Page 37 of Force At Third

“I understand, but just for tonight. I’ll stay with her. Tomorrow night, this weekend, your place will be a good choice.”

She looks between my eyes, and then her lips part in a soft gasp.

“Is he …? Is William …? Is?—”

“I’m going on record here that I think Chloe is going to be pissed when she finds out, but?—”

“If he’s here, he’s not in Walton. If he’s here, she and Aggie are safer there.”

“Can you pull off normal, at least until they fly out?” I ask.

She nods. “Is there someone or a security team hotline I can call and hire a person to watch out for Doc and Hilda?” She gasps again and covers her mouth. “Grace is blonde. She works here and?—”

“Covered on all fronts,” I assure her.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t tried to get to Gra—” She stops abruptly and leans in, her eyes darting between mine.

Shit, she’s about ready to freak the hell out.

I push up, circle her desk, squat in front of her, and take her hands.

She closes her eyes, and I’m pretty sure she’s holding her breath.

“Breathe, CeCe.”

“You think Cora …? You think she’s—” her words get stuck.

“Shh. Breathe, okay? Twenty-four hours. You have to hold this all together for twenty-four hours.”

“Chloe’s going to want to know her daughter.”

“Chloe will embrace her in the most beautiful way there is, but she’s had the luxury of time. Cora?” I shake my head. “She’s going to need time, and we—you and me—have to give her that for her and for Chloe.”

O’Donnell’s

7

Thursday

I look up at the stands as I walk out for my last chance to not fuck up and actually make a connection with the damn ball tonight. She’s not here, not at the game, not sitting with Chloe, Danny, CeCe, Whit, the half-dozen little kiddos, Pope’s boys, two of whom I found myself jealous of as they walked in, one on each side of her to watch last night’s game. They’re kids. Oh, and yeah, that asshole, Marks. He’s topped the list of men I want a go at.

“Strike one!”

What the fuck? I think as I look around, and yep, sure enough, I’m standing in the batter’s box.

I step back and try to focus. Then I step up, the pitch is thrown, and I swing, hitting … not a fucking thing.

“Strike two!”

“Thanks, man, I wasn’t aware,” I shoot back.

“Watch it, Locke,” he warns.

“Not sure he’s capable, Ump.” Pooch, the catcher, chuckles.

“They don’t even let you pick up a bat, shitbird,” I remind him.

He stands up and throws his mask back, and I find it fucking hilarious.

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