A Million Little Things (Mischief Bay, #3)

She pushed that thought away. The day was going well. She would focus on that and deal with the rest of it later.

She rose and together they headed for the kitchen. Jack made a beeline for the small activity table set up in the corner by the pantry. There were all kinds of things to keep him busy while she cooked. A giant pad of paper and chubby, nontoxic crayons, a blue-and-green “lunch box” that played music and talked about the various items he loaded in it. She’d wanted to put in a small play kitchen, but Kirk had objected. When she’d pointed out that it was perfectly fine for boys to cook, he’d insisted on equal time, with a play workbench, and even though their kitchen was large, it couldn’t hold both toys and still leave room for her.

She carefully pulled the gate closed behind her, so Jack couldn’t go exploring without her, then plugged her phone into the small speaker docking station. After starting Pandora, she scrolled to one of their favorite stations.

“In the mood for disco?” she asked with a smile.

Jack looked at her and grinned.

The Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing” started. She moved her hips. Jack did the same—kind of—he was a little awkward, but still pretty coordinated for his age. She began stepping from side to side, moving backward toward the sink. Jack laughed and clapped his hands. She spun twice and he did the same.

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting down to their meal. She’d pulled Jack’s high chair close. Disco music still played from the overhead speakers.

His lunch was a small portion of tender chicken and a cauliflower-potato fritter modified from a recipe she’d found online. She used an air fryer to make sure it wasn’t greasy, with eggs and a bit of organic cheddar acting as a binder. She made them smaller than the recipe called for so they were the perfect size for him to pick up. While Jack was pretty good with a spoon, she found that the meal went better when he could simply pick up everything on his plate.

She had leftover salmon from the night before and a couple of crackers. She probably should have made herself a salad, but it was so much effort. Kirk would tell her to buy one of those premade bags, which probably made sense, but seemed a little wasteful to her.

“Today is Wednesday,” she said between bites. “It’s nice that it’s so sunny outside. We can go for a walk later and see the ocean.”

Everything she’d read said to be sure to talk to Jack as if he were capable of understanding. Just because he wasn’t talking didn’t mean he wasn’t hearing. She was careful to always use complete sentences and plenty of specific nouns. Lulu, her mom’s pet, wasn’t just a dog. She was a Chinese crested. Food was specific, too. Bread, apple, rice cereal. The same with his toys.

Every second he was awake, she knew where he was and what he was doing. She was always looking for opportunities to stimulate his brain, to help him grow. She knew all the warning signs of autism and except for his inability to speak, Jack didn’t have any of them. But there was a reason he didn’t talk and a thousand things that could still go wrong. That reality kept her up at night.

After lunch, Jack carefully carried his plate back to the kitchen. She took it from him and put it on the counter, next to hers. She drew the gate shut again and turned off the music. Because a child had to get used to quiet, as well.

She plugged in her earbuds and, as she did every day after lunch, tuned into the police scanner app. It was the usual barrage of chatter. Two officers being sent to investigate possible domestic abuse. Someone checking in with dispatch to see if they wanted breadsticks with marinara. She glanced at the counter to make sure she’d put all the food away. Seconds later, her entire body went cold.

The words came too fast for her to follow what was happening, but enough of them got through. Two detectives. Shooter. Officer down.

Kirk! Panic flooded her, making her heart race. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch her breath. Even knowing she wasn’t having a heart attack didn’t stem the growing sense of dread. Her chest was tight and even though she was inhaling, she couldn’t seem to get air into her lungs.

Crackers are a tasty snack.

The singing voice from Jack’s toy cut through the growing fog in her brain. She glanced at her son, who pushed the square of plastic crackers into the lunch box, then laughed.

She hung on to the counter and told herself to stay calm. If Kirk was the injured officer, she would be getting a phone call. A squad car would show up to take her to wherever it was family went in times like this. In the meantime, she dialed Kirk’s cell, but it went right to voice mail—as it always did when he was working.

She desperately wanted to turn on the TV, but couldn’t. Jack couldn’t be exposed to the news. It was too violent. She didn’t know what memories he might retain. Besides, everything she’d read or heard said to limit television at his age.

She carefully scraped the food into her composting bin, then put the plates in the dishwasher. She wiped down the counters, all the while listening to the scanner. There were no details, just more jumbled information. No mention of names. Just a repeat of what she’d heard before.

When the kitchen was clean, she reluctantly took out her earpieces. She didn’t want to wear them in front of Jack. He needed to know she was paying attention to him. She was still having trouble breathing and was wracked by occasional tremors. Going to the beach was out of the question now. She had to stay home in case the worst had happened.