Main Bonus #65: The Night of the Donnellys (Maximoff Hale) (Patreon)

IMPORTANT: Please do not screenshot and post any part of this bonus scene to other sites or share with non-patrons. All of the Patreon content is exclusive to Patreon and for current patron's eyes only.  Thank you!! xoxo Krista & Becca

RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

MUSIC: We listened to "Open Yours Eyes" by Snow Patrol and "Set The Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol while writing this bonus scene.

SPOILER WARNING: This bonus takes place during UNLUCKY LIKE US and will contain MAJOR spoilers from the book and will ruin your reading experience if you have not read Unlucky first.

MY MEETINGS HAVE ENDED for the day, and what waits for me in my office is stuff I would’ve never imagined growing up. Never would’ve pictured it. Never would’ve believed in it, even if you handed me a crystal ball and showed me my future.

I would’ve said, no way. Bullshit.

I didn’t marry my aggravating (and hot) childhood crush. I’m not with Farrow Redford Keene in a committed, solid, loving relationship.

And he’s not currently on the carpet of my office racing a toy car against our nearly two-year-old son.

Except, he is.

This is my life. The one I never expected and the one I absolutely, colossally love. I’m so goddamn grateful for it…for them.

“Vroooooom!” Ripley mumbles out while scooting his yellow Ferrari along the carpet. He’s dressed in Wolverine jammies, and he’s matched up against a black Mustang that Farrow pushes. A makeshift finish line of tape is stuck to the carpet near my desk. Farrow even constructed obstacles like a six-inch Power Ranger action figure, a stack of Philosophy books, and Rip’s pirate parrot stuffed animal.

Ripley squats to curve the Ferrari around the red Power Ranger, easily beating the Mustang. Ripley glances back at Farrow. “Faster, Papa!”

I smile, not inching away from the door.

You have no idea how much I love the way Ripley says pah-pah. And I know he might not always call Farrow that as he gets older—maybe we’ll both just be dad to him—but right now, in his little kid youth, it’s the true definition of precious.

I’d tell Farrow that, since he considers my smartass behavior precious, and I’m overly confident that I’m not listed in Meriam-Webster under that word. But I don’t speak.

I don’t announce my presence at all.

Something about this moment between my husband and our son—I just want to watch like I’m a bystander bodyguard and Farrow is the famous guy I’m supposed to keep my eye on.

“Oh no,” Farrow proclaims, “I’ve lost a tire.” He purposefully pulls off a tire and spins the toy car out of control. He’s giving our son the clear victory.

Ripley gasps. “Oh no! Papa!” He abandons the race and helps guide the black Mustang with Farrow towards the finish line. “Is okay. All bedder now.”

Farrow just briefly looks up at me. I figured he heard me enter the office, but the affection in his eyes does a number on me.

This is our life.

Ripley returns to his Ferrari, but he ensures his dad isn’t too far behind. Once Ripley crosses the taped line, Farrow cups his hands around his mouth and hoots like they’re in a NASCAR stadium. He shouts, “And there’s Ripley Keene Hale with the win!” He hoists our son up in triumph, and Ripley bursts into giggles, especially as he spins our boy around three-sixty. “You hear that? The crowd is going wild.”

I applaud loudly.

Ripley giggles harder, his smile bright among his big cheeks. “You won, Papa!”

“You won, little man.” Farrow perches him higher against his body so Ripley can face him. I watch how Ripley eyes the inked swords along his dad’s throat and the piercing on his lip. He loves looking at his dad’s tattoos like they’re the most interesting storybook in the world. I maybe, somewhat, get the allure.

Ripley shakes his head back and forth. “No.”

Farrow asks, “You don’t want to win?”

“Not widout you, Papa,” Ripley says, flinging his little arms around Farrow’s neck, and yeah, my heart is soupy ice cream. Totally melted.

Farrow rubs our son’s back, then touches his little head with tender care and love—all before smiling over at me. “You’re oozing into the floor.”

“I’m upright, thank you.” I make a show of crossing my arms.

“Need a mop?”

“To wipe your tears,” I fling back, even though my husband one-hundred-annoyingly-percent knows I’m internally mushy—and maybe if I were more externally sappy, I’d be tearing up.

He sucks in a breath. “I’m not crying.”

“Pretty sure I see a tear coming out.” I don’t.

Farrow just laughs, which makes Ripley pull back and smile more at him. The second that Farrow sets our kid on his feet, he beelines for me.

“Daddy!" He waddle-runs.

I crouch down to hug him. “You’ve been racing cars tonight, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods a lot. “Can wee go…go do…” He babbles to where I can’t understand him at first, but after a second of impeccable baby translation skills (mine are better than Farrow’s—don’t let him tell you otherwise), I get the sense he wants a milkshake from Lucky’s, which he calls diney place. He’s heard us call it a diner too many times.

I check my watch. Jesus, it’s later than I thought. “Maybe tomorrow, Rip. It’s wayyy past your bedtime.” I touch his head and stand.

He pouts, his sad eyes could make me cave if I wasn’t used to them from Winona, Audrey, and Vada when they were babies. Kinney didn’t even try on me growing up. I’m invincible against little kid doe-eyed tricks.

Routines are good for our son, but keeping the same routine isn’t easy. Not with the kind of hectic, unpredictable lives we live, not with fame and paparazzi throwing curveballs at me every damn week—but we’ve given Ripley stability with the home we’ve made. Going to bed around the same time feels more stable to me, so it’s something we try not to bend or break often.

When Ripley sees I’m not softening, he turns slightly. “Papa?” he asks Farrow, batting bigger, sadder eyes. “Diney place?”

Farrow is considering. He looks up at me, as though gauging my level of discipline on this. Honestly, he’s the one who’d bend nearly every rule for Ripley, and it should’ve never shocked me. I married a fucking rule-breaker who thinks most rules should be written in dry erase marker so he can wipe it off the board.

I stand my ground. “He wants a milkshake. That’s not going to make him crash, man. He’ll be wired for the rest of the night. And even if we’ve handled a sugar-crazed toddler before, I’d rather do that at an hour that won’t screw up his routine tomorrow.”

I have a feeling Farrow was playing cars with Ripley so it’d wipe him out, not rile him back up. He’s only considering going because he loves giving the people he loves what they want and need, and that unquestionably extends to Ripley.

Farrow squats down to our son. “Daddy’s right,” he tells him. “No diner. We’ll do it another day. Can you say, okay, Papa?”

“Okay, Papa,” Ripley says sweetly.

“Tell Daddy, we’ll wait.”

Ripley tries to enunciate those words to me. “We way, Daddy.”

“Thank you, Ripley,” I say in a smile.

“Thank you,” he parrots. He is way too cute for this world, and I’m aware that I’m biased as his dad—but I’m pretty sure he’d still be number one in any cuteness ranking. Bet me on it.

Farrow extends his arms to him. “Hug?”

“Hug!” Ripley flings his arms back around Farrow, and I smile before they break apart. Ripley trots over to his bucket of cars, forgetting about the diney place.

I come over to Farrow, unable to restrain a smile.

His gaze sweeps over my grin. “What’s that for?”

“Repeat what you said earlier to him and maybe I’ll tell you.”

He rolls his eyes, then thinks back. “No diner.”

“No, the first part of that.”

He clasps my jaw, as though examining my smile, but his hand. On my face. Is like a blood-rush to my cock. And then his know-it-all smile stretches slowly from cheek-to-cheek. “You’re coming over the fact that I said daddy’s right,” he realizes.

“That you said I’m right,” I correct.

He raises his brows. “Technically, I said daddy.”

I scowl. “That’s not the reason why I was grinning and not coming.”

“Not the whole reason,” Farrow is full-on grinning now into a laugh. How the hell did this spin back on me?

God, this is fucking annoying, and still, my body doesn’t listen. Because I draw closer. I curve my arm over his shoulders and eye his lips. That smile.

He’s still cupping my face. My heart hammers harder.

Kiss me, man.

He sweeps me. “You love me.”

“I’m glad that’s never a question,” I say honestly.

It drives something into Farrow. His chest rises in a deeper breath, and he’s about to pull me closer for a kiss—when my phone goes off in my jeans.

Great. “It might be work.” I dig it out.

“Rain check?” he asks.

I nod. He starts gathering our son’s things so we can leave soon. I’m on the phone with marketing for about ten minutes, and I end up on my desk chair, sending out a couple emails to my assistant.

Once I’m off the phone, Farrow asks, “You haven’t picked out next year’s charity schedule?” He’s confused. “Wasn’t that what tonight’s meetings were about?”

“The board is undecided between the Fight Night and Casino Night as next year’s largest new event. They want Charlie’s vote, but he left before we got to that.” I delete a spam email. “Filming is starting up again next year for the docuseries, so this event will likely be televised. It’s a bigger deal than usual.”

We could raise a lot of money, and I don’t want this to appear like a shitshow on TV. Bad cred for the philanthropy will fall on me, the CEO, and I’m not trying to create a reason to be ousted from my position again.

Farrow zips up the diaper bag. “About the docuseries…Jack mentioned something offhand about the producers wanting footage of our newborn. I’m going to be honest, I don’t know how I feel about that yet.”

“Me either,” I admit to him.

He nods, looking me over. “Good. It’s a no until we talk it over?”

“Yeah.”

Millie Kay’s due date is in December. Next month, we’ll be welcoming our second child, a daughter, and she’ll be so fragile and a new part of our family dynamic. My first thought is to ensure Ripley is adjusted to having a sibling and our baby is healthy before even contemplating We Are Calloway and cameras. I get that it’s their job: produce the show about my families’ lives. And I am a huge part of that—but I’m always going to prioritize my kids over their jobs. I have to.

I’m sure Farrow has feelings about privacy that I’m not thinking as much about. I lived in the public eye. I know nothing different like him. The thought of being filmed is just normal to me.

Ripley yawns, and I switch off my desktop computer and then slip a laptop in my backpack. He races over to me. “Red ligh? Green ligh?” Red light, green light. “Puh-lease?” He says that into another yawn, then clasps my hand.

He loves playing red light, green light in the penthouse and outside—mostly at my parents’ place since they have a yard—but going to a park in Philly is a big thing we try to do. You’ve seen us out there plenty of times, but you don’t realize we’ve had to pay paparazzi just to keep their distance from Ripley.

I crouch down to him. “It’s time for bed, little guy.”

“Noooo,” he whines, yawing again.

“When you yawn like that it means you’re tired, and that’s your body’s way of telling you that you need sleep.” I ruffle his chestnut hair.

He shakes his head defiantly, still too little to understand most of what I’m saying, and he mumbles out something like, I don’t wanna.

“Ripley,” I say firmly, just as Farrow’s phone rings.

Ripley humphs, crossing his arms like I did earlier.

“Yeah?” Farrow answers the call, phone to his ear, and his relaxed demeanor flips in a single startling instant. “Okay, okay. See you.” He hangs up.

I rise to a rigid stance. Farrow quickly hands me a black backpack, similar to my green canvas one for work, but it’s Ripley’s diaper bag.

He scrapes a hand through his ash brown hair. “I’ll meet you later. I’m sorry. I love you. I need to go. My dad’s a block away. He’s giving me a ride.” His words come out rushed, but not necessarily panicked. Bodyguards are calm in chaos, and Farrow exemplifies that to the gazillionth degree. But his muscles are flexed in tensed bands, and that sets me on edge.

“It’s a med call?” I’m guessing.

He nods, “Yeah. Call for a temp or Quinn before you leave. You need security.” Farrow can’t be my bodyguard. Not when he’s about to leave.

Quinn was on-duty most of today to protect Ripley, but once Ripley entered the secure Hale Co. building, Quinn could go wherever he wanted. We knew we’d be here past the evening, and so we let him take the night off since he had a date with his girlfriend Nessa.

He’s not supposed to return.

Which means he’s not really an option unless I want to interrupt his date. Yeah, I’m not doing that to Quinn.

“It’s serious?” I ask him.

He’s avoiding offering too much, and I can’t tell if it’s for doctor-patient confidentiality or because he’s trying not to push me towards a worse cliff. “I’ll text you when I can,” he assures.

“Alright.”

Farrow kisses Ripley goodbye on the cheek, tells our boy he loves him, then he kisses me on the lips, his hand lingering on my face for a half-beat. He’s so fast, he could audition for the Flash. It’s a blur. He’s here, then he’s running out of my office.

Someone’s hurt. Someone in my family. He wouldn’t rush out like that for a cold or the fucking flu. This was something else…

“Papa?” Ripley looks questioningly between the door, then me.

“We’ll see him later, Rip.” With my work backpack on, I only sling one strap of the diaper backpack on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

Ripley nods, clasping my hand again and hugging onto his pirate parrot.

Strapped down, I walk him out to the elevator. The H.M.C. Philanthropy level of Hale Co. is mostly a ghost town at this hour. Only a couple people busy themselves in their cubicles, and no one peers over to see us passing.

While we wait for the elevator, I call the direct hotline to the temp guards—which is the person who manages them. Michael Moretti.

“Hey, Michael. It’s Maximoff Hale,” I say. “Do you have any temp guards around Hale Co. that are available asap?”

“Not right now. It’ll be at least three to four hours.”

Awesome. I can’t wait that long. Not with my kid. He needs a real bed, and I’d rather not have him crash on my office couch for three hours while I’m fiddling my thumbs and doing a great big load of nothing. I can protect him. I’m just driving him home.

Thing is, Farrow might not like the idea that I’m without a bodyguard, especially while I’m with Ripley, and I’d call him and tell him first—but he’s on a medical emergency. Pretty much out of reach.

We’ll work it out later. I make the decision: I’m taking our son home without a bodyguard. “Let me know if anyone becomes available earlier. Like within a half hour.”

He confirms, says it’s unlikely, and we hang up.

Where are all the temps?

My son babbles to me in the elevator, but my baby translator skills are tanking. I’m blinking just to stay focused on him and not my rampant, spiraling thoughts that descend into apocalyptic territories.

Something’s wrong.

I slap the phone in my palm, my stomach clenching. I scroll through my favorites in my contacts and land on my best friend. I call her.

“Bonjour, ma moitié,” I say, my voice a bit constricted.

“Was the meeting a disaster, old chap?” Janie wonders, catching my rigid tone. “Please tell me my brother made an appearance like he promised he would.”

“Charlie was there,” I confirm, even if he bowed out early. “I’ll tell you more about it later. Have you heard anything strange tonight?”

Over the line, I hear the coo of her newborn, and my lips almost rise. Jane is home with Maeve, and after a traumatic birth, I’m just so goddamn happy my best friend and her daughter are alive and healthy.

“Besides Thatcher running out rather quickly, nothing has been too far out of our ordinary.” She sounds more cautious, but it’s from my unease. “Why do you ask?”

“Farrow ran out too, but for a med call. It wasn’t a nonchalant someone stubbed their toe thing, Janie. It seemed serious.”

“Merde,” she curses in French. “I didn’t ask Thatcher what was wrong. I don’t always prod him about security.”

I know. We’re total opposites there because I would’ve clawed for every piece of information from Farrow if it’d been a security issue and I was welcome to ask and receive. For medical, I have to respect his position and be okay being kept in the dark.

It’s never easy for me. I can admit that.

Jane adds quickly, “I’ll call around and see if anyone knows what’s happened.”

“Text me if you hear anything.”

She replies in French again, saying she will, and I tell her bye. Once I’m in the elevator with my son, I push the button to P2, but we immediately roll to a stop only one floor below my office. I tuck Ripley closer to my legs and keep a protective hand on his tiny shoulder.

The doors slide open, but no one is waiting. So it shuts again, and we descend.

I try to exhale a strained breath, and on my phone, I scroll through my favorites again. I tap on my dad’s number and call him.

He doesn’t answer.

My face twists, an unsettling feeling gripping my muscles. I call my mom.

No answer.

I try my uncle. Phone to my ear, I grip it tighter. Someone pick up. Please.

“Mof,” Ryke answers in a heavy breath, his voice semi-muffled with a hum in the background. I know that sound. He’s speaking on the mic in his motorcycle helmet.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask. “Farrow just ran out for a med call, and I can’t get ahold of my parents.”

“Where are you?”

“In an elevator.” Still descending to the parking deck. The ride is smooth, not jerky, but Ripley falls on his butt. Too tired to stand. Using my shoulder to pin my phone to my ear, I bend down and lift him up, able to hold him with the weighted backpacks.

Ripley tucks himself against my chest like I’m a pillow and squeezes his pirate parrot.

Ryke curses, “Fucking come on.” I hear honking. “Fuck you!” Then to me, “Not you, Mof.”

“What’s going on?” I ask more firmly.

It takes him long, agonizing seconds to speak, and then he says, “I don’t know that fucking much.”

“What do you know?” I say, just as the elevator dings. I carry my son out into the darkened parking deck.

“For fuck’s sake,” Ryke says aggressively, not to me. “Fucking MOVE! Stop trying to cut me the fuck off. Yeah—fuck you too!” I imagine he’s flipping off a vehicle.

Ripley drops his pirate parrot, his body slackening in slumber. I pin the phone with my shoulder again, just to bend down and grab the stuffed animal with a free hand.

Back upright, Ryke is talking to me—this time, in forceful, hurried Spanish. He’s telling me that there’s a situation. He won’t say with who. Then he’s asking me if I’m getting on the road soon.

I reply in the same language, saying I’m about to.

“Please be fucking safe,” he says in English.

Chills bite my flesh. “Did someone get in a wreck?”

“I don’t really fucking know.” His rough voice is sandpapered.

“Where are you headed?” I ask him.

“Call Connor.”

It plunges a knife in my gut. Normally I’d probably press harder, but he sounds like he’s dealing with an onslaught of traffic. I’d rather not distract my uncle and cause him to crash.

“Yeah, I will,” I say and hang up, but before I call my other uncle, I reach my new SUV parked in my reserved space. Once I have a fast asleep toddler buckled in his car seat and I’m behind the wheel of the Audi, I connect my phone via Bluetooth. “Call Uncle Connor.”

“Calling Uncle Connor,” the automated voice responds.

It’s the end of November. Cold. I let the car warm up and run, not shifting out of park yet, but really, I’m not sure where I need to go.

He answers on nearly the last ring. “Maximoff,” he says smoothly, no discernable tension or alarm in his voice.

“What the fuck’s going on?” I ask him and crack knuckle by knuckle with my thumb. “Ryke sounded like he’s in a hurry to get somewhere. My husband ran out like the world was on fire, and no one knows anything.”

“Where are you?” he asks exactly what Ryke first asked.

I lean stiffly back into the headrest.

The world, you, believe that Ryke Meadows and Connor Cobalt are polar opposites. The rugged selfless free-solo climber vs. the clean-cut narcissistic genius. Muscle vs. Intellect. Brawn vs. Brain.

Except they’re not that simple—there is depth to them that I’ll never even know, because I can’t know all of everyone. Moments like this, I’m slammed into their similarities. Their greatest one might be their need to protect the people they care about, so my heart is pounding, knowing I’m so goddamn unlikely to gain any ground with Connor, just like I barely gained any with Ryke.

“Parking deck,” I tell him. “I’ve tried calling my mom and dad, and they’re not answering, so I’m worried they’re in trouble.”

“Listen to me,” Connor says very, very calmly, an eeriness to his tone.

It pisses me off a bit. “You don’t need to assuage my feelings, Connor. I can handle whatever bad shit is happening to them. Maybe I can help.”

“If you could help the situation, you would’ve been called earlier.”

I asked for brutal honesty, so I can’t even be upset when it stings. “What’s the situation?”

“Are you on the road yet?” His cagey responses are overturning my stomach, and I’m dying for some clarity.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll call my driver to pick you up.”

“No,” I protest. “I can drive. Just tell me where I need to go.”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. And then he says it, “Philly General.”

I clench the steering wheel, reversing the car from my parking space.

“It’s your mom.”

It’s the last thing he tells me before he has to go.

My brain is creating mental loops around the word hospital and mom and injured. Car crash. It’s all that makes sense. Leaving the parking garage, there aren’t any paparazzi waiting. No one is on my tail, and I picture a horde of cameramen outside the crash site, snapping photos of my mom like they’d done to me years ago.

Light rain pelts the windshield, and I wish the wipers would squeak against the glass to disrupt my spiraling thoughts. The wipers are silent as the glass clears, and I slow at a red light, glittering Philadelphia high-rises landscaping a decent amount of traffic.

“Call Akara Meadows,” I say out loud.

“Calling Akara Meadows.” It reminds me of when Sulli told me her husbands took her last name and how it felt surreal. I told her I’d change their names in my phone so it’d be official for me.

She was practically giddy with happiness.

I try to hang on to that warmth, but a cold is wrapping around my body. You can’t help. I don’t know how to be an active bystander. When my world is falling, I can’t just stand there and watch it happen.

The line clicks. “I can’t talk,” Akara says, rushed. I hear police sirens and loud chatter in the background. I let him go.

“Call Thatcher Moretti,” I say.

“Calling Thatcher Moretti.”

He answers faster than Akara. “We’re handling it,” is the first thing he says.

“Handling what?”

“Ask Connor.”

“I’ve tried—”

“I need to go.” He hangs up on me.

I blink a few times to restrain an amassing frustration that could morph into anger. My blood is heating, and my knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Green lights, red lights. Start and stop, my stomach is a fucking blender of warped emotion, and I only breathe out when a text pops up on the screen above the air condition controls.

You should go to Philly General, but I won’t be there when you make it. I’m swapping to security. – Farrow

I tell the car, “Text Farrow: You’re not with my mom, question mark. Send.”

He’s quick to respond.

Not anymore. She’s in Edward and Trip’s care. – Farrow

He names his dad and uncle. My stomach is still in knots, my muscles burning alive. “Text Farrow: Where’s my dad, question mark. Send.”

With your mom. He’s okay. – Farrow

It’s the only thing that slightly eases me. And by slightly, I mean barely and almost not at all. I scrape a hand against the back of my neck. The Friday night traffic is just fucking horrendous the closer I am to Philly General.

I glance at a camera monitor that Farrow fastened to the dash. It shows a sleepy Ripley in his rear-facing car seat. His tiny lips are parted in slumber, and as much as I wanted today to be routine for him, I would’ve rather broken his bedtime for anything else. Anything commonplace and fun and less dire.

Not for this.

A super awesome trip to the hospital. Yayyyy. I want to return this curveball by hurling it back at the pitcher on the mound.

At one red light, I check the internet on my phone.

Nothing is trending on Twitter about a car crash, but I click into a recent article about my family.

HALE OUTING ALERT! Lily Calloway is taking her children to Putt Palace tonight!

What the fuck. I skim the article, looking between my phone and the red light. I swipe a hand over my mouth. It says I’m going to Putt Palace with my three siblings and my mom tonight, but I wasn’t invited for putt-putt. My mom knew I had work meetings.

“Call Luna.”

“Calling Luna Hale.”

The call doesn’t go through.

Dread washes over me.

“Call Xander.”

“Calling Xander Hale.”

Green light, I toss the phone into the cup holder, and I listen to the ring until he finally answers. “Moffy?”

“Hey, Summers.” I try to exhale. “Are you at Putt Palace?”

“No, I didn’t go. Why—is Mom trying to get you to convince me?”

I open my mouth, but words lodge in my throat. I swallow hard to say, “No, just wondered where you were tonight.”

“Home. Reading some romantasy book that Audrey begged me to try. It’s not that bad…”

“Is Kinney home too or did she go with Mom?”

“No, I think she’s at the Cobalt Estate with the rest of the girls.” Winona, Vada, Audrey, I assume. “Only Luna went to that putt-putt place.”

I tell him thanks and that we’ll chat later. Xander and Kinney are safe and accounted for. But now I’m drawing humongous question marks around Luna. More heat gathers under my skin.

After sitting in traffic for what feels like a millennium (could be a handful of minutes) I decide to bug my husband. He said he’s switching to security, and I can’t figure out what for. But it means he’s more accessible, so I say, “Call Farrow.”

“Calling Farrow Redford Keene Hale.”

Okay, the car didn’t have to say his full name, and all it does is squeeze the tendons of my heart. Last thing I fucking need are heart palpitations right now.

He picks up, and without waiting for a response, I speak with these boiling feelings twisting my insides. “Hey, Thatcher and Akara aren’t telling me a goddamn thing. My dad isn’t picking up his phone. My uncles are being cagey, so what the fuck is going on, Farrow?”

“Does he always come in this hot?” That’s not my husband.

Oscar is either with him or has his phone, and the mountain of confusion—of not knowing what the hell is going on in every direction—pummels me. My eyes sear, but I train my gaze on the road.

“Oscar and Donnelly can hear you,” Farrow warns me. “I’m in the car with them.”

Why is he with Donnelly?

I have no goddamn clue who Donnelly was supposed to protect right now. This morning, he was on my detail while Farrow was in a med team meeting with his dad and uncle. He left once I was at Hale Co. Much like Quinn left when Farrow came to my office with Ripley. 

Maybe he's on my brother's detail? Only, my brother hasn’t left the house, and he’s confirmed he’s still at home. He’s been avoiding Donnelly.

Do I always come in this hot? It grates at me in the brief silence. “I’ve been told to go to the hospital to see my mom—I’m not about to come in fucking cool,” I retort.

“Good,” Oscar says, more seriously. “Neither would we.”

I want information so badly; I’d embrace the sun and burn alive for it. “Farrow—”

“I can’t tell you what happened, wolf scout,” he says, his voice unnaturally strained. “Not while you’re driving.”

That gnaws at me bit by bit, inch by inch, and I try to swallow an iron taste in my throat. My nose flares, and I can’t speak right away. Farrow never shuts me out like this. He never coddles me. Never acts like I can’t carry the load, even when he knows it’s better if he takes the weight. To hear him shut me out when he’s the one person I expect to let me in—it’s crushing.

A million tons of stone bear on my chest, but I finally manage to speak. “I can drive. I’ll be fine. You know I can handle it. Just tell me what the fuck is going on. Please.”

“I know you can drive. I know you won’t wreck.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” My chest tries to collapse in hurt, my eyes burning as I force down emotion.

“Man, don’t say it like that.” He sounds as tortured as I feel.

“You always let me in on everything. If you’re worried about our son, he’s okay. He’s asleep in his car seat.”

“It’s not about Ripley.” I hear the knot in his throat. “Promise me something and I’ll tell you.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t follow me.”

I blink. “What?” My focus tunnels on the road. “Where are the three of you going? Why aren’t you with my mom?” Security. He swapped to security. What could be wrong? I have zero theories that coincide with car crash, so I’m starting to think there was none.

“Promise me, wolf scout.”

I think about Luna. No one said she’s at the hospital. “…it’s my sister?”

“Promise me.”

It’s my sister. Donnelly is with Farrow, and not only does Donnelly have feelings for my sister—he’s been tasked to infiltrate his family to take them down from the inside. What if they’re the root of the cause tonight? Of wherever they’re headed now?

Don’t follow him.

It’s my sister.

It feels like I’m breathing in tear gas. My lungs are blistering, and every muscle in my body is screaming as I stay course. I want to follow him. What if Luna’s life is at stake? The only thing seriously conflicting me is the innocent little kid in the backseat of my car. He’s depending on me.

And I don’t know where the hell Farrow is—but I have to trust in him, in Oscar, and most especially in Donnelly.

If he loves her like I think he does, then I need to believe he’d pull her out of blazing wreckage, a six-foot ditch, a vicious riptide, a worse doomsday—anything I would’ve done.

I can’t help my sister.

I blink a few times. This acceptance is excruciating, and the only thought that softens it is, but they can.

They can help Luna.

So I say, “I promise. I’ll go straight to the hospital, Farrow. Just tell me.”

“Luna is missing,” he says, and an acidic ball rises in my throat. She’s missing? His voice sounds louder and clearer as he says, “We’re on our way to find her. I took you off the car’s speakers. They can’t hear you.”

“It wasn’t a car crash?” I ask.

“No. Assault and kidnapping. Breathe.”

I’m barely breathing. “She’s alive?” I ask him.

“Your mom is stable,” he assures, hushed.

He says nothing about Luna, and I don’t ask. She’s missing…assault…kidnapping. “You’ll find her, Farrow,” I say, more as an encouragement.

“You’ll keep him safe.” He’s referring to our son, and he says it like a certainty, not a question. “Text me when you get to the hospital. I love you, wolf scout.”

I try to inhale deeply, but it’s shallow and sharp. “I love you too.” After the call ends, I’m stuck again in stop-and-go traffic for…I can’t say how long.

My mind is reeling between assault and kidnapping and Luna’s missing. I think about growing up with my little sister, how I’d ask if I could unbuckle her from her car seat. I’d ask if I could be the one to hold her hand when we crossed the road.

I remember being seven and seeing her afraid after paparazzi surrounded us and our parents at the mall. I remember telling her in the safety of a toy store, “Nothing bad’s ever gonna happen to you. I’m right here.”

I smear a hand over my flamed face, my eyes trying to well.

“Daddy?” His saddened, soft voice jolts me.

“Yeah, baby?” I see his downturned lips in the camera monitor. He’s near tears.

“I…” He blubbers. “I…went potty…” He cries into a sob.

“That’s okay, Rip. Shhh, it’s okay,” I console. We literally just started potty training two days ago. He showed signs of being ready for it, so we thought we’d try, and we changed him into pull-ups today instead of a diaper in case of accidents.

He cries harder.

“We’re going to stop and get you changed, okay?” I rotate the wheel, taking a detour. “Ripley, shhh. Take deep breaths, little guy. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He’s working himself up, hiccupping into another cry. “What’s there to be upset about?”

“I…I…” He rubs his little fist at his eyes.

He can’t tell me.

In the parking lot of a fast-food chain, I shut the car off and get out, instinctively checking my surroundings on my way to Ripley. No one is about to spring out of the bushes. Some random car hasn’t pulled up beside mine. Cameramen aren’t spilling out, ready to pounce. There are just a couple college-aged girls in a blue Nissan slipping into the drive-thru.

The one day I’m without a bodyguard, no one has followed me. I’m not relieved.

It’s unsettling. I wonder if they already know about my mom. I wonder if they’re trying to find Luna too. It’s like a rat race, and I’m already in last.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” I whisper to Ripley, thumbing away tears off his soft cheek. “Everyone has accidents.”

Now that he sees my face, he calms down a bit. “I…I didn’t make the big boy potty.” His chin quivers.

“You’re still a big boy, and you will make it one day. That’s what practice is for.” I brush away another tear. “You didn’t do anything wrong or bad.” I hate that he thinks he has. “What do we do when we fall down?”

He sniffs again. “We get back up.” He says it very seriously.

“You’re not always going to make the big boy potty. So we try again tomorrow. You get back up.”

He nods like he understands, and even if he doesn’t yet, at least he’s not crying anymore.

I retrieve his black baseball cap from beneath the seat, and I tug it backwards on his head. His lips inch up in a smile, and he looks at the one I’m wearing.

“Ready?”

He nods.

I try to make this quick. Backpack on with all the diaper-changing essentials, Ripley in my arms, I’m walking into the fast-food chain without Farrow. Without any shadow ahead of me or behind me. It shouldn’t be the strangest thing today. The strangest thing should be my missing sister and the fact that I’m on my way to the hospital to see my mother.

My stomach tosses, then clenches again.

After I change Ripley, I swerve towards the cashier and order a strawberry milkshake. The guy taking my order is watching hockey on a mounted TV in the corner, not really paying attention or trying to place my face. He might not even know who Maximoff Hale is.

“One small strawberry milkshake,” he calls out, sliding over the cup while I’m holding Ripley.

I stick the straw in the lid. As soon as I hand it to Ripley, his eyes grow big and shimmer, his burst of happiness like a twinkling star in the darkened night.

Stars. Space. The universe. I think about Luna again.

Christ.

Get it together. Get it together. My shit is completely, totally together. No one would probably expect otherwise, but inside, I just don’t feel put-together enough for my son. I feel like raging and running, and maybe I shouldn’t feel those things at all. Not with him in my arms.

“That good?” I ask him, wishing I could smile back—but too much is pressing on me right now.

“Mmhmm,” Ripley nods, slurping through the straw, both hands around the cup.

Just as I turn to go, the cashier curses. “What the fuck?”

I rotate a fraction to see the television channel has changed to the news. They show aerial views of a dead-end street and a parked car. The windows look fucking smashed. Her rental car. I know my mom has been driving that car. She sent a group pic of it to me and my siblings, saying my new ride.

The few people eating in booths go silent.

A forty-something woman gasps, “Did they just say Lily Calloway?”

“Oh my God,” her friend mutters.

“Turn it up!” someone shouts in the back.

The cashier raises the volume, and as Ripley tries to peer up at the TV, I instinctively bring his face to my chest. I spin his baseball cap around, the brim shielding his eyes.

He’s busy slurping on his milkshake.

“…don’t know which of her children were present with Lily at the time of the assault…but okay, we have more breaking news to report.” My pulse is skidding.

Graphic photos.

They have graphic photos of my mom, and I put a hand on Ripley’s head, ensuring he’s not looking and the second I see them, I almost black out. I stagger a step or two backwards, unable to hear whatever the women in the booth are saying.

I’m not even sure if anyone notices me.

I distance myself from the images, from that horrific reality, and I rotate and leave, letting the cold November air hit me on my way outside. Each footfall is heavier than the next, and my lungs have filled with concrete.

“Daddy?”

I think I tell him it’s okay. Carefully, I buckle Ripley back into his car seat, and I shut the door. Fully intending to go to the driver’s side.

I don’t make it there.

I crouch down near the curb, nausea ascending in my throat too quickly. My palm digs into loose gravel, and I vomit away from the tires.

My insides burn.

Emotions are ransacking me. I’m gutted, then incensed, then impaled again. Between rage and heartache, and I don’t know how to pull myself out that fast. Someone violently and viciously attacked my mom. Then someone just as fucking sick decided to air those images for the world to see.

Why? Why?!

I’m infuriated, sickened, and I grind down on my teeth and press my fist to my mouth, a scream buried in my chest. I can’t get it out.

Who would do this?

Paparazzi? Were they at the scene of the crime? Did they sell the pics to the news? Did they just watch it happen? Did they stand there and do fucking nothing?

Wrath amasses again, blood boiling, then the images strike my head, and I reroute to nausea. I puke again.

“Sir?” a woman calls out. She sounds like the same one from inside. “Are you okay?”

No.

I’m so far from okay right now, but the second she asks, I think about my son in the car. I think about Xander and Kinney. Please tell me they haven’t looked at the news. God, don’t let them look.

And slowly, I rise to an unbending, stoic stance. I turn, and once my gaze catches with hers, I know the brim of my baseball cap hardly conceals my face.

She recognizes me. I say nothing. She says nothing. I stare at a woman who likely knows a ton about me and my family, but I know nothing about her. Horror and pity line her face, and I hide everything in mine. I show barely anything.

But she’s already seen me puke in the parking lot.

Something about this moment makes me feel empty, and I don’t stand around and figure out why. Without a word, I just turn and go.

When I’m back on the road, I ask Ripley, “You okay?”

“Yep!” He’s wide awake now, the sugar rush before the crash.

“We’re going to make a pit stop”—at the hospital—“and see Uncle Ryke and Uncle Connor.”

“Will-will Grandpoppy Lo and Grandmommy be there?”

My dad—I need to see my dad. “We’ll see,” I breathe.

Thank you for reading this month's main bonus scene! This night is one of the most monumental in the entire series, so we've been eager to capture it from different POVs. First on that list was Maximoff, and we loveeeed being able to show how the events unfolded for him and more of his family dynamic with Baby Ripley! We hope you enjoyed getting to see where he was and what he was doing that night. Plus, we love writing Ripley moments ☺️

There's still more to come this month! Keep your eyes peeled for another bonus scene, the monthly podcast (catching up on Charlie Cobalt) and an extra podcast (All About Unlucky Like Us)!

xoxo Krista & Becca

"The Night of the Donnellys (Maximoff Hale)," Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie