“It’s my fault.” I tug my jacket closed tighter and glance at my mother, whose lips are so pinched, she looks a decade older than usual. “I mustn’t have shut the door properly.”

The officer, I can’t remember his name, sucks his tooth and glances at the house then to the five boys waiting for us on the porch. “Seems to me like it doesn’t ever shut safely.”

My heart thumps so hard, it hurts in my shoulders. How long do you get for punching a cop?

I know what he’s thinking.

Mom knows what he’s thinking.

It’s not as if no one ever called child protection on us before. Once, a neighbor called when the second youngest, Remington, got his finger slammed in the door and screamed murder for an hour. And once by a teacher, after we’d taken the kids to an adventure park, and they came home wearing imprints of their adventures falling off seesaws and crawling over rocks.

People look. They tsk. They see seven kids. They see the peeling paint. They see Mom, who’s naturally so gaunt, and no man.

They think asshole things.

She may not be perfect, but she doesn’t so much as drink. Nothing gets past her. There’s not a lot of luxury, but there’s everything we need.

People are assholes. I know how these cops are looking at her now.

“It was my fault,” I jab myself in the chest and say louder. It was my fault. I was distracted, trying to get pretty for my date, and the front door mustn’t have latched properly again. He was only out of my sight for a minute.

“Hey.” The other officer, the rounder, kinder one, holds up a hand. “We’re not saying it was anyone’s fault—”

The fuck they’re not.

My chest heaves. “Then why are you wasting time on all these stupid questions when you should be out looking for him?”

Mom touches my arm. I brush off her hand. She’s so polite. Too polite. That’s why I’m the one who gets everything done. Because I’m the one who will persist.

“We’re attempting to establish a timeline…”

His words blur into a stream of nonsense and bleed into the roaring in my ears.

I scan the street ahead of us, like maybe Jake’s going to figure out his directions all on his own and wander back this way.

“Please, just hurry, and go look for him. It’s getting dark.” I hold the sides of my face. “He’s only little. He’ll be scared.”

I can’t breathe. Oh, Jake, baby. How could I let this happen? He’s been gone two hours. We scoured the streets, shouting and calling. Searched all his favorite places and knocked on every neighbor’s door.

A knot works in my belly. My shoulders curl. My chin drops. What if someone snatched him?

Strong hands clamp on my shoulders. My head spins. They’re arresting me. But then my senses absorb something—the musk of cologne and the hugeness of the presence at my back.

I lean against Clay. If everyone didn’t turn to us like aliens just landed, I’d climb up him and have him hold me like a baby.

He came.

I grab one of the strong hands on my shoulder and hold on to it. He came. To be here for me in actual real life. I want to cry. And that’s one of the reasons I like him so much. Whatever reactions I need to have are always okay.

More than okay, they’re supported.

The asshole cop’s clipboard slips to the ground.

“Clay Colson…” the bigger cop says. His mouth opens and closes three times.

“Hi.” Clay’s fingers tighten on me. “My girl said her brother is missing. How’s that search going?”

My girl.

The cops stammer. I glance back and forth between them. My girl…

Things start happening in a whirl of lights and noise, and it’s like seeing it all through a television screen.

They’re talking into radios, and suddenly, there’s more people, more cops, more cars, and I’m ushered into the back of one to help look.

Clay stands on the street, staying behind with the older boys.

“Is there anywhere Jake likes you to take him in the neighborhood?”

I come back to myself in a rush and turn to the cop. “Yeah, the park, but we looked there.”

“Anywhere else you ever walk with him?”

I swallow. We looked everywhere.

I take a breath, trying to think through the lights and craziness. “We walked to the convenience store for popsicles one summer, but that was so long ago that I had to carry him. There’s no way he remembers.”

“How about we take a look?” The cop pulls out from the curb.

I catch a glimpse of my house as we drive away. Clay tugs something out of the back of his jeans—a baseball mitt.

The boys throw their hands up in the air. There’s an extra lump of guilt in my throat for knowing that although I’ve worked for him for a year, Clay Colson has been a legend in my house for far longer. I’ve known him and never told my six brothers who are obsessed with him. And that suddenly feels like a dirty secret.

As though I don’t have enough of those.

The screen door closes smoothly. I open it, shut it, and open again. It’s perfect. I run a finger over a gap in the frame, where the latch plate has been shifted a fraction. An engine flares, and lights flicker as the last of the cops pull out of our driveway.

Clay.

My heart gives a little flutter. He fixed it. I glance down the hall, where voices rumble, then I shut the front door and go to the kitchen. The boys all gather on one side of the table, squished in on either side of Clay, competing to point at a tablet computer screen. Except for Jake, who’s busy finishing a cookie next to Mom. I take the first full breath since he went missing, walk past, and scruff his hair.

I still can’t believe he tried to take himself to the store.

Clay looks up, and his gaze passes over me. There’s nothing obvious that changes, but I catch the movement of his throat and have to bite on my smile. He likes my dress.

“Katie, I need you for a second.” Mom stands up.

Clay looks back at the screen, where the commentator talks baseball, and he whispers to the boys.

Mom slides a hand down her jean leg, and I know that movement as one that comes right before someone gets a talking to.

“Sure.” I follow her to the alcove.

The purse of her lips pinch wrinkles around her mouth.

I swallow and stare at my shoes. She’s going to tell me off about the door. And so she should—I deserve to be berated.

“Katie, what are you thinking?” she whispers.

I hug my arms. I wasn’t thinking.

“Dating your boss. Your celebrity boss. That’s a very bad idea.”

I glance up. “What?”

Her cheeks have changed color. “He’s your boss. He’s famous. Exactly how do you think this will pan out for you?”

I blink. Why are we talking about Clay? “He came to help me, that’s all.”

“So you’re not sleeping with him?” Her fair brows make slashes.

I shake my head. “Since when do you care who I sleep with?”

Mom hasn’t exactly been a prude about sex. She took me to get protection when I was sixteen. Not that I ever brought a guy home. Maybe that’s what this is about?

She’s weird about attachments.

“I’ve never needed to because you’ve always been responsible.” She looks away, and her expression is so crushed my heart drops two feet.

“Mom.” I step closer. “What’s going on?”

“Honey.” She looks up and takes my shoulders. “Men like that”—she inclines her head toward the kitchen—“they don’t end up with girls like us.”

I picture Clay sitting at our chipped laminate kitchen table we got at a garage sale, surrounded by my six illegitimate siblings, and suddenly, all I can think about is how he doesn’t kiss me.

“You don’t know that.” I get the words out over a closing throat.

“I do know.” She squeezes me harder. “I know how men like him chew through girls who are too trusting.”

My mouth burns as if I’m ill. There’re things I want to ask. Like is that what happened between her and whoever provided the other half of my DNA? Was he important? Did he dispose of her when he was done?

Is that why there’s an age gap between me and my siblings—did she hold out hope for a while?

But I take a breath. That’s not what this is about, and I know she won’t speak about him. “Mom, he’s not taking advantage of me if that’s what you think.”

“Katie, I know you.” She gives me a shake. “I know you’d never call a man to help with a family situation if you hadn’t come to depend on him.”

My eyes sting. I don’t depend on him—but I want to. I want his comfort, and I want his wonderful support. Always.

“Don’t be stupid, honey.” Her grip loosens. “That’s not you.”

“You’re right.” I sniff hard. “I should probably just get knocked up, so I can move on.”

Her hands snap to her chest. Color drains from her face.

Oh, fuck. I want to bite my tongue off.

I reach for her. “Mom.”

She shakes her head and goes back into the kitchen. I cover my mouth, not sure if I need to vomit or cry more.

Why’d I do that?

I turn and lean my forehead on the doorframe. I’m the one who should be ashamed of myself, not her. I’m the one playing kinky games with my famous boss with all his “boundaries.” I knock my head against the wood. She’s right, too. A man like Clay doesn’t end up with a scrappy little no one like me.

“Katie.”

My whole system jolts. I open my eyes and turn to him.

His frown is at maximum. “What do you need?”

A wave of something washes through me, knocking out my doubts and fears. He touches my face, and his fingers are a heavy, warm anchor that slows my heart.

He said that—what do you need—as though the answer is his job and purpose in life.

I step into him and bury my face in his chest. “Take me home with you.”