My eyebrows rise to Stanton. “Have fun with that, buddy.”

Stanton chews a cheese ball, his green eyes alight with humor. “Soph and I were talkin’—we thought instead of tossing the fourth ticket, it might be nice if you came with me and Presley instead. You and that Riley girl.”

“Are you nuts?” I ask, because—obviously.

“Please, Jake?” Sunshine begs. “It’ll be so much fun havin’ a girl my own age there with me.” She turns to her father. “No offense, but you and Sofia just don’t get it.”

Stanton shrugs. “No offense taken. I still know I’m the cool daddy.”

Presley puts her hand on his arm. “I love you, Daddy, but whatever you think cool is? It’s not that.”

Stanton gives her a mock frown.

And her bright blue eyes plead with me. “Come on, Jake. I bet you’ll like them. Their music is amazin’—better than the Beatles.”

I fear for today’s youth.

“It might be good for her,” Stanton says, pressing me. Because I told him all about Riley’s Friday-night misadventures with Jägermeister.

I sigh, already knowing I’m going to regret this.

But I pick up my phone to call Chelsea anyway.

• • •

The next day, Stanton, Sofia, Presley, and I arrive at Chelsea’s house after work. She hasn’t told Riley about the concert yet, wanted it to be a surprise. And she said she didn’t want to risk Riley’s shattering the windows with her screams of excitement.

Oh—and Brent tagged along too. Because I’ve mentioned Chelsea and the kids at lunch and he wants to meet them. Also, because he has no life.

We gather in the foyer and I make the introductions. Chelsea greets each of my friends warmly. She’s wearing a casual, pale blue shirtdress that displays miles of smooth, succulent legs. And I fantasize about Stanton taking the girls on his own, and Sofia and Brent taking the rest of the rabble. Far, far away.

“Hi,” Regan says to Sofia, toddling into the room and holding a stuffed bear who looks like he’s seen better days.

“Hi,” Sofia replies, smiling.

“Hi!” Regan squeaks.

“Hi!” Sofia laughs.

And here we fucking go again.

For my own sanity, I’ve gotta teach this kid another word.

Stanton and Brent pick up their conversation from lunch—the ongoing “perfect murder” game. “Drowning,” Brent says insistently, ticking off his points on his fingers. “Chances are the body will be too decomposed to retain any useful evidence, and there’s a built-in alibi because the defendant can always claim the person slipped. It worked like a charm for Natalie Wood’s husband.”

Stanton shakes his blond head. “I’m still stickin’ with an allergic reaction.”

Raymond adjusts his glasses and jumps into the conversation. “Are you guys talking about the best way to off somebody?”

They nod and Raymond’s face turns eager. “I know a way. You make a high-powered bullet out of ice. And fire it from a sniper’s rifle. After it passes through the heart, it’ll melt. No fingerprints. No footprints.”

We’re silent. Shocked.

And kind of freaked out.

“I just got goose bumps.” Brent shivers. “Did anyone else get goose bumps?”

Rosaleen steps forward, her eyes focused on Brent. “Why do you walk like that?” she asks innocently.

“Rosaleen!” Chelsea chides. “That’s rude.”

But from experience, I know it’s fine and I tell her so.

Brent explains to the seven-year-old. “I got hit by a car when I was a kid, lost part of my leg.” He lifts his pant leg, showing off his titanium prosthetic. “So be careful riding your bike.”

She regards him with a tilted head. “So they gave you a fake leg?”

“Yep.”

“Can you take it off and show me?”

“No.” Brent shakes his head.

Rosaleen considers this. Then she asks, “You wanna come see my playhouse outside? It has curtains.”

“Sure.” Brent checks his watch. “I’ve got time.”

Riley comes down the stairs, her eyes taking us all in. I introduce her to everyone. She smiles at Presley with a friendly, “Hey.” And Presley waves.

“Sooo”—Chelsea grins—“Jake has a surprise for you, Riley.” She gives me a look, tilting her head toward Riley, nudging me on.

I clear my throat and stick the tickets in the teenager’s hands, trying not to make it a big deal.

“Oh my god!!!” Riley screams.

And Cousin It howls in response.

“These are One Direction tickets! Front-row One Direction tickets!” Huge blue eyes brimming with elation look up into mine. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately.”

The twittering, enthusiastic, unintelligible chattering between her and Presley begins. And goes on.

And on.

Rory smirks at me. “You have to go to a One Direction concert?”

I nod reluctantly.

“Ha!” He laughs, pointing his finger. “Sucker.”

I glower. “Shut up, kid.”

• • •

Four and a half hours of screaming girls later, I can’t hear jack shit. Even driving back in Stanton’s car everything is muffled—the shouting, singing girls in the backseat sound like they’re annoying me from underwater.

The four of us walk in the front door and find Brent, Sofia, and Chelsea having coffee in the den. Sofia holds Ronan, asleep in her arms, and a fierce, hungry look crosses Stanton’s face as he gazes at her.