Chapter 6: Night Feed

The knock came at two in the morning, three soft taps, the kind you give when you know there is a baby in the house.

I was awake anyway.

My daughter had decided that night was for eating, and I was standing in the dark kitchen with her fussing against my shoulder.

I checked the doorbell camera on my phone.

Alastair Rainsford stood on my porch in a gray sweater, holding two paper grocery bags.

I opened the door a hand's width.

"It's two a.m.," I said.

"I know. Hazel told me you're up at this hour. She also said you haven't eaten a real meal since Sunday."

"Hazel talks too much."

"She talked for ten minutes. I only listened to the part about the fridge."

He held up the bags.

I stepped back and let him in.

He put the bags on the kitchen counter and began to unpack them in a careful order.

Eggs, bread, a rotisserie chicken, a bag of clementines, and a box of the oatmeal cookies from the bakery on Main that closes at six.

"Those close at six," I said.

"I know the owner."

"You know everyone."

"I own the building."

I didn't have the strength to be annoyed at that.

My daughter let out a thin, rising wail.

"She's hungry," I said, and swore under my breath. "I pumped earlier. It's in the fridge, I just need to warm it."