that she wanted to ask, but somehow her lips, curved into a wide smile, refused to move.
“This monster child is my daughter, Heidi,” Damon shouted above the din. “And she refuses to stop screaming.”
Matty heard Damon’s voice, and she even made some sense of what he said. The foghorn was a baby, Damon’s baby, in fact. She was supposed to turn around, acknowledge the child in his arms, perhaps even offer professional advice on calming her. Some part of Matty—a part growing steadily smaller—wanted to do just that. As for the rest…
Her eyelids gave up the fight and closed, screening out everything except Damon’s next words.
“Nanny! What the hell did you put in that tea?”
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