27. Evie
27
EVIE
Morning sickness is a liar. It doesn’t stick to mornings, doesn’t care about convenient timing, and absolutely doesn’t consider that I have two observant daughters who notice everything.
“Mama?” Violet’s voice carries through the bathroom door. “Are you sick again?”
I splash water on my face, trying to compose myself. “Just brushing my teeth, baby. Go finish your breakfast.”
But when I emerge, both girls are waiting. Daisy’s got that look—the one that’s too old for her six years, the one that remembers too much.
“You were sick like this with Violet,” she says quietly.
My heart stops. Of course she remembers. She was barely two when I was pregnant with her sister, but Daisy notices everything. She keeps details like precious secrets.
“Just a stomach bug.” I smooth her hair, hating the lies. “Nothing to worry about.”
Violet wraps her arms around my waist. “Uncle Chase says you need to eat more. I heard him telling Uncle Rick.”
Great. Even the brothers are discussing my symptoms.
The smell of coffee from the kitchen makes my stomach roll again. I’ve switched to herbal tea, but that change alone has raised eyebrows. Coffee’s been my lifeblood since running from Luca.
“New cereal?” Daisy asks when I bypass our usual breakfast choices.
“Just trying something different.” I pour plain Cheerios, which is the only thing that hasn’t made me nauseous lately. “You two almost ready for school?”
Violet launches into a story about show-and-tell, temporarily distracted. But Daisy keeps watching, worry creasing her forehead.
My phone buzzes—it’s Rose. I almost tell her. I almost let the words spill out: I’m pregnant. It might be Chase’s. Or Rick’s. Or Zane’s. I’m terrified.
Instead, I say, “Everything’s fine. Girls are good. Gallery’s busy.”
“Liar.” Her voice holds no judgment. “But okay. Those cars are still circling, by the way. Three different ones now. The black sedan’s back.”
My stomach drops. Morning sickness forgotten, I move to the window. Sure enough, an expensive car idles at the corner.
“You don’t think…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“No way he’d find you through a TikTok video,” Rose says firmly. “We don’t know for sure it’s him, but I wanted you to be aware just in case. So we can be extra careful.”
After hanging up, I watch my daughters finish breakfast. Daisy helps Violet with her shoes.
“Mama?” Violet tugs my sleeve. “Can we have pancakes tomorrow? You always make pancakes on Fridays.”
“Course we can, baby.” However, the thought of cooking makes my stomach turn.
“With chocolate chips?” Her eyes light up. “And whipped cream?”
“We’ll see.” I gather their backpacks, checking for homework.
“You hate whipped cream now,” Daisy observes. “You said it smells funny.”
Damn her memory. “Things taste different sometimes.”
“Like when you were having Violet?”
Before I can deflect, a motorcycle rumbles past.
“Time for school.” I usher them toward the door, mentally calculating escape routes.
But at the new bus stop, surrounded by other parents and children, normalcy returns. Violet shows off her drawing to friends while Daisy reads quietly beside me.
“Mrs. Peterson keeps asking about your tattoos,” Daisy mentions casually. “Says they’re not appropriate for school pickup.”
I bite back a curse. Nosy neighbors are the last thing I need right now. “Mrs. Peterson should mind her own business.”
“That’s what Uncle Zane said.” She smiles slightly. “Then he showed her his sleeves, and her face turned white!”
Despite everything, I laugh. Trust Zane to handle suburban judgment with sass.
The bus arrives right on schedule. I hug my girls tight and breathe in their familiar scents. “Be good today.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Violet chirps.
As I walk home, nausea hits again. I barely make it inside before losing what little breakfast I had managed.
This can’t continue. The brothers notice everything, just like my girls. And now, with suspicious cars in Wolf Pike and Sacramento shadows looming closer…
My phone buzzes. A text from Chase: “You’re late. Is everything okay?”
Shit. Lost track of time. I’m supposed to be opening the gallery.
I’m barely on the foot of the stairs inside when a car door slams outside.
Through the window, I glimpse that black sedan crawling past.
Time to move. The gallery needs me. My men need me.
I can handle this. Handle everything.
Even if my body betrays me with every wave of nausea. Even if my daughters see through my careful lies. Even if Rose’s warnings about Sacramento grow darker each day.
After all, I’ve survived worse than morning sickness and nosy neighbors.
Haven’t I?
I rush into the gallery, already super late. The front door’s locked, blinds drawn—unusual for this time of morning. Sarah stands at The Den’s entrance, her expression tight as she spots me.
“Where are they?” I ask.
“Downstairs,” she answers quietly.
Through the stairwell, voices drift up—tense, angry. I catch fragments as I move closer to my desk.
“Three more sightings,” Clay’s saying. “All Sacramento plates.”
“Same pattern?” Rick’s voice is strained. “Near the schools?”
I freeze at the bottom step, not meaning to eavesdrop but unable to move. Teller is bent over a map spread across the table while my men and Clay surround him. None of them notice me yet.
“They’re daring,” Teller says. “Professional surveillance. These aren’t random drive-bys anymore.”
I should announce myself. Instead, I watch Rick run a hand through his hair—a gesture I recognize as pure stress. Chase’s shoulders are rigid while Zane paces near the wall.
“We’ve increased patrols,” Clay says. “Put eyes on every?—”
He spots me then, words cutting off. The others turn, tension shifting as they realize I’ve overheard.
“Morning.” I try for normal, moving toward my desk. “Sorry I’m late. School drop-off was?—”
“Meeting’s over.” Teller starts gathering papers, but not before I glimpse photos of black sedans. “Clay, handle those patrols.”
I pretend to focus on my computer, on doing normal gallery business, but I feel their concerned looks. Their careful attempt to shield me from whatever trouble’s brewing.
If they only knew what kind of trouble’s really coming.
“Coffee?” Chase offers, but I shake my head. The basement’s stale air is already making my stomach turn.
They file upstairs, voices lowered now, leaving me with questions I can’t ask. With fear I can’t show.
Because those Sacramento plates can only mean one thing.
Luca’s getting closer.