Chapter 3 - The Heat of the Pink Blanket
The moment Edward’s palms made contact with the infant through the flannel, his breath stopped entirely.
Leo was not just warm. His small body radiated an intense, dry, terrifying heat—the burning temperature of an uncontrolled pediatric fever that had breached dangerous thresholds. The baby’s skin was blotchy, his cheeks flushed crimson, his dark eyelashes stuck together with dried secretions. When Edward lifted him out of the canvas harness and brought him into the crook of his left arm, the boy didn't cry. He merely let out a weak, high-pitched whimper that sounded like a wounded kitten, his tiny chin trembling against Edward’s chest.
Edward pressed his lips against the baby's forehead.
It felt like touching hot porcelain.
"He’s sick," Edward said.
The words were not directed at Maya. They fell into the empty air of the foyer with the cold, terrible weight of a lead weight hitting iron.
Julian took two slow, measured steps backward, stepping onto the dry perimeter of the herringbone floorboards near the corridor archway. The shock of Edward’s sudden arrival had receded from his features, replaced by a smooth, rehearsed patina of reasonable domestic concern. He tossed the remaining core of the green apple into the dented zinc bucket; it landed with a hollow, metallic clatter in the dirty water.
Julian wiped his hands against his joggers and forced a casual, reassuring smile to his lips.
"She made a mess, Ed," Julian said smoothly, his hands rising in an easy, non-threatening gesture of innocent explanation. "You know how she gets when you’re away. She spilled whole milk across the entrance yesterday, let it sit until it turned, and then dragged the mop through it. I was just teaching her personal accountability. Kids need boundaries, especially when their father spends half the month living in executive suites in Colorado."
Edward did not blink. He stayed kneeling in the filthy water, his left arm supporting Leo’s burning, limp frame, his right hand keeping Maya anchored firmly against his hip.
"He has a fever of at least a hundred and three, Julian," Edward said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, devoid of the natural pitch of anger, vibrating with a subterranean pressure that caused the hairs on the back of Julian’s neck to rise. "His lips are cracked. He's dehydrated."
"He had a low-grade temperature yesterday morning," Julian replied, shrugging his shoulders with an airy, dismissive grace. "I gave him some infant drops from the cabinet. He slept for six hours straight. Children get fevers all the time, Ed. You're overreacting because you walked in during a chore."
Julian took half a step forward, his smile tightening into a paternal, patronizing grin. "Maya was being stubborn. She refused to eat her lunch, so I told her she couldn't take Leo up to the nursery until the entrance was presentable for the weekend. I handled it. Everything was under control."
Maya gripped Edward’s shirt tighter, her small fingers twisting the linen until the fabric tore slightly at the seam. She pressed her face hard into the crook of his collarbone, her small body trembling so violently that Edward could feel the rhythmic rattle of her teeth.
"Daddy," she whimpered, her breath hot and shallow against his neck. "He took the phone. He locked the pantry door with the silver key. I tried to get the water from the hose outside, but the handle was too tight..."
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Edward slowly turned his head to look at Julian.
In the dim light beneath the crystal chandelier, Edward’s pale gray eyes were completely vacant of mercy.
