Arms pumping, I sprint up the block, then take a sharp left down the connecting street, trying my damnedest not to take out the pedestrians on the sidewalk. I dodge a honking car and make it across the street in three strides, then up concrete steps in two, entering the door of a mall that empties out two blocks up—onto the street I saw the kid turn onto. I dash past the Gap and through the food court.
“Watch it!” a bowed, gray-haired mall walker yells as I pass, wagging his cane.
I bust through the rear doors to the street.
I look right, then left. And I spot the little shit, still running, his backpack like a beacon in the fading sunlight. Beads of sweat break out on my forehead as I race up the block, jumping over a fire hydrant like a track hurdler. I stretch out my arm, fingers reaching—and grab the little fucker by the back of his white collared shirt.
Gotcha!
He squeaks in outrage, then twists and bucks like a fish on a hook, trying to dislodge my grip. But there’s no way that’s happening.
“Get off! Let me go!”
I shake him to get his attention and bark, “Cut it out!”
Small closed fists smack against my arm, push at my stomach. So I shake him again. “I said stop! Now.” And then in a lower voice, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
But he’s determined. “Help!” he shouts, trying to make eye contact with the curious faces glancing at us. Like most bystanders, they continue on their way, figuring someone else will intervene—but not them. Then the little bastard calls out the mantra drilled into children’s heads by overprotective parents and stranger-danger public service announcements.
“You’re not my father! I don’t know you! Help!”
I shake him harder now, rattling his teeth. Then I hiss, “You really want to bring attention to us with my wallet in your fucking backpack?”
That settles him down. Panting like a fox in a trap, he stops squirming. And he actually has the balls to glare at me, brows glued together with resentment.
“Is there a problem here?”
The question comes from the uniformed police officer who just stepped up to my right. He takes in the scene with an authoritative expression—until he looks at me, and his face melts into recognition.
“Hey, Becker.”
Most cops instinctually don’t like defense attorneys. I can understand their issue; they spend their days risking their lives to get scum off the street, and those in my profession bust their asses to get them back out, frequently Monday-morning quarterbacking the cop’s own actions—how they conducted the arrest, if they had probable cause—to find grounds to spring our clients. It’s a naturally antagonistic relationship. Oil and vinegar.
Personally, I like cops. Sure, they’re hard-asses and they can be authoritarian pricks, but by and large, they’re decent people trying to do a really difficult job.
Paul Noblecky is a beat cop who works out at the same gym as me. We’ve played basketball a few times and had a couple beers afterward.
“How’s it going, Noblecky?”
He cocks his head pleasantly. “Can’t complain.” He points to the kid I’m still holding by the scruff of his neck, like an errant puppy. “What’s this about?”
And before I can answer, the puppy says, “I was just messing around. Becker’s my babysitter. I told him I was faster than him and he said I wasn’t.”
My first instinct is to laugh, ’cause the kid definitely has a knack for bullshitting. Wonder if he’s ever considered a legal career—or a political one. My second impulse is to call him on it—rat him out—and toss him over to Noblecky. To walk away and wash my hands.
But something in his face . . . won’t let me. The look in his eyes—a mixture of desperation and bitterness. He’s hoping for my help, my mercy, but at the same time he hates that he needs it. And there’s an innocence about this boy that’s unlike the jagged exterior of true street kids. Something that tells me he’s still saveable.
And that he’s worth saving.
So I rub his head, messing up his hair, putting on a good show. “I told you I could take you.”
Noblecky laughs. “Someone actually let you watch their kid?” He glances at the boy. “My condolences.”
The kid flinches in response. It’s quick, almost unobservable. But I notice.
Noblecky nudges me with his elbow and says jokingly, “What do you charge?” He has a five-year-old at home. “If I don’t take Amy out to dinner soon, she’s going to divorce me.”
I shake my head. “It’s a one-shot deal. Kids aren’t my thing.”
He turns to go. “All right, see you around, Becker.”
“Take it easy,” I call as he walks away.
As soon as Noblecky is out of earshot I drag the kid across the sidewalk, closer to the wall of a building. I hold out my hand. “Give it back.”
He rolls his eyes, digs into his backpack, and slaps my wallet into my hand. I don’t think he had enough time to lift anything from it, but I check my cash and credit cards just to be sure.
Satisfied, I slide it into my pocket. “What’s your name?”
He glowers up at me. “You a cop?”
I shake my head. “Lawyer.”
“I’m Rory.”
“Rory what?”
“McQuaid.”
I look him over. White button-down shirt, beige pants—a private-school uniform. Add in the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sneakers and J.Crew backpack and I have to ask, “Why’d you steal my wallet, Rory McQuaid?”
He kicks at the pavement. “I don’t know.”
Of course he doesn’t.
His shoulders lift. “Just to see if I could do it, I guess.”
Here’s the moment when I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do with him now. Keeping him out of the system feels like the right move, but letting him skate scot-free doesn’t. He needs to learn stupid actions have consequences—bad ones—and he needs to know it now. If not, there’ll be worse decisions in his future, with more severe penalties than he’ll be able to pay.
I gesture with my hand toward the end of the block. “All right, let’s go.”
Rory stays right where he is. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You could be a child molester.”
I scowl. “I’m not a child molester.”
“Said every child molester ever.”
My eyebrows rise. “A pickpocket and a smartass, huh? Perfect. Must be my lucky day.” I raise my arm toward the end of the block. “I’m driving you home. I’ll tell your parents what you did, and they’ll deal with you.”
My mother used to get frequent house calls in the same vein—from teachers, guidance counselors, benevolent police officers. It never changed my attitude or my fucked-up behavior, but she always appreciated knowing what her son was really up to, even though she had to work too many hours to do anything about it.
A shadow falls over Rory’s face. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to steal anymore.”
“Said every thief ever.”
That gets a short, grudging laugh out of him. But he still hesitates.
“Look, kid, either I take you home and you face the music with your parents, or I bring Officer Noblecky back over here. It’s your call.”
He kicks at the sidewalk again and curses under his breath. Then he hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and meets my eyes. “Where’s your car?”
- • •
When we get to my Mustang, Rory climbs into the backseat and buckles his seat belt without being told. He gives me his address—only about ten miles outside the city—and we head out.
“Is your name really Becker?” he asks after a few minutes.
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yeah—Jake Becker.” Then I ask a question of my own. “How old are you, kid?”
“I’ll be ten in five months.”
I nod slowly. “Also known as nine.”
He smirks. “And you called me a smartass.”
Otherwise, he’s quiet during the drive, staring out the window. But after we turn off Rock Creek Parkway, when huge, ancient oak trees line the road and the street names turn to Whitehaven, Foxboro, and Hampshire, and the driveways become gated and long, Rory turns even more sullen. It comes off him in brooding, hostile waves, in the clench of his hand and the tensing of his shoulders.
“They’re not gonna come down too hard on you, are they?”
I mean his parents. Just because he seems to be well-fed, clean, and injury free doesn’t mean it’s impossible that something more sinister might be waiting for him at home.
“No,” he answers without fear. “I’ll be fine.”
When I pull up to Rory’s address, the wrought-iron gate opens automatically. The extensive driveway is flanked by lampposts and cherry trees and curves around into a horseshoe. The house is a majestic brick Georgian, completely restored with black shutters and detailed white moldings around its fourteen windows. There’s a three-car attached garage, a large front courtyard surrounded by a natural-stone wall, and bright green shrubbery.
I kill the engine and stare at the house, thinking he might be trying to pull one over on me. “You live here?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you, like, the gardener’s kid?”
Rory frowns with confusion. “No. It’s my parents’ house.” Then, softer, under his breath, “Was . . .”
He doesn’t elaborate but instead hops out of the car, backpack in tow. I take long strides to catch up and we stand before the massive oak door. I put my hand on the back of his neck, just to be ready in case he makes a run for it. Then I ring the doorbell.
A protracted string of yappy barks ensues immediately after. There’s a shuffling from inside, then the door swings open.
And the air rushes out of my lungs.
She’s five five, maybe five six, with long, toned legs in snug black leggings. The outline of a trim waist teases beneath the cotton blouse, with buttons at the top that strain to encase full, firm, perfect breasts. Her neck is elegant, creamy pale, and her face—Jesus—it puts the Victoria’s Secret Angels to shame. A stubborn chin; high cheekbones; plump, ripe, gloss-free lips; an impish nose; and two ice-blue eyes that sparkle like fucking diamonds on a sunny winter day. Multifaceted auburn hair is piled high on her head, with a few escaping strands around her face. Dark-rimmed, square glasses frame those striking eyes, giving a sexy-academic, sultry-librarian kind of impression.
I try to swallow, but my mouth just went dry.
“Rory,” she breathes with relief, focusing on the boy beside me. And then she’s pissed. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be home hours ago! And why isn’t your phone on?”
The kid pulls out of my grasp, walks across the black-and-white-tiled foyer, and marches straight up the stairs, not even looking at her.
“Rory! Hey!” she calls after him. Futilely.
Her knuckles turn white where they grip the door frame, then she turns to me. “Hello?”
It’s more of a question than a greeting.
“Hi,” I respond, just staring. Enjoying the view.
Fuck, I’m horny.
Then I shake my head, snapping out of the idiot stupor of being denied sex for too long.
I start again, extending my hand. “Hi. I’m Jake Becker. I’m an attorney.” It’s always good to volunteer this fact because—as with police officers—there’s an instant trust that’s afforded to those of us in legal professions, even if it’s not always deserved.
“Chelsea McQuaid.” My hand encapsulates her small one as she shakes it with a warm, firm grip.
“I drove Rory home.”
Her head tilts and her lips purse with suspicious curiosity. “Really?”
“I need to speak with you about your son, Mrs. McQuaid,” I tell her, going with the most logical connection between her and the would-be thief.
Her eyes examine me and I can see the judging wheels turning. Debating whether to, in this day and age, let an imposing, unknown man into her house. I have no doubt that my expensive suit and dark good looks help tip the scales in my favor.
“All right.” She steps back. “Please come in, Mr. Becker.”
I step over the threshold. “Jake, please.” She closes the door behind me, reaching up to engage a child safety lock at the top. Then a tiny blur of long caramel-and-chocolate fur surges out from behind her and pounces on my shoes, sniffing and barking, sticking out its chest and snarling.
A clear case of small-dog syndrome if I ever saw one.
“It, stop it!” Chelsea scolds.
The corner of my mouth quirks. “Your dog’s name is It?”
“Yeah.” She smiles. And it’s fucking stunning. “Cousin It. Like The Addams Family?”
It gets more riled, looking like a mop gone insane.
I meet her eyes. “About your son—”
“Nephew, actually. I’m Rory’s aunt.”
My ears perk up. Because by the look of her naked hand, there’s a good chance she’s Rory’s single aunt.
Best news I’ve heard all damn day.
A baby’s wail comes from another room, piercing and demanding. Chelsea turns her head. “Could you come with me? I have to . . .”
She’s already walking and I’m right behind her.
We pass by the arched entryways of a library and a conservatory with a grand piano, then go into a spacious den with a huge fireplace and cathedral ceiling. The furnishings are tasteful and clean but in earth tones, warm. Dozens of framed photographs of children cover every wall. Chelsea pushes through a door into the kitchen, where the crying gets louder.
The kitchen is about the size of my whole apartment. It has hardwood floors, mahogany cabinets, and a granite-countered center island with a second sink, and it’s chock-full of stainless-steel appliances. A round kitchen table for eight fits in an alcove backed by French doors that open out to a stone patio and garden, with a cobblestone path that leads to an inground pool farther back.
An infant seat sits inside a mesh portable crib beside the island with a vocal, unhappy passenger. “Here ya go, sweetie,” Chelsea coos, bending over to pick up the pacifier that’s fallen to the baby’s stomach and plugging it back into his mouth.
At least I think it’s a him—it’s wearing dark blue pants and a shirt with boats on it, so, yeah, it’s male. She caresses his blond, peach-fuzzy head and the crying is replaced with satisfied sucking.
An immense silver pot bubbles on the stove and the air smells of heat and broth.
“Hi!”
I turn to my right, where a toddler—this one definitely a girl, with golden wispy hair and a stained pink T-shirt—sits on the floor, surrounded by books and blocks.
“Hi,” I answer, straight-faced.
She gets louder. “Hi!”
I nod back. “Hey.”
Her face scrunches, her voice drops lower, and she leans forward like she’s about to tell me something serious. But all that comes out is, “Hiiii.”
“Is there something wrong with her?” I ask.
“No,” Chelsea answers, sounding slightly affronted. “There’s nothing wrong with Regan. She’s two.”
And Regan is back to smiling at me. “Hi.”
“Doesn’t she know any other words?”
“No. She’s only two.”
“Hi, hi, hi, hi!”
I give up and walk away.
“So, how can I reach Rory’s parents? It’s important that I talk to them.”
Her face goes tight. Pained. “You can’t. They . . . my brother and his wife were in a car accident almost two months ago. They passed away.”
And all the pieces fall into place. The comments Rory made, his unsubtle anger at the entire world. But it’s the name that stands out most—the name and the accident. I point at her gently. “Robert McQuaid was your brother? The environmental lobbyist?”
She smiles, small and sad, and nods her head. “Did you know Robbie? DC’s such a busy city, but I’ve gotten the impression it’s like a small town too. Everybody knows everybody.”
When it comes to political circles, and legal ones, it’s exactly like that.
“No, I didn’t know him. But . . . I heard good things. That he was honest, sincere. That’s a rare thing around here.”
And suddenly she seems younger somehow. Smaller and more . . . delicate. Is she on her own in this huge house with the kids? Just her, Rory, One Word, and Baby Boy?
Chelsea looks up from her hands. “I’m Rory’s guardian, so whatever you were going to say to my brother and his wife, you can say to me.”
I nod, refocusing. “Right. I drove Rory home because—”
But I don’t get the chance to finish the sentence. Because the rumble of feet, like a stampede of rhinos, booms over our heads, cutting me off. Chelsea and I eye the ceiling—like it’s about to fall down on us—as the sound travels, getting closer.
And there’s screaming. The atom-splitting, banshees-from-hell kind of screaming.
“I’m gonna kill you!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Get back here!”
“It wasn’t me!”
Even the two-year-old looks concerned.
The racket reverberates down the second staircase and spills out into the kitchen, and the two screeching, running kids who are making it do laps around the island like a fucked-up Hunger Games version of ring-around-the-rosy.
“I told you to stay out of my room!” one of them, a tall girl, yells. She’s a curly-brown-haired predator, ready to pounce.
“I didn’t do it!” the shorter one squeals, arms outstretched, searching for cover.
Jesus Christ, what kind of madhouse is this?
Chelsea steps between them, grabbing them both by their arms and keeping them separated. “That’s enough!”
And now they’re yelling at her, pleading their cases at the same time, each trying to be louder than the other. I can’t make out what they’re saying; it just sounds like: hiss, blah, she, hiss, squeak. But the aunt appears to speak the native tongue.
“I said enough!” She holds up her hands, bringing instant blessed silence.
It’s impressive. There are sitting federal judges who can’t rally that much respect in their own courtrooms.
“One at a time.” She turns to the taller girl. “Riley, you first.”
Riley’s finger slashes the air like a saber. “She went in my room when I’ve told her a thousand times not to! And she went through my makeup and ruined my favorite lipstick!”
Chelsea’s head turns to the smaller one, who, now that she’s not a screaming lunatic, reminds me of a blond Shirley Temple.
“Rosaleen, go.”
One Word and I watch eagerly, waiting for the rebuttal . . . but all she comes out with is:
“I didn’t do it.”
Which, in my professional opinion, wouldn’t be a bad defense . . . if her mouth and chin weren’t completely covered with thick, blazing pink, like she’s Ronald McDonald’s illegitimate daughter.
“You are such a—” Riley starts to yell.
But Chelsea’s raised hand stops her cold. “Tut, tut—shush.”
She scoops the little one—Rosaleen—up under her arms and perches her on the counter. “And I’d almost believe you,” Chelsea tells her, plucking two baby wipes from a tub next to the sink, wiping the girl’s chin, and showing her the pink-stained cloth, “except for the evidence all over your face.”
Great minds think alike.
The little girl stares at the cloth with quarter-sized blue eyes. Then, like any defendant who knows she’s nailed, she does the only thing she can—throws herself on the mercy of the court.
“I’m sorry, Riley.”
Riley is unmoved. “That won’t give me my lipstick back, you little brat!”
“I couldn’t help myself!” she pleads.
And I unconsciously nod. That’s it, kid—go with insanity. It’s all you’ve got left.
“The lipstick was in there, calling to me . . .”
Voices. Voices are good. Always an easy sell.
Her hands delve into her blond curls, ruffling and tugging at them, until they’re wild and crazed. “It made me nuts! It’s so pink and pretty, I had to touch it!”
Chelsea closes her eyes and breathes deep, making those fabulous tits press against her blouse even more. I enjoy the show, praying for a button to pop or for the sink to spontaneously spurt water all over that white shirt.
A guy can dream.
“Riley, what are your chores this week?”
“I have to set the table for dinner.”
Her voice is kind but firm. “Okay. Rosaleen, you’ll do your sister’s chores for the rest of the week. And when you get your allowance on Sunday, you’ll use it to replace the lipstick you ruined. Understood?”
“Okay. Sorry, Riley.”
Chelsea runs a tender hand through Rosaleen’s messy curls. “Now, go upstairs and wash your face, then come set the table.”
With a nod, she hops off the counter and skips past me up the steps.
Her sister vehemently objects. “That’s it? That’s all you’re doing to her?”
Chelsea sighs, a little annoyed. “She’s seven, Riley. What do you want me to do—beat her with a stick?”
“It’s not fair!” she bellows. So much fucking louder than necessary.
“Sometimes life isn’t. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”
Riley smacks the counter. “I hate this family!”
In a whirl of brown hair and fury, she stomps up the stairs, glaring at me along the way. Like I ruined her fucking lipstick.
“Sweet girl,” I tell Chelsea dryly.
“She’s fourteen. It’s a tough age.” She looks wistfully up the steps. “She’ll be human again . . . eventually.”
