SATISH
The early bird chirped his first note at five forty-seven. AnnaSophia groaned once, then went quiet. Alexandra’s snoring had stopped, but she made no sounds of waking. Satish lay in his cocoon like a corpse.
Dammit, was he the only one who didn’t sleep a single damn minute?
“You awake?” AnnaSophia’s whisper boomed as if she’d stepped up to an open mic.
“I’m thinking I should get up.” Leave, he left unsaid.
“Me too.” The whispery rustle of bedclothes alerted him she was about to put her feet on the carpet. “Let’s go to the kitchen. After I tie my shoes.”
“I should … He repressed the thought of leaving. No leaving until he heard her plan for managing a teenage daughter out of control. Might as well have one laugh today.
She made a grunting sound, followed by a mew. “Unless you need to take off.”
“Not yet.” Joints protesting, he rolled over. Shiiiit. He lay on his side gazing under AnnaSophia’s bed. Never believe sleeping in a car is harder than sleeping on the floor. Why had he ever believed something so stupid?
Too much gin.
Should he ask about her foot? How had she hurt it? How bad was it? She’d provided zero details. What if she needed a doctor?
She is a doctor.
“I’m ready,” she said, a little out of breath.
“Me too,” he lied. His parched mouth tasted like soured gin
He made a tripod with the fingers of his right hand and shoved himself upright without making a sound. He kicked the comforter and pillows out of the way to let her open the door. Dressed in the robe she’d worn when he arrived, she preceded him into the hall. Her gait wasn’t perfect, but the athletic shoes must’ve provided the necessary support. When he stood next to her, stinking like a drunken mongoose, she eased the door open. She motioned him to stay put. She returned just as he was about to go looking for her and slid a high-backed chair under the door handle.
“Reinforcement for the security system.” She crossed her arms over her chest—her message clear. Say zip about Alexandra running away.
“What about your French doors?” Six faced a small fountain on her bedroom patio.
“Next stop. Thank God for dining room chairs.”
Flying his hand over the top of his head struck him as silly. Okay, he was confused, but he didn’t want her to think he was slow. So, eyes on her feet instead of her hips, he followed her to the dining room at the front of the house. Hardwood floors everywhere. She produced a tablecloth from an adjacent closet and set a chair on the makeshift rug.
A light went on inside his skull. Together, they pulled the sheet through the kitchen to the patio. She said zip about her foot. They hooked the chair’s back under a polished door handle. Rinse and repeat. By the time they hauled the last chair to the last French door, Satish had broken a sweat. She glowed. No flinches or groans indicating her foot hurt.
His mouth tasted as if he’d chewed half the night on old pennies. God, he needed a drink. And a shower. And a toothbrush. And to hop in the Porsche and wave adiós.
“Thank you,” AnnaSophia said as if unaware the committee meeting in his head was gearing up. “What do you drink in the morning?”
His mother made a fresh mango and guava concoction with coconut milk every morning, but he doubted AnnaSophia’s kitchen contained either ingredient. “OJ—”
“Detective Patel!”
Magnus Romanov’s high-pitched squeal scraped off an inch of Satish’s tooth enamel, and the ear-piercing bark of a mangy yellow dog took off another inch. Satish managed a knuckle bump without grimacing. “Hey, Magnus.”
“Where’d you go?” The boy craned his neck to peer up at Satish. “Why didn’t you ever come back to our house for lunch? You promised. Remember?”
AnnaSophia returned from putting the dog outside wearing a pair of high-topped shoes. She laid her hands on her son’s shoulders and met Satish’s stare. “Honey, give Detective Patel a chance to catch his breath.”
Satish picked up the last conversational thread. “I had to go to India. My father was sick, and my mother needed me at home.”
“Is he okay now?”
Satish went down on one knee, level with Magnus’s gaze. “No. He died.”
“Do you know my papá died?”
Idiot. Your dead father, his dead father.
“I do know that.” Quicksand sucked at Satish, and he glanced up at AnnaSophia for help. Her face was a bloodless mask that blew away his hope. He swiveled his gaze back to Magnus.
“Sometimes,” the boy said, “I don’t remember what he looked like.”
Something in Satish’s gut clenched for AnnaSophia. Inside, he reached out to the child who had loved his father—no matter the bastard deserved nothing but universal revulsion. “You know what I do when I forget what my father looked like?”
Face solemn, too thin for his age, Magnus shook his head.
Satish knelt on his other knee and removed his wallet from his back pocket. He opened the wallet and showed Magnus the picture he treasured of his father dressed in a soccer uniform. “My dad and I played soccer together when I was ten and he was fifty-five.”
Magnus’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes widened. “Fifty-five is old.”
Satish laughed. “Old for soccer, but he loved playing. So do I.”
“Me too, but I’m not very good.”
“Neither am I anymore.” Satish stood. Several bones cracked, and he joined Magnus’s delighted laughter. When they stopped snorting and sniggering, Satish said, “Maybe we can play together someday.”