The bedroom door whispered against the carpet as Dylan pulled it shut. The less noise he made, the more likely Heaven would remain asleep. He needed her to sleep—all night.
Darting from the door, he hurried to the staircase, feeling the edge of each step as he slid over them. When his feet hit the hardwood floor, he headed for the den where Layne had promised he’d be.
And he’d kept his promise. Layne sat on a barstool, unwinding with a shot of Patrón. Dylan approached the bar. He found another glass, pouring himself a drink for liquid courage.
Layne asked, “How’s she doing?”
The grogginess in Layne’s voice caught Dylan’s attention. He needed Layne sober if he wanted his plan to work.
“How drunk are you?” he asked.
“I’m not drunk,” Layne scoffed. “I had my second shot twenty minutes a
