Riona is already spreading out her work on the small table of the breakfast nook. It’s obvious she intends to dive right in.

I admire her work ethic. Makes it kinda tiring to watch her though—she doesn’t get much sleep.

Callum comes into the kitchen right as his mother is going out. He kisses her on the cheek, almost exactly the same way she kissed Riona. It’s always funny to see the little habits in families—the gestures passed along like a silent code that only the members would recognize.

“How’s Miles?” she asks him.

“Fantastic,” he says. “I think he and Aida are soulmates. All they do is nap and cuddle and eat.”

“You better be getting up with him in the night,” Imogen says warningly. “Don’t leave it all to Aida.”

“Do you honestly think she’d allow that?” Callum laughs.

Imogen smiles. “No. Probably not.”

Imogen waves goodbye to us all, and Callum pours himself a cup of coffee from the large carafe on the spotless white marble countertop.

“You want some?” he asks me.

“No, thanks. Just had a cup.”

“How’s the guarding going?” he asks me with a glance at Riona, already bent over her work.

“Great,” I say.

“Really?” I can hear his mild disbelief.

“Of course.” I grin. “What could possibly go wrong, following Riona around twenty-four seven, constantly right next to her, watching her every move, sticking right by her like I’m surgically attached? How could she not enjoy that?”

Riona doesn’t dignify that with a response—she keeps her eyes on her papers. But I can feel the disdain radiating out of her all the same. Callum has to work hard not to laugh.

On a more serious note, I say, “How long have these guys Butcher and Meecham worked for you?”

“Six years for Butcher, eight for Meecham,” Callum says. “We can trust them.”

“Alright.” I nod. “Just checking every box.”

“I appreciate that,” Cal says. “You ready to see the broker?”

“Most definitely.”

Cal gulps down his coffee and puts the mug in the sink. I can tell from the dark shadows under his eyes that he was telling his mother the truth—he’s definitely been getting up with a newborn. You can’t hide that haggard-but-happy look of new parents.

“We’ll be back in a couple hours,” Callum says to Riona.

“Don’t hurry,” she replies, still not looking up.

“I can drive,” I say to Cal as we head back out the wide, curving driveway where I left the Escalade.

“Thanks,” Callum says. “That’s probably for the best. I felt like a zombie on the way over.”

I get behind the wheel, and Cal climbs into the passenger seat, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes.

“I don’t know what it is about interrupted sleep,” he says. “Even if you get eight hours, it’s not the same.”

“Nope,” I say. “Not even close.”

I never sleep eight hours straight through anymore. Too many nights sleeping on sand or rock or dirt, always having to keep one ear open for interruptions—the kind of interruptions that can kill you. You never really recover that deep and peaceful slumber.