Page 87 of Halo

Reading the text messages again, a new chill crawls down my spine. Goosebumps flare across my skin as my heartbeat leaps into my throat.

I hit reply.

ME:

Who is this?

***

An hour later, I pull into the driveway of a beautiful two-story brick home tucked beneath an enormous pecan tree. The porch light casts a warm glow across the front steps as I grab a new H-E-B bag from the passenger seat and head for the front door.

My hand barely reaches the doorbell before the anguished wailing of a certain five-year-old boy greets me.

A flustered Nick answers the front door, wearing a blue, disposable surgical cap and gloves.

In his boxers.

Oh. My. Gosh.

So this is what sin looks like.

My gaze betrays me before I can stop it. Thick, muscular thighs disappear beneath the hem of his boxers, one of them wrapped in an intricate tattoo of oversized flowers climbing toward his hip. A dusting of dark hair trails beneath his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband while another brushes across a broad chest that somehow makes him look even more … like a man.

Good gracious …

Grady’s cries pull me from my stupor, and my heart immediately caves. He peers around Nick’s leg, his blond hair butchered into uneven chunks with a few bare patches exposing his scalp. The skin around his neck is raw from scratching, his little chest hitching with every sob.

“Oh, buddy …” My heart twists as I crouch down to his eye level.

“I’m sorry, Leah. I know this is … well, I don’t even know what this is.” He gestures helplessly toward the kitchen, where a bowl of dough sits abandoned beside a bag of flour and sugar. “We were supposed to leave for Fort Worth first thing tomorrow, so I thought I’d get a head start on breakfast. Grady wanted to watch a ballet while I baked.” He shakes his head, words tumbling over one another. “He’d been scratching all afternoon, but kids scratch, right? The weather has been cooler, so I figured maybe his skin was dryer … and then my timer went off …” He exhales shakily. “The house got quiet, and when I went looking for him, he was in the bathroom with a pair of scissors, trying to cut the bugs out of his hair.”

I set the H-E-B bag on the floor and fold my hands in my lap. “Is that what happened, buddy?”

He nods slowly as giant tears spill down his cheeks. He scratches at his scalp as his little shoulders tremble with every sniffle. “Do I ... do I really have bugs in my hair?”

“You do,” I say gently. “But they’re teeny tiny. Smaller than a grain of rice.”

Nick shudders in my periphery.

I give him a stern look with a raised eyebrow before turning back to Grady. “But I’ve got good news.” I reach into the bag and pull out a metal lice comb and a bottle of treatment. “You know what these are?”

He shakes his head, looking intently.

“These are bug-catchers.” I wiggle the comb. “We’re going to catch every single bug and tell them to scram.”

He sniffs. “Scram?”

“Yeah.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Like, ‘Hit the road! This isn’t your house anymore!‘”

He mimics the gesture, his little thumb pointing behind him. “Scram. Like that?”

“Uh-huh.” I smile. “Just like that.”

I glance up at Nick’s blue surgical cap. “And you know what? I think your dad already dressed for the job.”

We get Grady settled onto a stool in his bathroom with a juice box and Giselle playing on Nick’s tablet. I drape a towel around his shoulders, fastening it like a superhero cape before showing Nick—who has managed to become more delicious-looking by pulling on a pair of gray sweats and a white tee—how to section the hair. Slowly, I pull the fine-toothed metal comb from scalp to ends, wiping the tiny bugs and their eggs into a collection cup after each pass.

He stares at the tiny comb in horror.