“Nephew, actually. I’m Rory’s aunt.”
My ears perk up. Because by the look of her naked hand, there’s a good chance she’s Rory’s single aunt.
Best news I’ve heard all damn day.
A baby’s wail comes from another room, piercing and demanding. Chelsea turns her head. “Could you come with me? I have to . . .”
She’s already walking and I’m right behind her.
We pass by the arched entryways of a library and a conservatory with a grand piano, then go into a spacious den with a huge fireplace and cathedral ceiling. The furnishings are tasteful and clean but in earth tones, warm. Dozens of framed photographs of children cover every wall. Chelsea pushes through a door into the kitchen, where the crying gets louder.
The kitchen is about the size of my whole apartment. It has hardwood floors, mahogany cabinets, and a granite-countered center island with a second sink, and it’s chock-full of stainless-steel appliances. A round kitchen table for eight fits in an alcove backed by French doors that open out to a stone patio and garden, with a cobblestone path that leads to an inground pool farther back.
An infant seat sits inside a mesh portable crib beside the island with a vocal, unhappy passenger. “Here ya go, sweetie,” Chelsea coos, bending over to pick up the pacifier that’s fallen to the baby’s stomach and plugging it back into his mouth.
At least I think it’s a him—it’s wearing dark blue pants and a shirt with boats on it, so, yeah, it’s male. She caresses his blond, peach-fuzzy head and the crying is replaced with satisfied sucking.
An immense silver pot bubbles on the stove and the air smells of heat and broth.
“Hi!”
I turn to my right, where a toddler—this one definitely a girl, with golden wispy hair and a stained pink T-shirt—sits on the floor, surrounded by books and blocks.
“Hi,” I answer, straight-faced.
She gets louder. “Hi!”
I nod back. “Hey.”
Her face scrunches, her voice drops lower, and she leans forward like she’s about to tell me something serious. But all that comes out is, “Hiiii.”
“Is there something wrong with her?” I ask.
“No,” Chelsea answers, sounding slightly affronted. “There’s nothing wrong with Regan. She’s two.”
And Regan is back to smiling at me. “Hi.”
“Doesn’t she know any other words?”
“No. She’s only two.”
“Hi, hi, hi, hi!”
I give up and walk away.
“So, how can I reach Rory’s parents? It’s important that I talk to them.”
Her face goes tight. Pained. “You can’t. They . . . my brother and his wife were in a car accident almost two months ago. They passed away.”
And all the pieces fall into place. The comments Rory made, his unsubtle anger at the entire world. But it’s the name that stands out most—the name and the accident. I point at her gently. “Robert McQuaid was your brother? The environmental lobbyist?”
She smiles, small and sad, and nods her head. “Did you know Robbie? DC’s such a busy city, but I’ve gotten the impression it’s like a small town too. Everybody knows everybody.”
When it comes to political circles, and legal ones, it’s exactly like that.
“No, I didn’t know him. But . . . I heard good things. That he was honest, sincere. That’s a rare thing around here.”
And suddenly she seems younger somehow. Smaller and more . . . delicate. Is she on her own in this huge house with the kids? Just her, Rory, One Word, and Baby Boy?
Chelsea looks up from her hands. “I’m Rory’s guardian, so whatever you were going to say to my brother and his wife, you can say to me.”
I nod, refocusing. “Right. I drove Rory home because—”
But I don’t get the chance to finish the sentence. Because the rumble of feet, like a stampede of rhinos, booms over our heads, cutting me off. Chelsea and I eye the ceiling—like it’s about to fall down on us—as the sound travels, getting closer.
And there’s screaming. The atom-splitting, banshees-from-hell kind of screaming.
“I’m gonna kill you!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Get back here!”
“It wasn’t me!”
Even the two-year-old looks concerned.
The racket reverberates down the second staircase and spills out into the kitchen, and the two screeching, running kids who are making it do laps around the island like a fucked-up Hunger Games version of ring-around-the-rosy.
“I told you to stay out of my room!” one of them, a tall girl, yells. She’s a curly-brown-haired predator, ready to pounce.
“I didn’t do it!” the shorter one squeals, arms outstretched, searching for cover.
Jesus Christ, what kind of madhouse is this?
Chelsea steps between them, grabbing them both by their arms and keeping them separated. “That’s enough!”