Outside the car, it’s a hot muggy June afternoon. Russell toots the horn as he drives away and I guess there’s no turning back now. The Maxwell house is a big classic Victorian, three stories high, with yellow wood siding and white gingerbread trim. There’s a big wraparound porch with wicker furniture and planters full of yellow flowers— daisies and begonias. The property backs up to a large forest—or maybe some kind of park?—so the street is full of birdsongs, and I can hear the insects buzzing and chirping and trilling.
I walk up the flagstone path and climb the steps to the front porch. I ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers. He has orange-reddish hair that’s sticking straight up. He reminds me of a Troll doll.
I squat down so we’re seeing eye to eye. “I bet your name is Teddy.”
The boy gives me a shy smile. “I’m Mallory Quinn. Is your—”
He turns and sprints up the stairs to the second floor, vanishing from sight.
“Teddy?”
I’m not sure what to do. Ahead of me is a small foyer and a passage leading back to a kitchen. I see a dining room (to the left) and a living room (to the right) and gorgeous hard pine floors (everywhere). I’m struck by the fresh clean scent of central air-conditioning—mixed with a hint of Murphy Oil, as if someone has just given the floors a good scrubbing. All
the furniture looks modern and brand-new, like it’s just arrived from the Crate and Barrel showroom.
I press the doorbell but it doesn’t make a sound. I press it three more times—nothing.
“Hello?”
At the far end of the house, in the kitchen, I see the silhouette of a woman turning to notice me.
“Mallory? Is that you?”
“Yes! Hi! I tried your doorbell but—” “I know, sorry. We’re getting it fixed.”
Before I can even wonder how Teddy knew I’d arrived, she’s stepping forward to welcome me. She has the most graceful walk I’ve ever seen—she moves soundlessly, like her feet are barely touching the floor. She’s tall, thin, and blond, with fair skin and soft features that seem too delicate for this world.
“I’m Caroline.”
I put out my hand but she greets me with a hug. She’s one of those people who radiate warmth and compassion, and she holds me an extra moment longer than necessary.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Russell’s told us so many wonderful things. Are you really eighteen months clean?”
“Eighteen and a half.”
“Incredible. After everything you’ve been through? That is just extraordinary. You should be really proud of yourself.”
And I worry I might start to cry because I wasn’t expecting her to ask about recovery right away, first thing, before I’ve even stepped inside her house. But it’s a relief to get it over with, to just put all my worst cards on the table.
“It wasn’t easy, but it’s easier every day.”
“That’s exactly what I tell my patients.” She steps back, reviews me from head to toe, and smiles. “And look at you now! You’re so healthy, you’re glowing!”
Inside the house, it’s a crisp pleasant sixty-eight degrees
—a welcome retreat from the muggy weather. I follow Caroline past the staircase and underneath the second-floor
landing. Her kitchen is full of natural light and looks like a cooking show set on the Food Network. There’s a large refrigerator and a small refrigerator and the gas range has eight burners. The sink is a kind of trough, wide enough to require two separate faucets. And there are dozens of drawers and cabinets, all different shapes and sizes.
Caroline opens a tiny door and I realize this is a third refrigerator, a miniature one, stocked with cold drinks. “Let’s see, we’ve got seltzer, coconut water, iced tea…”
“I’d love a seltzer.” I turn to marvel at the wall of windows facing the backyard. “This is a beautiful kitchen.”
“It’s huge, isn’t it? Way too big for three people. But we fell in love with the rest of the house, so we went for it. There’s a park right behind us, did you notice? Teddy loves to go stomping through the woods.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“But we’re constantly checking him for ticks. I’m thinking of buying him a flea collar.”
She holds a glass to the ice dispenser and it makes a gentle tinkling sound—like the wind chimes on her front porch—and out fall dozens of tiny crystalline ice pearls. I feel like I’ve just witnessed a magic trick. She fills the glass with fizzy seltzer water and hands it to me. “How about a sandwich? Can I make you something?”
I shake my head no but Caroline opens the big refrigerator anyway, revealing a smorgasbord of groceries. There are jugs of whole milk and soy milk, cartons of brown eggs from cage-free hens, one-pint tubs of pesto and hummus and pico de gallo. There are wedges of cheese and bottles of kefir and white mesh bags exploding with leafy green vegetables. And the fruit! Giant clamshells of strawberries and blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, cantaloupe and honeydew. Caroline reaches for a bag of baby carrots and a pint of hummus and then uses her elbow to close the fridge. I notice there’s a child’s drawing on the door, a crude and unskilled portrait of a bunny rabbit. I ask
if Teddy is responsible, and Caroline nods. “Six weeks in this house and already he’s hinting for pets. I told him we have to finish unpacking.”
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“He seems gifted,” I tell her, and I worry the words sound forced, that I’ve gone too far too soon.
But Caroline agrees with me!
“Oh, definitely. He’s really advanced for his peer group.
Everyone says so.”
We settle at a small dining table in the breakfast nook and she hands me a sheet of paper. “My husband typed up some guidelines. Nothing too crazy but we might as well get them out of the way.”
HOUSE RULES
- No drugs
- No drinking
- No smoking
- No profanity
- No screens
- No red meat
- No junk food
- No visitors without permission.
- No photos of Teddy on social media.
- No religion or superstition. Teach science.
Underneath the typed list, there’s an eleventh rule, handwritten in delicate feminine script:
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Have fun!
Caroline starts apologizing for the rules before I’ve even finished reading them. “We don’t really enforce number seven. If you want to make cupcakes, or buy Teddy an ice cream, that’s fine. Just no soda. And my husband insisted on number ten. He’s an engineer. He works in technology. So science is very important to our family. We don’t say prayers and we don’t celebrate Christmas. If a person sneezes, we won’t even say God Bless You.”
“What do you say?”
“Gesundheit. Or ‘to your health.’ It means the same thing.”
There’s an apologetic tone in her voice and I see her glance at the tiny gold cross that hangs from my neck—a gift from my mother on my first Holy Communion. I assure Caroline that her House Rules won’t be a problem. “Teddy’s religion is your business, not mine. I’m just here to provide a safe, caring, and nurturing environment.”
She seems relieved. “And have fun, right? That’s rule eleven. So if you ever want to plan a special trip? To a museum or a zoo? I’m happy to pay for everything.”
We talk for a while about the job and its responsibilities, but Caroline doesn’t ask a lot of personal questions. I tell her that I grew up in South Philly, on Shunk Street, just north of the stadiums. I lived with my mother and younger sister, and I used to babysit for all the families on my block. I attended Central High School and I had just received a full athletic scholarship to Penn State when my life ran off the rails. And Russell must have told Caroline the rest, because she doesn’t make me rehash the ugly stuff.
Instead she just says, “Should we go find Teddy? See how you two get along?”
The den is just off the kitchen—a cozy, informal family room with a sectional sofa, a chest full of toys, and a fluffy shag rug. The walls are lined with bookshelves and framed posters of the New York Metropolitan Opera—Rigoletto, Pagliacci, and La Traviata. Caroline explains that these are her husband’s three favorite productions, that they used to visit Lincoln Center all the time before Teddy came along.
The child himself is sprawled on the rug with a spiralbound pad and some yellow number two pencils. At my arrival, he looks up and flashes a mischievous smile—then immediately returns to his artwork.
“Well, hello again. Are you drawing a picture?”
He gives his shoulders a big, exaggerated shrug. Still too shy to answer me.
“Honey, sweetheart,” Caroline interjects. “Mallory just asked you a question.”
He shrugs again, then moves his face closer to the paper until his nose is practically touching the drawing, like he’s trying to disappear inside it. Then he reaches for a pencil with his left hand.
“Oh, I see you’re a leftie!” I tell him. “Me, too!”
“It’s a common trait in world leaders,” Caroline says. “Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan—they’re all lefties.”
Teddy maneuvers his body so I can’t see over his shoulders, I can’t see what he’s working on.
“You remind me of my little sister,” I tell him. “When she was your age, she loved to draw. She had a giant Tupperware bin full of crayons.”
Caroline reaches under the sofa and pulls out a giant Tupperware bin full of crayons. “Like this?”
“Exactly!”
She has a light, pleasant laugh. “I’ll tell you a funny story: The whole time we lived in Barcelona, we couldn’t get Teddy to pick up a pencil. We bought him markers, finger paints, watercolors—he showed no interest in art. But the moment we move back to the States? And move into this house? Suddenly, he’s Pablo Picasso. Now, he draws like crazy.”
Caroline lifts the top of the coffee table and I see it doubles as some kind of storage chest. She removes a sheaf of paper that’s an inch thick. “My husband teases me for saving everything, but I can’t help myself. Would you like to see?”
“Definitely.”
Down on the floor, Teddy’s pencil has stopped moving. His entire body has tensed up. I can tell that he’s listening carefully, that he’s focusing all his attention on my reaction.
“Oooh, this first one is really nice,” I tell Caroline. “Is this a horse?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“No, no, no,” Teddy says, springing off the floor and moving to my side. “That’s a goat, because he has horns on his head, see? And a beard. Horses don’t have beards.” Then he leans into my lap and turns the page, directing my attention to the next drawing.
“Is that the weeping willow out front?”
“Yes, exactly. If you climb it, you can see a bird’s nest.”
I keep turning pages and it isn’t long before Teddy relaxes in my arms, resting his head against my chest. I feel like I’m cradling a large puppy. His body is warm and he smells like laundry that’s fresh out of the dryer. Caroline sits off to the side, watching our interaction, and she seems pleased.
The drawings are all pretty standard kid stuff—lots of animals, lots of smiley-faced people on sunny days. Teddy studies my reaction to every drawing and he soaks up my praise like a sponge.
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Caroline seems surprised to find this last picture in the stack. “I meant to set this one aside,” she says, but now she has no choice but to explain it. “This is Teddy and his, um, special friend.”
“Anya,” Teddy says. “Her name is Anya.”
“Right, Anya,” Caroline says, winking at me, encouraging me to play along. “We all love Anya because she plays with Teddy while Mommy and Daddy are working.”
I realize Anya must be some kind of weird imaginary playmate so I try to say something nice. “I bet it’s great having Anya around. Especially if you’re a little boy in a new town, and you haven’t met the other children yet.”
“Exactly!” Caroline is relieved that I’ve grasped the situation so quickly. “That’s exactly right.”
“Is Anya here now? Is she in the room with us?” Teddy glances around the den. “No.”
“Where is she?” “I don’t know.”
“Will you see her later tonight?”
“I see her every night,” Teddy says. “She sleeps under my bed so I can hear her singing.”
Then there’s a chime in the foyer and I hear the front door open and close. A man’s voice calls out, “Hello?”
“In the den!” Caroline calls back, and she looks to Teddy. “Daddy’s home!”
Teddy springs from my lap and runs to greet his father, and I return the drawings to Caroline. “These are … interesting.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “He’s not possessed, I swear. It’s just a really weird phase. And lots of children have imaginary friends. My colleagues in pediatrics say it’s extremely common.”
She sounds embarrassed and I’m quick to assure her that of course it’s perfectly normal. “I bet it’s because of the move. He’s invented her so he has someone to play with.”
“I just wish she wasn’t so weird-looking. How am I supposed to hang this on the refrigerator?” Caroline turns the picture facedown, then buries it in the stack of other drawings. “But here’s the thing, Mallory: Once you start working here, I bet he forgets all about her. He’ll be having too much fun with his new babysitter!”
And I love how she’s talking—like the interview’s over and I’ve already got the job, and now we’re just problem-solving. “I’m sure the playgrounds here are crawling with kids,” I tell her. “I’ll make sure Teddy has tons of real friends before school starts.”
“Perfect,” Caroline says. Out in the hallway, there are footsteps approaching, and she leans closer. “Also, I meant to warn you about my husband? He’s not really comfortable with your history. Because of the drugs? So he’s going to look for reasons to say no. But don’t worry.”
“So what should—”
“Also, call him Mr. Maxwell. Not Ted. He’ll like that.”
Before I can ask what any of this means, Caroline backs away and her husband enters, carrying a grinning Teddy on his hip. Ted Maxwell is older than I’m expecting, a good ten or fifteen years older than Caroline, tall and trim with gray hair, dark-framed glasses, and a beard. He’s dressed in designer jeans, scuffed Oxfords, and a sports coat over a V-neck T-shirt—the sort of outfit that looks casual but costs ten times more than you’d ever imagine.
Caroline greets him with a kiss. “Honey, this is Mallory.”
I stand and shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Maxwell.”
“Sorry I’m late. Something came up at work.” He and Caroline exchange a look, and I wonder if something comes up a lot. “How’s the interview going?”
“Very well,” Caroline says.
“Very very well!” Teddy exclaims. He wriggles out of his father’s arms and jumps back into my lap, like I’m Santa
Claus and he wants to tell me everything on his Christmas list. “Mallory, do you like hide-and-seek?”
“I love hide-and-seek,” I tell him. “Especially in big old houses with lots of rooms.”
“That’s us!” Teddy looks around the den in wide-eyed astonishment. “We have a big old house! With lots of rooms!”
I give him a little squeeze. “Perfect!”
Ted seems uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He takes his son by the hand and coaxes him out of my lap. “Listen, buddy, this is a job interview. A very serious grown-up conversation. Mommy and Daddy need to ask Mallory some important questions. So you need to go upstairs now, okay? Go play LEGOs or—”
Caroline interrupts him. “Honey, we already went over everything. I want to take Mallory outside and show her the guest cottage.”
“I have my own questions. Give me five minutes.”
Ted gives his son a little push, sending him on his way. Then he unbuttons his coat and sits across from me. I realize he’s not quite as trim as I thought—he has a bit of a paunch—but the extra weight suits him. He looks well fed, well cared for.
“Did you bring an extra copy of your résumé?” I shake my head no. “Sorry.”
“No problem. I’ve got it somewhere.”
He unbuckles his briefcase and removes a manila folder stuffed with documents. As he flips through the file, I see that it’s full of letters and résumés from other applicants. There must be fifty of them. “Here it is, Mallory Quinn.” And as he extracts my résumé from the pile, I see it’s covered with handwritten annotations.
“Central High School but no college, right?” “Not yet,” I tell him.
“Are you enrolling in the fall?” “No.”
“Spring?”
“No, but hopefully someday soon.”
Ted looks at my résumé, then squints and cocks his head, like he can’t quite make sense of it. “This doesn’t say if you speak a foreign language.”
“No, sorry. I mean unless you count South Philly. ‘Do youse guys wanna jawn of that wooder-ice?’”
Caroline laughs. “Oh, that’s funny!”
Ted just marks his notes with a small black X.
“How about musical instruments? Any piano or violin?” “No.”
“Visual arts? Painting, drawing, sculpture?” “No.”
“Have you traveled much? Gone abroad?” “We went to Disney when I was ten.”
He marks my résumé with another X. “And now you work for your aunt Becky?”
“She’s not my aunt. It’s just the name of the day care: Aunt Becky’s Childcare. Because ABC, get it?”
He sifts through his notes. “Right, right, I remember now. They’re a recovery-friendly workplace. Do you know how much the state pays them to employ you?”
Caroline frowns. “Honey, is that relevant?” “I’m just curious.”
“I don’t mind answering,” I tell her. “The state of Pennsylvania pays one-third of my salary.”
“But we would pay all of it,” Ted says, and he starts scribbling figures in the margins of my résumé, doing some kind of elaborate calculation.
“Ted, do you have other questions?” Caroline asks. “Because Mallory’s been here a long time. And I still need to show her out back.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got everything I need.” I can’t help but notice that he moves my résumé to the very bottom of the stack. “It was nice to meet you, Mallory. Thanks for coming by.”
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“Don’t mind Ted,” Caroline tells me just a few moments later as we exit the kitchen through sliding glass patio doors. “My husband’s very smart. With computers, he’s a wizard. But socially, he’s awkward, and he doesn’t understand recovery at all. He thinks you’re too high-risk. He wants to hire a student from Penn, some whiz-kid with sixteen hundred SAT scores. But I’ll convince him you deserve a chance. Don’t worry.”
The Maxwells have a big backyard with a lush green lawn, surrounded by tall trees and shrubs and flower beds popping with color. The centerpiece of the yard is a gorgeous swimming pool ringed with patio chairs and umbrellas, like something you’d see in a Las Vegas casino.
“This is beautiful!”
“Our private oasis,” Caroline says. “Teddy loves playing out here.”
We walk across the lawn, and the grass feels taut and springy, like the surface of a trampoline. Caroline points to a tiny path at the edge of the yard and tells me it descends into Hayden’s Glen—a three-hundred-acre nature preserve crisscrossed with trails and streams. “We won’t let Teddy go alone, because of the creeks. But you’re welcome to take him as much as you want. Just watch out for poison ivy.”
We’ve nearly crossed the yard before I finally glimpse the guest cottage—it’s half-hidden behind the trees, as if the forest were in the process of consuming it. The house reminds me of the candy cottage in the Hansel and Gretel story—it’s a miniature Swiss chalet with rustic wood siding and an A-frame roof. We climb three steps to a tiny porch, and Caroline unlocks the front door. “The previous owner kept his lawn mower in here. Used it like a garden shed. But I’ve fixed it up for you.”
Inside, the cottage is just one room, small but spotlessly clean. The walls are white and the roof rafters exposed,
thick brown beams crisscrossing the ceiling. The wood floors are so pristine, I’m compelled to kick off my sneakers. To the right is a small kitchenette; to the left is the most comfortable-looking bed I’ve ever seen, with a fluffy white comforter and four enormous pillows.
“Caroline, this is amazing.”
“Well, I know it’s a little tight, but after being with Teddy all day, I figured you’d appreciate the privacy. And the bed’s brand-new. You should give it a try.”
I sit on the edge of the mattress and lie back, and it’s like falling into a cloud. “Oh my God.”
“That’s a Brentwood pillowtop. With three thousand coils supporting your body. Ted and I have the same one in our bedroom.”
On the far side of the cottage, there are two doors. One opens to a shallow closet lined with shelves; the other is the world’s smallest bathroom, complete with shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. I step inside and discover I’m just short enough to pass beneath the showerhead without ducking.
The entire tour doesn’t take more than a minute, but I feel obligated to spend a little more time inspecting everything. Caroline has outfitted the cottage with dozens of small, thoughtful design touches: a bedside reading lamp, a foldaway ironing board, a USB charger for cell phones, and a ceiling fan to keep the air circulating. The kitchen cabinets are stocked with basic amenities: plates and glasses, mugs and silverware, all the same high-end stuff they use in the main house. Plus a few simple provisions for cooking: olive oil, flour, baking soda, salt and pepper. Caroline asks if I like to cook and I tell her I’m still learning. “Me, too,” she says with a laugh. “We can figure it out together.”
Then I hear heavy footsteps on the porch and Ted Maxwell opens the door. He’s traded his sports coat for an aquamarine polo shirt, but even in casual clothes he still cuts an intimidating figure. I’d hoped I would finish the interview without seeing him again.
“Teddy needs you for something,” he tells Caroline. “I can finish showing her around.”
And it’s awkward because I’ve already seen everything there is to see, but Caroline’s out the door before I can say anything. Ted just stands there, watching me, like he thinks I’m going to steal the sheets and towels.
I smile. “This is really nice.”
“It’s a single-occupancy apartment. No guests without permission. And definitely no sleepovers. It’s too confusing for Teddy. Will that be a problem?”
“No, I’m not seeing anyone.”
He shakes his head, annoyed that I’ve missed his point. “We can’t forbid you from seeing anyone, legally. I just don’t want strangers sleeping in my yard.”
“I understand. That’s fine.” And I want to believe this is progress, like we’ve taken a tiny step closer to a working relationship. “Do you have other concerns?”
He smirks. “How much time do you have?”
“All the time that’s necessary. I really want this job.”
He moves over to the window and points outside to a small pine tree. “Let me tell you a story. The day we moved into this house, Caroline and Teddy found a baby bird under that tree. It must have fallen out of its nest. Maybe it was pushed, who knows? Anyway, my wife has a big, big heart so she found a shoebox and filled it with shredded paper and she started feeding the baby bird with sugar water, from an eyedropper. Meanwhile I’ve got movers in the driveway, I’m trying to unpack the whole house so we can start a life together, and Caroline’s telling Teddy how they’re going to nurse this baby bird back to health, and one day it’s going to soar high over the treetops. And of course Teddy loves this idea. He names the bird Robert and he checks on Robert every hour, he treats the bird like a baby brother. But within forty-eight hours, Robert is dead. And I swear to you, Mallory, Teddy cried for a week. He was devastated. Over a baby bird. So the point is, we need to be
extra careful about the person we invite to live with us. And given your history, I worry you’re too much of a gamble.”
And how can I argue with him? The job pays good money and Ted has a folder stuffed with applications from women who have never been addicted to drugs. He could hire a fresh-faced nursing school student who’s trained in CPR or a five-time grandmother from Honduras who gives Spanish lessons while preparing homemade enchiladas verdes. With options like these, why take a chance on me? I realize my best hope now is to play my trump card—my last-minute gift from Russell, before I got out of his car.
“I think I have a solution.” I reach in my bag and remove something that looks like a paper credit card with five cotton tabs on the bottom. “This is a drug test dip card. They’re a buck a piece on Amazon, and I will happily pay for them out of my own wages. They test for meth, opiates, amphetamines, cocaine, and THC. Results take five minutes and I will voluntarily submit to testing every week, on random days of your choosing, so you never have to worry. Would that put your mind at ease?”
I offer the card to Ted and he holds it at a distance, like he’s disgusted by it, like somehow it’s already dripping with warm yellow urine. “No, see, this is the problem,” he says. “You seem like a nice person. I wish you all the best, I really do. But I want a nanny who doesn’t have to pee in a cup every week. You can understand that, right?”
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I wait in the foyer of the main house while Ted and Caroline squabble in the kitchen. I can’t hear the specifics of the conversation but it’s pretty clear who’s arguing what. Caroline’s voice is patient and pleading; Ted’s responses are short, harsh, and staccato. It’s like listening to a violin and a jackhammer.
When they finally return to the foyer, their faces are flushed, and Caroline forces a smile. “We feel bad keeping you waiting,” she says. “We’re gonna talk more and be in touch, okay?”
And we all know what that means, right?
Ted opens the door and practically shoves me outside into the sweltering summer heat. The front of the house is so much warmer than the backyard. I feel like I’m standing on the border of paradise and the real world. I put on a brave face and thank them for the interview. I tell them I’d love to be considered for the job, that I would really enjoy working with their family. “If I can do anything to make you feel more comfortable, I hope you’ll ask me.”
And they’re about to close the door when little Teddy squeezes between his parents’ legs and hands me a sheet of paper. “Mallory, I drew you a picture. As a present. You can take it home with you.”
Caroline looks over my shoulder and sharply draws in her breath. “Oh my gosh, Teddy, it’s beautiful!”
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And I know it’s just a couple of stick figures but there’s a sweetness to the drawing that really gets me. I crouch down so I am staring eye to eye with Teddy, and this time he doesn’t flinch or run away. “I love this drawing, Teddy. As soon as I get home, I’m going to hang it on my wall. Thank you so much.” I open my arms for a quick hug and he gives me a big one, wrapping his short arms around my neck and burying his face into my shoulder. It’s the most physical contact I’ve had in months and I feel myself getting emotional; a tear squeezes out the corner of my eye and I wipe it away, laughing. Maybe Teddy’s father doesn’t believe in me, maybe he thinks I’m just another burnout doomed to relapse, but his adorable little boy thinks I’m an angel. “Thank you, Teddy. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
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I take my time going to the train station. I stroll along the shady sidewalks, past little girls making chalk drawings and teenage boys shooting baskets in driveways and lawn sprinklers going fitz!-fitz!-fitz!-fitz! I walk through the little shopping district, past the smoothie shop and the mob of teenagers standing outside the Starbucks. I imagine how nice it must be to grow up in Spring Brook—in a town where everyone has enough money to pay their bills and nothing bad ever happens. And I wish I didn’t have to leave.
I go inside the Starbucks and order a strawberry lemonade. As a recovering addict, I’ve decided to avoid every kind of psychoactive stimulant, including caffeine (but I’m not totally crazy; I’ll still make an exception for chocolate, since it only has a couple milligrams). I’m spearing my straw through the lid when I recognize Russell on the far side of the dining room, drinking black coffee and reading the sports pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer. He’s
probably the last man in America who still buys a print newspaper.
“You shouldn’t have waited,” I tell him.
He closes the paper and smiles. “I had a hunch you’d stop here. And I want to know how it went. Tell me everything.”
“It was horrible.” “What happened?”
“Your trump card was a disaster. It didn’t work.”
Russell starts laughing. “Quinn, the mother already called me. Ten minutes ago. As soon as you left her house.”
“She did?”
“She’s afraid some other family is going to steal you. She wants you to start as soon as possible.”
