My palms become sweaty, and I rub my fingertips over Charlotte’s soft hair, reassuring myself that she’s okay. Any momentary calm I just experienced is completely gone. I swallow the extra spit in my mouth and ask the next logical question. “Was he arrested?”
Jamie, glances at Agent Dunham and the other suit, and then speaks looking, very guilty. “You see, Mr. McKinney, we didn’t know about this possible threat, so we turned the guy away, assuming he was paparazzi. However, my guy has given the FBI a description, and we recorded the van’s license plate which, of course, has been turned over.”
Van? Some sick fuck had a van to kidnap my family.
“Mr. McKinney, we’re taking this attempt very seriously. With your private security team’s great work, we should have the guy in custody soon.” Agent Dunham reassures me.
Standing up, I begin to pace. This is more than I can take. Charlie needs to get home, now. I grab my daughter’s carrier and whistle for Pancho. “Sounds like you guys are on it. Thank you.” Then to Jamie, I turn and say, “Keep me posted.”
I can’t escape the pool house quickly enough. I almost sprint Charlotte into the master bedroom, sinking down into the plush cushion of the red college chair. This is our safe place.
Immediately, I unstrap my baby girl and lift her to my chest, cradling her sleeping body against me. I’m half surprised my racing heart doesn’t wake her. I feel sick to my stomach. A kidnapper almost gained access to my family.
The only thing that keeps me from seriously losing my shit is the less than ten-pound angel in my arms. She needs a daddy who’s strong, and fights for her. That means that when Charlie returns from her walk, she’s not going to know any of this is going on. It means my daughter will never live in fear, imprisoned because of my career.
I give myself a mental pep talk about being a man, and the head of this family. A man protects his wife and child. I’ll tell Charlie once the bastard has been arrested, and not before. I’m not ready for the bullshit that surrounds us to intrude in our bubble we’ve been living in since Charlotte came home from the hospital.
As the minutes tick by, I actually start believing what I’m selling myself. Denial is a beautiful thing. Today, is the day my daughter will be introduced to all the people who deeply love her. It will not be clouded with my real world problems.
I have to trust Jamie to do the job that I handsomely pay him to perform.
I glance around our bedroom, noting that it appears that a baby-store bomb went off in here. The sitting area has been turned into a temporary nursery. I had Jenny move all the furniture except for the red college chair into storage. Brad and Charlie’s sisters took my credit card and went on a baby shopping-spree. I swear our baby has more crap than me and Charlie combined.
When Charlie returns home, we have important things to do today, like naming our kid, and not worrying about all the sick fucks in the world.
Let Jamie and the FBI do what they do best—catch the bad guys.
We plan to announce her name at the party. But first, we’ve got to decide on said name. Today, is the deadline that we set for ourselves. I have a feeling that this battle might be one of our ugliest.
Charlie made the first shot across the bow by dressing her in Dallas Cowboy footed-pajamas. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I recognize this for what it is. Charlie’s manipulative attempt to get her way. She thinks that I’ll be distracted by our daughter’s cuteness, in my team colors so I won’t notice when she writes down the name of her choice. I’ve been bamboozled before by the likes of Doctor Collins (should be McKinney). I retaliated a bit with the baby’s car, but in my defense, that car was bought with my family’s safety in mind. I will not be manipulated when it comes to naming our daughter.
Who knew naming a kid could be this difficult? Or maybe we’re the two most stubborn people in the world? Charlie may be, but I’m not.
Charlotte and I two-step into the living room as I sing her an old George Strait song. I don’t know any lullabies, so I assume that old country is just as good as anything. Charlie bought me this harness-like thing to put Charlotte in so I can carry her and still use both hands, but it sucks. My baby knows who her daddy is, and she likes to snuggle into my chest hair, not against some padded material.
Dear God, I’m grateful we live inside the gated neighborhood, and my security team is so good.
“We’re in here,” I yell when I hear the backdoor slam. “And I think Charlotte is ready to eat.” She makes the cutest little sucking face when she’s hungry.
“Tell Elizabeth that I’ll be right there,” Charlie says. I hear the refrigerator door close. Hopefully, she’s eating something. I’ve been watching her like a hawk to make sure that she has a balanced diet. Doctor Starr put Charlie on an antidepressant as a precautionary measure against postpartum depression before we left the hospital. She talked to both of us about how pregnancy is a huge trigger for Charlie’s disease. I encouraged Charlie to take it. We agreed on a six-week timeframe, and then she can reevaluate with Doctors Benson and Starr.