Page 526 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I shake my head. “I figure the LED lights are down one side of the rooms, like in here.” I nod to the strip down the right side of the room. “That makes it a right-hand maze. Put your hand on the right wall of whatever room you’re in, follow that wall all the way out.”
“Ooo,” Bravo and Henry chorus.
I chuckle at them. “Two minutes of Googling on mazes.”
“You’d have been wrong at Logan and Emily’s collaring,” Jack tells me. “That was a left-hand maze. Sorry you missed that. It was a great party.”
I nod. Showing up for my little that day was more important. I wouldn’t change a thing. There are no secrets between me and my bumble now. We’ve seen the worst each of us has to offer.
We love each other enough to forgive and move on.
The four of us make small talk until the timer goes off. I learn Henry is short for Henrietta and, like Bravo, she does something unmentionable for the government. We trade cards. In case she needs a hacker to help do unmentionable things. She’s Bravo’s friend, which is enough of abona fidefor me. Even if it wasn’t, looking into Henry’s eyes is the same as looking into Mac’s eyes. I know appearances can be deceiving, but there’s a solidity there, a sense of unwavering rightness. Henry might be the same sort of sin-eater that De Leon called me, but neither she nor Mac would ever lead me into battle for the wrong reason.
When the buzzer goes, Jack nods to me. “You and me first. Bravo and Henry will bring up the rear and make sure none of our littles flank us.”
I chuckle at the thought of a coordinated little attack. Cynnie is sneaky enough to organize something like that.
“Lead the way,” I tell him.
Through the door, the austere prison appearance of the security rooms with their white walls and tiled floors gives way to the child-friendly maze. The floors are rubberized. The walls are padded to shoulder-height. The furniture has rounded corners.This is why Jack picked this place. We can chase our littles without fear of injury.
The first few rooms are brightly colored: primary reds and blues. There’s barely any furniture in these rooms and nothing in the way of hiding places. No sign of our littles.
The walls and floors shade to green by the time we hit a T-junction. Jack goes right; I go left.
The green theme continues through the next rooms. I take the time to check the furniture: under a table, inside a green-painted cabinet. But my interest’s already focused on an emerald rope net that stretches up toward what looks like a loft level.
The rope’s still quivering slightly.
The net’s slope is so gentle I could probably walk up it, but the act of climbing gets my blood heating. A low growl starts in my chest as I prowl upwards.
“Bumble, my bumble, can you hear me?”
There’s a soft patter of feet in the loft.
“I hear you,” I growl. “I’m coming up. I’m going to find you. I’m going to catch my bumble baby and eat her all up.”
A faster patter of feet. I don’t think that’s my little. Cynnie can’t keep quiet when I taunt her.
Just in case, I keep up the talk. “My buuumble. I’m coming for you, my bumble.”
I climb above eye-level. It’s not another floor, just a ten by twelve loft about eight feet off the ground. My view into the loft is obscured on both sides by painted foam boxes, creating a narrow opening I’ll have to climb through.
I try to peer between the boxes, but they’re too deep. No line of sight. With a sigh, I commit, pulling myself up over the lip and squeezing through the gap between the boxes.
Three hot, wiggly bodies pin mine to the cushioned floor before I pull my feet through the gap.
“Got you, Oppa!”
A coordinated little attack indeed. And someone has very sharp elbows, one of which is planted in my sciatic nerve.
I could throw them off, but I don’t want to risk injuring any of them. Best to stay on the floor and turn the tables. I roll over and grab familiar soft curves. “Got you, my bumble.”
She wriggles and writhes, but after playing with her for months, if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to hold on to my little. I get both of her wrists in one hand, scoot along the soft flooring until I’ve got her aligned, then pull her arms above her head and roll over on top of her.
I peck a kiss on the tip of her nose and grin at her. “We appear to have a ho-ho-hostage situation,” I say.
She bucks beneath me, knocking her tiara askew. Her dark eyes flash defiance. So cute. “Oppa! You’re supposed to be at our mercy.”
