Page 7 of Shattered King

My son was independent. He’d informed me a week ago that he was a “big boy” and only babies got carried around. Unless they were sleepy and wanted snuggle time, of course. I put him on his feet, his little hand firmly held in mine. The porch light above Sara’s front door flicked on.

It opened a second later and my aunt walked out. My two-year-old big boy wrapped himself around my leg and popped his thumb in his mouth. Something he’d been doing since he was a few months old.

“Lucinda? Is that you, bunny?”

My breath caught in my throat at the sound of her voice. “Yeah, it’s me.” It was all I could get out. Tears clogged my throat, and I had to swallow repeatedly to stop from falling apart. We talked all the time, but I hadn’t seen her since I ran. It’d only been me and Josh all this time, and seeing her, her slight frame moving toward me in her fluffy blue robe and pink slippers, hit me hard.

Then she was standing in front of me. She was short like me, like my mother. I probably had an inch on her five-foot-three inches. But when she wrapped her arms around me, her hold strong and warm, I felt like a little girl. I never wanted to let go. I wanted to come home and let her take care of us, like she begged every time we spoke. I’d been on my own so long, had been forced to be strong, to fight every damn day, and sometimes, I just wanted to give in, to not have to think about . . . anything.

My son wriggled against my side, and Sara pulled back, tears glistening in her eyes. She framed my face in her warm, hands. “My babies are home.”

Josh popped his thumb out of his mouth, and tilted his head back, looking up at us. “Not baby.” Then stuck it back in.

Sara chuckled, threaded her fingers through his in-need-of-a-cut black hair, and grinned. “I don’t suppose you are.” She looked at me. “He’s beautiful, sweetheart.”

My smile wobbled and Josh blinked up at her, his bright blue eyes taking us both in. His body had been tense up until then. He didn’t like new situations, even as a baby, but he relaxed instantly at my aunt’s sweet smile.

Sara wrapped one of her arms around my waist. “Come inside. I bet you’re both hungry?”

That got her another thumb-pop, followed by a big grin. “Pop Tarts!”

Sara frowned. “I don’t think I have those.”

Great, the kid was outing me. I mean, we didn’t live on Pop Tarts, but we indulged from time to time.

Josh scrunched up his face, not impressed. “He’ll eat whatever he’s given,” I piped up.

We walked in the front door. “How about a piece of chocolate cake?” Sara tried again.

“Joe’s cake.” His face was serious as he said this, like a little old man, brows scrunched low. When he frowned, I was sure he looked like Hunter, or maybe it was wishful thinking. Either way, it was a sucker punch every time.

My aunt looked at me puzzled. “Joe’s?”

My face heated. “Trader Joe’s. We get cake there sometimes.” Try every week. I roughed up Josh’s shaggy locks and grinned down at him. “You’re giving away all our secrets, kid.”

Face still serious, he turned to my aunt. “Joe’s cake?” Now he knew there was cake on offer there would be no going back.

Sara stared at him for a second, blinking rapidly, then pulled me into her, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe, and laughed, soft and husky. “Oh, bunny, I’m so glad you’re home.”

I buried my face in her neck and worked very hard at not falling apart.

Josh devoured a PB and J followed by a small piece of cake and a glass of milk, while I showered and changed. I ignored his sleepy protests, and changed him into his PJs, tucking him up in the double bed in the spare room at the back of the house. He handed me his favorite book, Roscoe the Wonder Dog, and I got down to the serious business of reading him a bedtime story. Something I had to do every night without fail. I ran my fingers softly over his hair, hair that never seemed to want to sit flat, and vowed, like I did every day, that I would never let anyone hurt him, that I would protect him with my life if I had to. I stayed until he was out cold a few minutes later.

I kissed his cheek and headed to the kitchen. When I walked in, Sara was filling two coffee cups. She looked up at me when I joined her, eyes warm, but concerned.

She bit her lip. “Are you sure about this?”

I took a seat and she took the one across from me, sliding over my mug. “I have to go to her.”

Her slender fingers tightened around her mug. “I know, baby.”

God, sometimes Sara sounded so much like my mother it hurt to listen to her voice. And sometimes when she’d call, I’d let myself believe it. Just for a few seconds. Until my heart felt like it would explode in my chest, until the guilt over leaving her became too much.

I’m so sorry, Mom.

As we sipped our coffee, Sara explained where I would meet her friend. “She’ll take you to Elizabeth, but then you’re on your own. If you get caught . . .”

I reached out and grabbed her hand. “I won’t.” Hospice patients were allowed visitors twenty-four hours a day, but if you wanted to visit after 8:30 p.m., you had to call ahead. No way I could do that. If any of the nurses told Pierce, I was screwed. “But if I do . . .” This had to be said. “I need you to promise me you won’t call the police. At least, not right away.”