Page 85 of Drop the Mitts

“Yeah?” André fell into step beside her.

“For the renovation. Just an update.”

“I hear it’s almost finished.”

She nodded. “Yep. Should be able to get it listed next week, hopefully.”

André didn’t respond to that, which meant they walked up the front steps in silence. The house was a modest split-level tucked on a quiet street. Not falling apart, but not thriving either. The siding needed a power wash. The shrubs out front didn’t look like they’d be making a recovery from their winter hibernation.

“You going to tell me what this is about?” André asked.

Grace froze in front of the door. Right. She’d asked him to come but hadn’t given him any details. “This is Hope’s birth father. He was supposed to receive a letter about the adoption, but it didn’t ever get to him. Now he’s back in Calgary.”

“His information was in the file?”

Grace pursed her lips. “Nope. I Google stalked him.”

André grunted. “He knows we’re coming?”

“Umm, yes.”

“He knows about Hope?”

“He does.” She swallowed her nerves as André observed her, nodding slowly.

“Did you tell him?”

Grace scoffed. “No, I would never do that. The last thing we need is another parent petitioning.”

“So we’re here because . . . “

“Because I think he’s the reason Amey is going after Hope.” Grace raised her hand and knocked twice, not sure if André was regretting his decision. Finding Brady had been easy enough, but figuring out whether he knew about Hope? That was another story.

She would take the profile she made on Hinge and her personal chat with Mr. McGinnis to her grave.

Seconds passed, then a minute. Grace shifted her weight on the step. After what felt like a year, she knocked again. That time, there were sounds inside the home. Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open.

“Uh, hey.” A man stood in the gap, his hand on the door frame. Early thirties, thick build, dark hair buzzed short, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“Hi, are you Brady?”

He pulled the door open another inch. “Grace?”

She nodded. “Grace Fairbanks. This is André Leclerc. He’s a . . . friend.”

He shook both their hands. His grip was tight, not rude. Just tense. Wary.

He stepped back so they could enter the house, and Grace’s skin prickled as André put a hand on her lower back. Her nerves immediately calmed. Yes, it may have been stupid to waltz into a stranger’s home like this, but somehow with André there, she felt completely safe.

The air smelled like reheated coffee and burnt toast. The furniture was sparse, functional, but clean. No pictures on the walls. No clutter. The blinds were drawn halfway.

He led them to a small kitchen table. There was a cane leaning against the fridge.

“Man, I thought you wanted to hook up when you DM’d me.” He ran a hand over his head and sat down.

André gave her a look, and Grace straightened her shoulders before taking a seat across from him. André sat beside her, moving his chair so their thighs were nearly flush. “Sorry. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure you knew the situation.”

Brady nodded. “I didn’t even know she existed until six weeks ago.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Letter got sent to the wrong address. I’d moved bases twice. Finally made it here after my release.”

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