Chapter 8 - The Construction of the Nursery
The apartment on North Moore Street in Tribeca didn't look like a bachelor’s fortress anymore. The dark grey minimalist leather sofas had been moved to the storage units in Queens, and the expensive glass sculptures that used to look out over the Hudson River had been replaced by wide, low oak bookshelves filled with children's histories, environmental studies, and rows of small, hand-painted wooden blocks.
It was New Year’s Eve, 2026.
The snow was falling thick and silent over the dark waters of the river, the lights of the Jersey City docks reflecting off the white drifts like a million fallen stars.
I stood by the kitchen island, a mug of hot cider between my hands, watching Hannah show Ryan how to assemble a vintage wooden crib that had been delivered from her mother’s house in Boston that morning. She was thirty-two weeks pregnant now, her belly a round, beautiful hill beneath her green wool sweater, her face completely clear of the shadows that had chased her into the Newburgh bluffs.
"The federal marshals completed the seizure of Marcus’s loft this morning, Jack," Ryan said, dropping a steel bolt into the side rail of the crib and tightening it with an Allen wrench. He looked up at me with a grin that was entirely un-security-chief-like. "The district attorney says the plea agreement is locked. He’s looking at ten years at Allenwood. He won't be back on the river until the boy is in middle school."
"Thank you, Ryan," Hannah said, reaching down to touch his shoulder as she walked toward the window. "For finding the car on Route 9W. For bringing him to the hospital."
"Don't thank me, Mrs. Callahan," the big man whispered, his eyes crinkling as he stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Thank the nurse at St. Mary’s. If she hadn't been stubborn enough to look at the old marriage certificate before she called the lawyers, we’d still be spending fifty thousand dollars a month on private investigators to find out why the Newburgh library had an extra staff member."
He gathered his tools and walked out, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a soft, solid thud that didn't carry any sound of a threat.
I walked over to where Hannah was standing by the glass window, looking out at the white storm covering the river. The light from the harbor was silver, catching the dark curls of her hair where they rested against her collarbone.
"Jack," she said, her hand reaching back to find mine, her fingers locking between my fingers with a grip that felt like a permanent boundary.
"Yes, Hannah?"
"Do you still think they'll come after what you love?" she asked, her voice dropping into that soft, steady line that had kept my heart beating through the ninety days of darkness.
May you like
I looked at her face—at the lines around her eyes that had been put there by three months of Tribeca laughter, at the round hill of her stomach where our son was currently kicking against the wool of her sweater, and at the long, clear view of the river that had once been our frontier.
"No, Hannah," I whispered, leaning down to press my forehead against her neck, the smell of her lavender soap and the cold winter air filling my lungs. "I think they finally figured out that the Callahan name doesn't mean an empire anymore. It just means the two people who know how to keep the house warm."
