Page 28 of Damon
“Expensive,” she mutters.
“Very,” I agree.
“How long are you obligated to support her?” Her tone changes from curious to firm. “And if she doesn’t provide baby milk, are you able to retract the deal?”
“The doctor advised it could take a few days for her milk to come in; it depends on her body. I won’t be pushing that clause of the contract if it doesn’t come naturally for her. Constance can drink formula. I’ve agreed to pay for the apartment for a minimum of six months.”
“And how are you affording all this on a policeman’s salary?” she prods brutally.
“That’s none of your business,” I snap, pissed off that she’s questioning me. “I’m not merely a copper.”
“Son, I am not a stupid woman. You’re dabbling in business other than your job. Income must be coming from another means. I’ve done some research on your friends.” Her face twists in disapproval. “You’re a father now; your wife was murdered due to something you’re involved in. It’s your responsibility to keep my granddaughter safe. I suggest you consider what you’re tangled in.”
“Connie was murdered by a scorned criminal concerning my police duties. Her death has nothing to do with my friends. I will ensure her death is avenged.” She rolls her eyes, and my fury rises a notch. “You’re overstepping the line, Mother. Don’t make statements about business you don’t understand.”
“I know enough to know, Damon, that you don’t walk firmly on the good side of the law. You couldn’t afford this.” She waves her hands around signaling my home. “And a high-end apartment on what you would earn if you did.”
“I have investments,” I argue, and she snorts.
“Yes, that’s what concerns me.” I am about to open my mouth to argue once more, but she cuts in. “So, Emma. What happened between you?”
“Nothing!” I bark. “Nothing happened. I saw out the agreement Connie and I made. And I will continue to do so in my wife’s honor.”
“Late wife,” she tells me bluntly. “Connie is dead. She won’t be here, and this little girl will never know her. She needs a female influence in her life.”
“Constance is one day old,” I stammer, stunned that my mother is broaching this situation now, the day I brought my daughter home. A day filled with joy and heartbreak. “Connie has been gone a matter of months. Replacing her hasn’t been top of my priority list.” My voice rises, and Constance wriggles in my arms. “I’ve been too busy grieving.”
“While all that is true,” she says, her voice softening. “I also believe you’ve developed feelings for that girl. The way you speak of her is filled with love.”
“I’ve barely said two words about her,” I contend. Meanwhile my mind flits through memories of my interactions with her over the past few days. The way I held her hand as she labored. How I’d impulsively kissed her forehead when she birthed my daughter. The intense need to protect her that started developing weeks ago, to the point that I can’t sleep unless I know she is safe.
Last night, I blamed my inability to sleep on being a new father. In reality, all I could think about was Emma lying alone down the corridor of the hospital after giving me a daughter. On accepting my feelings, the guilt hit, hatred aimed at myself for caring. I detest myself for this deeply buried wish I have to hold a woman who isn’t my late wife.
My mother, obviously bored with our conversation, blows loudly through her nose. She shakes her jet-black hair over her shoulders then stalks from the room without a word. I glance down at my now-sleeping daughter; she looks so peaceful cuddled against my chest. She’s completely unaware of the world she has been born into.
“Your mummy would be so proud,” I whisper. “I can’t believe she’s missing this. But we will always remember her. She will always be your mum.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket and type the message I’ve been putting off sending.
Is Emma okay?
Harrison’s response comes back within moments.
Yes. She’ll sign the paperwork tomorrow.
I stiffen slightly, annoyed by his assumption as to why I was asking.
Is Mrs. D at her apartment?
The little gray ticks turn blue, showing me he’s read it. But his reply doesn’t pop onto my screen. Five minutes later, I’m pacing up and down my kitchen waiting impatiently to know. I send an emoji to prompt him, and he replies with a thumbs-up. Now infuriated, I hit the call button before I can stop myself.
“McKinney,” he says, his tone jovial. “I’d have thought you would be elbow-deep in baby shit. Don’t ask me to help, I don’t do kids.” Tunes blare in the background, techno by the sounds of it. My friend does have a bizarre taste in music. What he listens to doesn’t suit his suave image.
“Emma,” I snap, before I can change my mind. “A thumbs up isn’t an answer to my question.”
“Why do you care?” he says shortly. “You’re only obligation now is financial. Leave the rest to Mrs. D.”
“I don’t. It’s just…” I trail off, not wanting to show my hand, but knowing by making this call it’s obvious I care. “I just need to know she’s all right.”