“What the fuck is RSV?”
“A coughing-lung thing that young kids get.”
“Son of a bitch. They said they wanted her. You heard them. You were there.”
“Yeah. This ain’t on you, bud. Anyway, social services said she’ll be okay, but they won’t return her to them, but they do want to place her with family. That’s you.”
“With me?” Flack sprung up, his gun still in his hand as he spun. The sleek glass, concrete, and metal home was a multi-level work of modern art. Sharp edges were accentuated with stark white decor punctuated with bold pops of color. “Look at this place. It is more of a museum than a house. This isn’t a place for a baby. I’m gone for months on end. I … I’m an assassin, for fuck’s sake. Who in their right mind would leave a little girl with me?” He stopped and stared at Smoke. Cold, stark fear ran through him. “I don’t know anything about raising a baby.”
“Most people don’t.” Smoke handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the number for the social worker. Brooke is at the pediatric unit at Methodist. Before you tell them you can’t take care of her, see your niece and ensure she’s okay. They have programs for this type of situation. Foster homes and such. Your sister would have wanted you to ensure her baby was okay.”
Flack nodded and took the paper. Smoke walked to the door and turned around. “Merry Christmas, Flack. Go see your niece.”
Flack listened to Smoke’s vehicle start and leave. Still, he stood in the middle of his living room and stared at the series of digits on the paper. The only living connection to anyone he had on this planet was in the hospital. Because the people he’d left her with neglected her.
Dear God, what was he going to do?