“What?”
“Is that any way to be speaking to yer ma?”
Wincing the second he heard the waspish tones down the line, he murmured, “Sorry, Ma. Didn’t realize it was you.”
“What’s the point of that fancy Caller ID if ye aren’t going tae check the damn thing?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose as he sought patience, Sawyer murmured, “What is it? I dinnae have time…”
“I’ll break yer off there, lad. You always have time fer me. Especially when I’m calling to check up on you all. How are ye doing?”
“How do ye think?” he demanded, barely managing to contain the snarl in his voice.
“I think yer all feeling like shite. Like you want to wreck the joint. Like yer could kill someone.” She sniffed. “Quite natural, I promise.”
He blew out a breath, well aware that only his mother could consider that to be quite natural.
“What about Sascha?”
“She’s quiet.”
“She’ll come around.”
There was such certainty in her voice that he found himself praying she was right. “Ma?”
“Aye, son.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d had a baby that died before me and Sheila?”
“When would have been the time to tell ye something like that?” Her caustic tone wasn’t as spirited as it would usually be, which told him that, even all these years later, the hurt was still as fresh.
“That tone is exactly what scares me. The thought of that bairn still makes you sad. How is Sascha ever going to get over it?”
“It was different for me. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to have another bairn, but she already has Tin. That will make a huge difference. She has to move on. She doesnae have much of a choice.”
“No one needs that kind of pressure,” he argued.
“No,” she said, agreeing with him for once in his life. “But she’s a mother. She’s used to it.” When he released a shaky breath, she murmured, “It’s okay, son. You just have to take all this one step at a time. Each day that passes, I promise, it gets better.
“Aye, I still hurt. I willnae lie to you. The memories are still raw, but in comparison to the day it happened? The days after? It’s like the sun and the moon. I ache with what might have been, but I don’t sob into my pillow at night anymore.”
God. Was she trying to make him feel better or worse?
“I don’t know what to do with myself, Ma. I don’t know whether to hover around her or to keep my distance. And I can’t take any cues from her. She keeps to herself. She’s gone out a few times, but only for play group for Tin. I know she wants to keep his routine as normal as possible. But she’s not even going food shopping, and you and I both know how much she loves that.”
“She’s not having stuff delivered in, is she?” Cinta demanded, sounding aghast at the very notion.
“Aye, she is,” he admitted on a deep sigh. “If she’s not doing something with Tin, she’s sleeping.”
“She went through a traumatic experience, child,” his mother said softly. “She’s grieving. She’s grieving the past and she’s grieving for the future she’ll never have now. I have no magic words to make this better. You just ha’ tae gi’ her time. Time truly does heal the sting even if it doesn’t take away the memory, but dinnae, for the life of ye, tell her that. She’ll snap yer head off.”
His lips twitched a little at that but not enough to form a smile. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d even wanted to grin, never mind laugh.
“All ye can do,” she carried on, “is be there for her. Follow her lead. At the minute, she wants to sleep, but keep things normal for the bairn. That’s good. That’s what I mean by her moving on, even if she doesnae think she’s capable of it now. She already is, because she wants things to be right for the wee laddie.
“When it happened to me, I just stayed in bed and cried for days. Yer poor pa was terrified for me. I wouldnae eat and I didnae want to drink either. Back then, things like post-natal depression didnae exist. Yer just had to move on and deal with it. But times are kinder now, and I’m glad. I wouldnae put another woman through that if she were my worst enemy.
“Just give her time, lad. Honest. Be there, aye, but let her come around on her own, and whatever ye do, make sure she isnae the one to close up the nursery. One of ye do it.”
He cleared his throat. “Aye. Sean and I are doing it tomorrow. We’ve been putting it off tae, but Sascha will come around soon and we don’t want her doing it.”
“Good boys,” she said approvingly, then on a sigh, murmured, “I love ye, lad. I wish you didnae have to go through this.”
“Thanks, Ma,” he said, his voice choked as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “I love ye tae.” He let his hand run over his head to the back of his neck. As he did, he looked over the study that was his and Devon’s domain. Not for the first time, Devon wasn’t there and Sawyer didn’t even have it in him to care.
His throat was thick as he worked up the courage to get out, “The casket arrived yesterday, Ma.” The little coffin had traveled down to London because Sascha wanted to be able to visit the graveyard near their house.
She blew out a shaky breath. “That will gi’ her closure.”
“It will?” He wasn’t so sure. “The service is in two days’ time. Are ye coming down?”
“O’ course.”
“You can always drive Sean’s car down if dad isnae happy with flying.”
“We’ll see but I think we’ll fly in. Hamish willnae like it, ye ken how he hates planes, but there’s nothing about this situation to like, is there?”
He blinked, because she’d never spoken truer words, and he wished like hell she was wrong.
“Chunga Changa, Chunga Changa.”
The tinny sounds coming from the bathroom never failed to make her smile, even today, when the last thing she felt like doing was laughing.
The Russian tune wasn’t something she’d even try to understand, but the words Chunga Changa and chudo barchik were the only ones she could make out.
The song playing in the background was as corny as everything else she’d heard Andrei play at bath time, and she knew that sounded mean but it was just so different to anything she played for Tin that it amused her.
Tin had already been down to the kitchen to kiss her goodnight, but as she’d headed upstairs, she’d heard the song, had heard Tin and Andrei singing along together, and had to go and see what they were doing.
As always, when she headed upstairs, she turned her head away from the nursery, knowing she’d have to build up the courage to even look at the door, never mind walk through it, and made her way to the bathroom Tin had commandeered over the years.
With all his crap, it was easier just to give the room to him. Not that she was in there much. Bath time had always been a special moment between father and son. Not just because Andrei made time for it every day, carving the thirty minutes out of his packed schedule to laugh and tease the little boy, but also to sing with him in their mother tongue.
Today, his bright giggles were a welcome change from the bleakness that had been stalking her since they’d arrived home.
Tin was her light in the darkness; the reason she’d gotten out of bed ever since that day on Buchanan Street when she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the sofa and molder away there.
The stairs were getting easier, even though the ache in her body seemed to go soul deep. She’d forgotten how tough recuperating from labor was, and this time, there were none of the happy moments, just all of the sad and uncomfortable ones.
By the time she’d made it to the bathroom, she was a little winded, but when she popped her head around the doorway, she had to giggle. Andrei, in his expensive suit slacks and the silk shirt that clung to his strong body, was covered in bubbles. He had some on that shining mop of golden hair, a mop that matched the miniature version in the bath who, unsurprisingly, had fewer bubbles surrounding him than his father did.
“Now I know where those weird stains on your clothes come from,” she teased, making Tin clap with glee and holler, “Mama, mama, mama!”
Andrei grinned at her over his shoulder, totally unashamed at his current state. “Pree-vyét, Sascha!”
Tin, cackling, repeated the statement, “Pree-vyét, mama!”
Lips curving, she asked, “What does that mean?” She knew it was terrible that she’d never tried to learn Russian, but hell, there were only so many hours in the day, and having looked at a basic Russian dictionary, all she’d given herself was a headache. That had been enough for a lifetime.
Andrei snorted. “What did we tell mama, Tin?”
“Hello!” Tin chortled.
Though she knew she’d mangle it, she repeated the word, and Tin, ever great for her ego, burst out into more giggles. He flopped back in the water, making a tiny tidal wave that had the liquid sloshing everywhere, all the while mocking her pronunciation.
“I’m starting to see why you’re covered in bubbles,” she said drily, as she stepped deeper into the room. Taking advantage of the toilet being next to the bath, she plunked herself down.
“Kak dee-lá?”
That had her blinking. “Huh?”
“Tih krasahveetsa!”
She tilted her head to the side.
“Ty delayesh' menya schastlivym.”
“What?” she demanded, grinning though as, with his heart in his eyes as he silently translated the words of love for her, he carried on:
“Ty sogrevayesh' moyu dushu.”
But her throat squeezed at the last one:
“Ya lyublyu tebya.”
Her smile was soggy as she repeated the one phrase she did know: “Ya lyublyu tebya.” ‘I love you’ – it was something she’d seen in her current obsession—Russian Bratva romance books. She loved them because they made her grin. She knew a real life Pakhan, after all.
Not every woman had that similar claim to fame.
At her atrociously pronounced declaration, Tin stopped giggling and turned to them. “Ya lyublyu tebya, mama. Papa.”
Now her heart did melt. She smiled at him then reached for his starfish pinkies and kissed them, even though they were soapy and dimpled from the water. “And we love you.”
Reaching for the basket of toys that was suspended in a net over the side of the bath, she tugged the plastic suckers from the wall and let them fall into the water. When he hollered with glee and began throwing them, Andrei snorted.
“How are you doing?”
“What did you say to me?”
“Things you needed to hear,” he said simply, his eyes gleaming like jewels as he stared at her from amid a sea of slowly disintegrating bubbles.
“Then shouldn’t you have said them in English?”
He just smiled. “One day. When you’re ready to hear them again.”
Though she frowned, she didn’t ask him what he meant because she couldn’t—Tin hollered her name, his glee returning as Andrei picked up the sponge he’d soaked with water, and squeezed it over the little boy’s head.
Even though it felt weird to laugh, it also felt good.
Tin’s laughter made her heart both heavy and light, but her own? It made her want to cry, and maybe that was the release she needed.
Her eyes prickled with tears as she and Andrei took part in something that had only ever been ‘male-bonding’ before, and as Andrei taught Tin words, she made them both chuckle by saying them terribly.
It wasn’t a good day, but it was a damn sight brighter than it had been twenty minutes before.
“Where have ye been?”
Devon, on the brink of stepping through the foyer, froze. He couldn’t have looked more feckin’ sheepish if he’d have tried, Sawyer thought, scowling down at his best friend from the top of the staircase.
“Nowhere.”
That had Sawyer scoffing. “You only leave the feckin’ house if there’s something urgent going on. So, what gives? Where’s the fire?”
Devon, now stepping out of his shoes, froze. “There’s a fire?”
“Nae, ya fool. I just meant, where have you been?”
“You’ve been out again?” This time, it wasn’t Sawyer doing the talking, but Sean.
Sean had noticed too? And what the hell did he mean by ‘again?’
“Am I under house arrest or something?” Devon said on a low growl, unwinding his scarf from around his neck before he slung it onto the coat rack. “I didn’t realize I had to account for my every action.”
Taken aback, Sawyer tilted his head to the side as he studied the bags under Devon’s eyes. The man never slept, but that seemed to be wearing on him more than usual—but then, who wasn’t sleeping rougher now? The atmosphere in the house felt turbulent with all of their emotions. The grief threatened to suffocate the lot of them if they weren’t careful.
Only Tin didn’t seem affected, and Sawyer thanked Christ for that wee favor. He didn’t feel like they had much to be thanking him for of late, but if the good Lord could make things easier on their boy, Sawyer would be grateful.
“Why are you so angry?” Sean sounded as puzzled as Sawyer was.
And the man wasn’t wrong.
Devon was angry.
“I’m not angry,” he immediately countered. “Why would I be angry?”
“That’s what I’m asking,” Sean murmured drily. His tone was cool, calm, and so damn clinical, Sawyer wanted to wince.
It was his ‘shrink’ voice, and even though Sawyer wasn’t sure if Devon recognized it, he wondered how his friend would feel being psychoanalyzed at this given moment.
“Why aren’t you?” Devon countered with a defiant tone. Hell, it bordered on belligerent.
“You think I should be angry?” Sean asked.
“Yes. I do. We should have been there with her. Because we weren’t, the baby died.”
“That’s not your fault, Devon.”
“Isn’t it?” Devon sniffed. “Anyway, I like walking around the gardens. It’s peaceful there.”
Sawyer frowned. What the fuck? Had aliens abducted Devon? He never walked around the gated gardens that their neighbors, laughingly and snootily, called a ‘park.’
Descending the staircase, he tilted his head to catch Sean’s gaze. Wondering if Sean had spotted the obvious lie, he saw nothing hidden in the de facto head of the household’s expression.
“It is? Well, next time, I’ll come along. It would do us both good to be out in the fresh air.”
Devon stiffened. “I’ll tell you when I go out next.”
Another feckin’ lie.
Sawyer scrubbed at the back of his neck as he murmured, “I think we should have some whisky. That shite Dad bought for me.”
“You mean the best bottle we have in the house?” Sean asked wryly.
“Aye, that one.” Sawyer grinned as he took the final step to the foyer.
“Come on, Devon, you must be freezing. It’s nice and warm in my study.”
Shrugging, Devon stepped ahead, and took off for Sean’s office. Before he could follow him, Sawyer grabbed Sean’s arm. “When did he go out?”
Sean’s gaze was calm as he murmured, “Every day since we’ve arrived home.”
Gaping, Sawyer peered down the hall at the path Dev had just taken. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”
“Why should I? Like he said, he’s not under house arrest. I just thought he was walking. But that’s twice today.” Sean shrugged. “I thought that was odd.”
“He’s been off since Glasgow,” Sawyer growled, running a hand over his head in agitation. He hadn’t been watching out for his friend as much, and being in the dark about Devon’s absences filled him with unease. That Dev had left the house at all without Sawyer knowing was damn unusual.
At the moment, unusual wasn’t his friend.
“We’ve all been acting a little differently to normal. It’s to be expected. We’re grieving,” Sean countered, his tone gentle. “And we both know Devon processes things in his own way.”
“That anger though… that’s new, Sean. What the fuck’s going on with him?” Guilt filled him as he thought about how he’d been leaving Dev to fend for himself.
Dealing with his own grief, his own guilt had been more than enough for him to handle. Now, piling on the way he’d been neglecting Devon, who did process shite differently than any of them, just made him feel worse.
“He’s grieving.”
“He never gets angry.”
“He’s never lost a child before.”
Sean’s calmness irritated the hell out of Sawyer. “Why are you taking this so calmly?”
“How do you want me to react?”
Again, with the serenity. His shrink voice. It made him want to scream. “Like you’re feeling something, mon.”
“You think I don’t?” Sean’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?”
“The fact you’ve been locking yourself up in your study with work and barely uttering a peep at the dining table. You barely say a word to Sascha.”
“She wants to be left alone. I’m letting her deal with this her own way. What she went through is something we can never understand—I’m giving her time.”
Sawyer wanted to argue with that but knew he couldn’t. He gritted his teeth. “All right, but locking yourself up with work isn’t going to do you any good.”
“There’s still a sick bastard out there stealing kids from their homes, Sawyer. You want me to just forget about that? I have other responsibilities,” he snapped.
Considering Sean hadn’t mentioned the child-killer case since that night before Sascha’s miscarriage, Sawyer had to wince as yet more guilt cascaded over him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low.
Sean nodded. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You’re right. We all need time to deal with this.”
“We do. But you’re not wrong where Devon’s concerned.” Sean pursed his lips. “Something’s definitely going on with him.”
“I’ll try to follow him the next time he goes out,” Sawyer replied, but Sean shook his head.
“No. He’s not doing anything wrong. Going outside is healthy for him. I thought he’d be holed up in his study like me, but he’s getting out and getting some fresh air. He’s moving himself out of his comfort zone. I like to see that. It’s not unhealthy.”
Sawyer frowned. “It’s unlike anything he’s ever done before. You and I both know he shuts down. He doesn’t get angry. I don’t like to see him that way.”
“You think I do?” Sean shrugged. “Not much we can do save for riding it out.”
Sean made to step away, but Sawyer grabbed his arm. “How are you doing, Sean? Really? Are you angry? At us? For not being there for Sascha?”
A scowl creased Sean’s forehead. “Why would I be? I was there too. Sleeping off my damn drunk. No one’s to blame. Not me for sleeping or you for working or Sascha for slipping. Life happens, Sawyer. We just have to roll with it. Even if it fucking stinks.”
“What about this case?”
“It’s giving me nightmares,” Sean admitted. “But when don’t they? I’ll be all right.”
“If you need to speak, I’m here, mon.”
Sean blinked. “I know. I appreciate that, mate.”
“You were pretty messed up that night,” Sawyer said slowly as they started down the hall for Sean’s study. “What happened?”
“Too much to talk about now,” Sean replied, his tone darkening. “Plus, Sascha’s in the lounge. I wouldn’t want her to overhear.”
That was the third time Sawyer had been lied to in the past ten minutes.
Did he have ‘gullible’ written across his forehead?
Striding into the study, Sawyer inwardly grumbled as he poured the three of them a whisky from the decanter Sean used for the gifts his dad sent every Christmas. He didn’t usually let Devon drink it, but maybe the alcohol would calm him down, because even as he saw his friend was comfortable in his usual armchair, there was a storm brewing in his eyes.
The moment he saw it and processed it, he had to hide more of his unease. Devon panicked. He shut down. He didn’t brood. The way he was looking reminded Sawyer of when they were stuck on a particularly difficult math problem.
Trouble was, that similarity didn’t ease his concern.
Devon, with the bit between his teeth, was worse than a stag in rut. Combine it with grief that he didn’t know how to process—Sheila’s death all those years ago had proven that Dev had zero idea of what to do when someone died—and the anger and guilt that was twisting him up over Sascha’s fall and the subsequent loss of their child…?
No, Sawyer had to amend his earlier thought. There wasn’t a storm brewing in Devon’s eyes, but a fucking tornado.