Page 101 of Callow

Things had turned out okay.

Sure, Daphne had some superficial cuts on her hands. And I wanted to get her into the doctor to check her arm after her ordeal to make sure she hadn’t accidentally done more damage to it. But she was relatively unharmed. Just freaked out.

Not, as it turned out, too freaked out to beg to go to the bookstore like we planned after she got home to decompress for a few hours, though.

And, honestly, Callow and I were too relieved that she was safe and unhurt to deny her that.

So, after I cleaned up her fingers and I cleaned up his hands, we all piled in the car and drove to the bookstore.

Where I got to stand back and watch Callow and my girl smile and laugh and have a good ol’ time together.

I swear my heart grew bigger in my chest with each passing moment just watching them together.

By the time we walked out of there, Daphne had the books stacked so high in Callow’s arms that the muscles actually shook as we made our way back to the car.

But he was smiling.

So was she.

So was I.

This was something I hadn’t really ever let myself hope for in all the years I was raising Daphne by myself.

A little family.

A man I loved.

Who Daphne loved.

One who loved us back.

Enough to kill.

“You alright?” I asked Daphne as I walked into her bedroom to find her in the bed, the blankets pulled up high, a pillow on her lap, and one of her books set on top of it.

“Yeah,” she said, giving me a small smile as I put a mug of hot chocolate on the nightstand. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said. “I shouldn’t have snuck out.”

“No,” I agreed, sitting at her side. “You shouldn’t have. But I can’t even be mad, given the turn of events.”

“Is it wrong that I’m glad they’re dead?” she asked.

“No,” I said with a lot of certainty as I reached out to run my hand down her hair. “Because I’m glad they’re dead too. From what I know about the tattoo guy’s history, and what you said he said, it seems like the world is better off without him.”

“Does it bother you that Callow killed them?”

“I would have done it myself if he didn’t,” I said, shrugging. “That’s what a parent does for their kids.”

“Are things, you know, okay with you guys?” she asked.

“Better than okay,” I assured her. “I guess I should thank you for that, huh?” I asked.

“I probably shouldn’t take too much credit.”

“Why not?”

“Because I had ulterior motivation.”

“What kind of ulterior motivation?”