63. Mira

63

MIRA

I glance up the stairs as I pass like I might be able to catch a snippet of what's going on up there.

I was in the kitchen making a pot of coffee when Jace, Daniel, and Owen rolled in like three horsemen of the apocalypse looking for their fourth. Even Daniel, who can't seem to pass by me without singing a line of some stupid song or ruffling my hair, didn't do more than toss a stiff smile my way before heading upstairs.

I did school drop-off solo this morning and came back to find them still upstairs, with the door still shut. I'm about to bake my first-ever batch of cookies just so I have an excuse to knock on the door and feel out the vibe of the room.

Hey, boys! Can I interest anyone in cookies? Milk? Revenge plots?

Yesterday, I wanted nothing more than to wait in the hallway while Zane talked to his coach. Whatever is going on with the Angels and hockey and the race for captain is not my business.

Then I saw Carson Deluth's smug, scheming, stupid face waiting outside the arena for Zane, and suddenly, it's my business.

I'm contemplating a very casual slip down the stairs accompanied by some moaning that will be just loud enough for them to hear when there's a knock on the door.

I jump at the distraction. I should thank whoever is on the other side of the door for saving my crazy ass from making a fool of myself.

Then I open the door and change my mind.

"Agent Morris," I force out. "What a surprise."

"That is the point of the random drop-ins." His mustache twitches as he looks past me into the house. "May I come in?"

Screaming "no" like a petulant toddler and slamming the door in his face unfortunately isn't an option, so I step aside and wave him in. "Zane is in a meeting, but I can make some coffee while you wait. It might be a while."

He looks around the living room and makes a quick note of something on the pad of paper he whips out of his pocket.

I can only imagine what he's writing. Toys scattered around living room; child's joy is a tripping hazard.

He flips the notepad closed. "That's okay. I wanted to talk to you, anyway."

First, Coach Popov. Now, Peter Morris.

Carson Deluth and Owen will be scheduling meetings with me next.

"Is that standard?" I ask. "I'm not Aiden's legal guardian."

"No, but you're in his life. You live here. In my line of work, I know romantic partners of any kind have a large impact on a child's happiness in a home." Something like judgment flashes in his eyes. I swear he looks down at my left hand to search for a ring. "What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Whitaker?"

Is he asking me if we have sex?

My face flames, and I turn to the kitchen to pour myself a coffee. "You're making me feel like I should call my lawyer. If I had a lawyer."

"Mr. Whitaker does," he says coolly. "An expensive one. I'm sure he'd be willing to share with his serious girlfriend."

A couple weeks ago, the doubt in his voice would have been justified. Zane and I were faking it. But now, our relationship is so real it scares me.

And this smug d-bag questioning that pisses me off.

I whip around before I can think better of it. "What is your deal? Why do you want to take Aiden away from Zane? Did a hockey team steal your school lunch as a kid or something?" I ask. "Because taking your revenge out on an innocent family isn't the win you think it is."

I know the second the words are out of my mouth that I crossed a line, but it's too late to take it back.

Peter Morris doesn't give me a chance, anyway. "I don't have a vendetta against hockey players," he says. "But addicts? Well, I've had a bad experience or two. Enough to make me cautious."

Fuck.

Someone sent him the pictures.

Cool dread slides down my spine, but I try my best to hide it. Zane didn't do anything wrong. I'm not going to let lies steal Aiden from him.

"Whatever you're looking for, you aren't going to find it," I tell him. "Zane was with me all weekend, and he didn't do anything wrong. He isn't an addict."

Morris rolls his eyes. Full-on rolls them, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of condescending assholeishness. "He'll always be an addict. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."

I slam my mug on the counter hard enough I'm worried it'll shatter. But I don't care. My eyes are locked on his as I spit, "You know what? Screw you."

He shrugs. Apparently, my outburst isn't uncommon for him. Color me not surprised.

"It's hard to see the people we love that way, but you have to protect yourself," he drones on. "And I have to protect Aiden. It's my job."

"No, it's Zane's job. Zane is protecting Aiden. From you ."

"Addicts are the most incredible liars. They can convince you of just about anything to get what they want."

"He's not using, for fuck's sake!" I yank out the junk drawer next to the dishwasher and slap the crumpled results of Zane's rapid drug test on the counter. "He's clean. He took a drug test this weekend, and it came back negative for everything."

Peter doesn't even deign to glance at the paper. "My parents were clean plenty of times over the years. It never stuck."

"Your parents…?" I squash down the sympathy rising in my chest. It's a knee-jerk reaction. I'm actually surprised I didn't catch it sooner. I can usually spot someone with daddy issues. Like attracts like, after all. "Just because they messed up, that doesn't mean you can't offer Zane a second chance."

Again, he couldn't care less what I say. "My parents would clean up long enough to get us back from whatever temporary foster home we were stuffed in. They'd win back their privileges and, the second the government looked away, they'd go back to using. Nothing was more important than their addictions. Not me or my siblings. Not even their lives."

"They died?" I ask quietly.

"They killed themselves," he corrects harshly. "They poisoned themselves to death and they neglected us while they did it. That is what addicts do."

"That's what your parents did, but that isn't Zane." I hate the pleading sound of my voice. My objection to authority runs deep, but what I feel for Zane and Aiden runs deeper. I lean across the counter. "Please, trust me. You don't know him."

Peter Morris leans forward, face aggressively neutral. "Neither do you, Ms. McNeil."