him, curled up like the cute demon he was, right at Allie’s feet. Gnawing. On. My. Shoe.
When there were a half dozen chew toys scattered across the carpet.
I dropped my head back to look at the ceiling, counted to five, and snagged a rubber bone from the floor. His ears dropped when I approached, the sad, poor little puppy dog eyes in full force.
“I’m not letting you keep it,” I muttered. “I don’t care if it’s ruined.”
He whined and dropped his head to what had once been half of my favorite pair of flats. Brushed gray suede with turquoise bows.
“This,” I said, and swapped it for the bone, “is your chew toy. Not my shoes.”
Rocco whined again and gave me a pathetic look.
“I still love you.”
His tailed tapped against the couch.
“A little.”
He grumbled but buried his nose into the blankets and closed his eyes.
Shaking my head, I went into the kitchen and tossed the shoes in the trash. Then I called the sick line for school, leaving a message saying Allie would be out that day.
I moved the laundry around, pulled out my notebook of recipes, and had just opened my laptop when I heard a noise that made my gut churn.
Retching.
I ran into the living room, but Allie was still asleep.
Another trip up the stairs—this is why I was thin, freaking two-story houses—and found Max bent over the toilet.
I rubbed his back, gave him a cool cloth, and sat next to him.
He glanced up at me with bloodshot eyes. “I didn’t make it, Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“In bed?”
A nod. “And the carpet.”
I closed my eyes. Not even six-thirty and I was exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” he said and his chin wobbled.
“Not your fault, buddy,” I told him. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.” I handed him a cup of water to swish his mouth. Luckily he hadn’t gotten puke on his clothes, since there wasn’t any hot water. “Can you wait for a bath?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Let’s get you settled downstairs.”
“Can you carry me?”
This is why I was thin, Rob, I thought as I carried sixty pounds of kid down to the living room, before running back up to fetch blankets and a pillow. Then repeating the trip to bring the dirties to the laundry room and switch everything around.
I’d barely managed to get Max’s carpet cleaned when I felt the swirling in my gut.
Oh God. I’d known I would fall eventually. I’d just hoped—
For what exactly? To be spared? For a miracle?
Those didn’t happen to me. Not any longer, at any rate.
Moisture pooled in my mouth, my stomach rumbled. Dropping the cloth I was holding, I sprinted to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before I heaved.
The plague was upon me.
5
Rob shrugged off his suit jacket the moment he walked into his office. His promotion to detective had been a great opportunity, something that he’d wanted for years.
Unfortunately, it came with the suit requirement.
He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and logged into his computer.
Just after seven in the morning, the precinct was fairly quiet.
Which was just the way he liked it.
Fewer people, fewer distractions, a smaller risk of getting caught.
“Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing the mouse and pulling up his email. He was waiting to hear back on a set of prints that had been discovered at a meth lab in Campbell, the next town over from Darlington.
Campbell, Darlington, and Douglasville formed the Tri-Hills community. Separate they were too small to each house decent fire and police departments. Together meant they had more resources and could afford better equipment and staffing.
But that also meant that he was dealing with crimes that Darlington itself didn’t often experience.
Drugs were nearly nonexistent in his hometown. However, Campbell was more isolated and closer to the border of Colorado—which had legalized marijuana.
Consequently there was some spillover into their small Utah community.
Not that meth and pot were on the same level, but they had seen a rise in seemingly drug-related crimes—burglary, muggings, home invasions—in recent months.
Which meant there was a new player in town.
His job was to figure out how to take that person, or people, down.
Simple, that, he thought with a sigh. If only it were easier than clearing his inbox.
Rob had one hundred and sixty unread emails, all sent overnight, but none of them was the one he’d logged in to see.
He wanted answers, dammit. Especially since he’d seen those fingerprints with his own eyes . . . or the bruises created by their owner, anyway.
Angry purple marks marring the skin of a young girl who’d stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Her skirt hiked up, her shirt torn, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
But it had been her bracelet that made him remember her. That made the case personal.
Strings of yarn woven together, knots sloppily tied.
He didn’t know if a younger sibling had made it for her or a babysitting charge or if it was something totally different.
The trouble was that he couldn’t get his own kids out of his mind.
He pictured Max, tongue poking out as he concentrated, carefully knotting yarn together. He imagined Allie picking colors—pink, pink, and more pink—to make a bracelet for Callie, their babysitter.
And then his mind swapped Callie for the girl in the house.
Rob blew out a breath and shoved up from his desk, his chair teetering then colliding against the wall with a bang.
“Hey.”
The voice was soft, feminine, and sexy as hell.
Which meant he knew exactly who it was before he even glanced up from straightening the chair.
“Celeste,” he murmured.
A flash of white teeth framed in lush fire engine red. Curves for days encased in the department’s blues. Blond hair pulled into a perky ponytail.
Breasts. Ass. Hips. Waist.
This woman had it all.
She closed the door. “I need you.”
The chair slipped from his grip and bumped into his desk. The little frame standing next to his monitor rattled, fell forward.
His family’s smiling faces disappeared, but he barely noticed.
Celeste crossed around his desk, drew his hands to her waist, and kissed him.
6
“I’m dying,” I told Kelly into the phone.
“I’ll come over,” my sister said immediately. “Abby and I will distract the kids so you can get a break.”
“No,” I said. “We’re on quarantine. Stomach bug. I don’t want Abby to get sick.”
“Oh no!” K
el said. “The kids picked up something from school?”
“Yup,” I said. “And then me.”
My sister groaned. “That sucks.” A pause. “Anything I can do? I can pick stuff up from the store and leave it on the porch, prison style.”
I shook my head but promptly stopped when it made a wave of dizziness blur my vision. “How is that prison style?” I asked, flopping back onto the couch cushions.
“I don’t know—” A cry echoed through the airwaves. “Oh, that’s Abby.”
“Mom,” Allie whined, suddenly appearing like whack-a-mole next to the couch arm. “I’m hungry.”
I put one finger up, indicating that Allie needed to wait. “I think both of our kids are saying the same thing, albeit in different ways,” I told my sister. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll see you soon.”
“Call me if you need anything—” Another angry cry interrupted her. “Love you. Bye!”
I hung up and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to summon the energy to move. The problem with being the last to get sick was that the first person to fall was usually recovered by then, and if patient zero was a kid . . .
Recovery time was seriously limited.
“Mooom!” Allie said. “I’m so, so, so, so, so hungry.”
My lips twitched, and I opened my eyes. “Let’s see what I can do about that, okay?”
We walked into the kitchen together, and I pulled a bottled sports drink out of the fridge, then some saltines from the pantry. I poured her a small glass and put a handful of crackers on a napkin.
“Start with this. You hold it down, and I’ll make you something else, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, spraying the table with a fine mist of cracker crumbs and spit, since she’d already gobbled down several of the bland squares.
I sank down in the chair opposite her, the sleeve of crackers in my hand. My stomach was not ready for anything, not even the cardboard-like snack.
Allie didn’t seem to mind the taste, however. She pounded down the little meal and asked for more.
“Let’s watch one episode of Bubble Guppies, and if you don’t throw up then I’ll make you dinner, okay?”
Brown eyes fixed me in place. “Mac and cheese,” she said. “From the blue box.”
