Simon pushes the stroller, and I sip a smoothie. Our sneakers are quiet on the linoleum. Blue’s nails click. Other shoppers pass us, their eyes drawn to my dog. A brunette and her daughter with matching hair spot us. The little girl, probably around eight years old, grabs her mom’s hands and points, her body vibrating with excitement.
“Do you want to pet him?” Simon offers as they approach, their eyes flicking between us and Blue. I force a smile, knowing this will make us look normal but wanting to get it over with.
The mother and daughter are overwhelmed by Blue’s size, his adorableness. And so well-behaved! Blue sits, allowing their pets like a king used to the fawning of his subjects. The little girl is only about his height, and I can see in her eyes she wants to hug him. Blue senses it too and cocks his head, making room for hers on his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You can hug him.”
She looks up at me with tears brimming in her eyes, then steps forward, looping her arms around his neck and resting her head in the space Blue’s created. He hooks his chin over her shoulder and gives her a squeeze. The mom looks on the verge of tears. Simon smiles at her, and she swipes at her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “We’ve had a hard few months.”
“You’ll be okay,” Simon promises her and she nods, meeting his gaze.
“Thank you.” Her voice is just above a whisper—the rest of it blocked by the emotion in her throat.
“Mommy, can we get a dog?” the little girl asks.
The mom responds with a watery smile. “Maybe,” she says.
“They help,” I offer.
The mom nods again, her shoulders straightening. “Thank you.”
She takes her daughter’s hand and they walk away. “That was nice,” I say to Simon, my heart swelling with gratitude that Blue could be such an easy balm for them.
Simon looks over at me. “We are a very nice family.”
I roll my eyes.
Declan sits on a bench up ahead, his broad shoulders swathed in a collared navy polo shirt. Spotting us, he stands. His khakis fit better than khakis have any business fitting.
We roll up, and Declan reaches a hand out to Simon. They shake like they are good friends. Good friends meeting up at the mall. Sure, that’s a thing. For teenagers. And apparently suburbanites.
Declan leans to kiss me on the cheek and I smile up at him. “Good to see you,” I say.
“You too,” he says.
My wig itches, and I resist the urge to scratch it. Or rub at my mascara-crusted eyes. Simon applied it at the safe house, his focus solely on my lashes, his bottom lip captured between his teeth. Simon caught me looking and smirked like he could read my prurient thoughts. Now he wraps his arm around my waist, his large hand warming my hip.
Declan starts to walk and we fall into step with him. “Robert is back in the city as of yesterday.”
“Yes,” I say, not feeling the need to elaborate. “How do you think I’m doing as a CI? Don’t you just love all the potent information I’m sharing?” I ask, referencing the evidence Rebecca sent about Richard’s involvement in the blackout and the thumb drive I gave him in Santa Teresa linking the good senator to Eunice Jackson’s assassination.
Declan’s jaw tightens and he swallows. “Compelling but not enough to open an investigation at this time. It’s obviously complicated by his position and influence.”
“You tried and your boss said no,” I guess.
“Something like that.”
“You talk to Consuela?” I ask.
“Yes.”
The scent of a cinnamon bun stand wafts over us. James shifts in his stroller to look back at me, a question in his wrinkled brow. What is that incredible smell, Mother? “That, young man,” I say, “is heroin in bun form.” James’s brows rise. “It has enough sugar in it to end you, little one.”
“Oh, you can’t deny your son a Cinnabon,” Declan says, his voice laced with humor. He starts to steer us off the main drag toward the food court.
“I’m not going to turn him into an addict this young,” I say even as my own mouth starts to water.
“Come on, I’m buying,” Declan says. “And I can tell you all about Consuela. She’d love a phone call, by the way.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I owe her one.”
“She’s working at a nonprofit now,” Declan goes on, surprising me.
“What happened…” But of course, she would be out of a job. She was working for a senator who was assassinated. While I’m sure there was a transition period, a new senator was appointed and must have their own staff.
“It’s an activist group focused on legislative efforts to narrow the wealth gap.”
“Sounds important,” Simon says as we enter the food hall. It’s sparsely populated since it’s late for lunch and early for afternoon snack. There is no line at the Cinnabon, and we order two regulars. They come out hot and sticky, white icing coating the cinnamon-and-sugar-laced dough. James grabs at Simon’s pant leg and yanks. Simon gets the message and pulls my boy into his arms. “You’re in for a treat,” Simon says, before kissing James’s cheek.
We find an empty table away from anyone else and sit. James is on Simon’s lap and reaches for the tray of cinnamon buns, but Declan keeps the pastries out of his reach. “I’ll cut you a piece,” I say, pulling one of the cowpie-size buns over. I slice out a triangle and put it onto a spare plate. Simon deftly gets James’s hands clean with a wipe, then keeps the box on the table, ready for the mess that is about to come.
Declan observes our choreography silently, just taking it all in. “So I guess Consuela is no longer going after Robert,” I say as I push the plate over to James.
He grabs the slice of cinnamon bun and then pauses, experiencing the stickiness of it, his lips parting at the new texture.
“You should just call her,” Declan answers. I look over at him. His attention is on James who is now pulling the sticky bun to his face. The cleanup is going to be intense. The kid will probably need a bath.
“Have you spoken to her?” I push.
Declan nods. “Yes, briefly.”
James’s tongue comes out and he licks the pastry; his eyes widen. And he shoves it in his mouth. He looks over at me as he chews.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Nummy,” he says as he pushes another bite in. Icing circles his mouth and his hands are sticky with it.
Simon shifts, leaning over to pull a flash drive from the pocket of the diaper bag. He pushes it across the plastic table top to Declan. Who stares down at the slim blue rectangle like it might bite him.
“It’s the most recent evidence we have,” I say.
Declan’s eyes narrow, and I can practically see the wheels turning. The fact is if we had video of Senator Chiles ripping wires out of a giant transformer in a frenzy while explaining his plan in detail, it still wouldn’t be enough.
“We are taking him down, Declan.” He looks up, brown eyes sharp on mine. “This,” I jerk my chin toward the flash drive, “is going to the media—public opinion can decide what to do about the good senator. But I wanted to give you a heads-up, bro.” I grin.
His lips purse. “I appreciate it,” Declan says, surprising the fuck out of me. He picks up the flash drive and pockets it. “So you’re not taking any action against him?”
“Ruining his reputation is action,” Simon points out. “For a politician, reputation is everything.”
Declan sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at me, lips a firm line, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look like he believes us.
I smile back at him and shrug. “Motherhood has changed me.”
Declan shakes his head just a little, the movement almost as small as the smile toying with the edges of his mouth.