With a growl, he picked up his phone. He’d give Trish a quick call.

“Hello?” she sang into the phone.

“It’s Luke. How’s Agatha doing?” He sounded like a world-class idiot to his own ears.

“Oh! Very well. She’s such a little dear.”

He hoped that was a lie because he was going to be angry if she behaved like “a dear” for Trish and like a demon for him.

“I’ve been enjoying lots of cuddles today,” she added.

“Has she been eating? Because she doesn’t like to eat out of a bowl. She likes for people to hold her food in their hand. Then she’ll eat.”

“Well, hang on a minute, and I’ll go check to see how much food she’s had today. If she hasn’t eaten much, I’ll be certain to try your technique.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“I’ll tell her Uncle Luke called to check on her—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Feliz Navidad!”

He ended the call at the exact moment that someone knocked on his door. The only people likely to visit him here—Ben, Natasha, Genevieve—he didn’t want to talk to. So he didn’t get up.

Half a minute passed. Then came another knock, followed by words. “Open up.”

The young female voice didn’t belong to either Natasha or Genevieve, which meant this person was probably knocking on his door by mistake.

“It’s Blair,” she called.

Luke rested his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. As little as he wanted to see Ben, Natasha, or Genevieve, he wanted to see Blair less.

More knocking.

Her arrival was like the arrival of a speeding ticket. Bad news that couldn’t be ignored.

He opened the door. Though he kept his expression neutral, shock rolled into him at the sight of her. She was much older than he’d expected. This . . . teenager . . . was Blair?

She’d dressed in military-style boots, camo pants, a long black-and-white graphic T-shirt, and a black leather jacket very much like his own. A knit hat covered most of her medium-length brown hair. “Hello, big brother.”

“How did you find me?” he asked.

She raised her chin to a confrontational angle. “Mr. Coleman teaches at our school. I asked him for your address.”

Ben was going to hear about this from him. “How old are you?” It came out more like an accusation than a question.

“Almost sixteen. So . . . can I come in or what?”

He answered by stepping out of the doorway. She clomped inside. “Sweet place.” She moved farther in, studying the surroundings.

He followed at a distance.

She’d been a kid the last time he’d seen her. A skinny little kid with a ponytail and sparkly shoes.