He’d pulled on a clean white T-shirt from the collection in his single drawer in my bedroom but hadn’t gotten to socks and shoes, padding around barefoot in his jeans.
I paused in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed after last night.
Bran gave me a wide smile and offered me a mug of tea. “Got confirmation from my father’s personal assistant that Second Chance, Second Life is one of Hanover Investments’ smaller charities.” He gestured at the table. “I made up bacon and eggs. You’ve got to be famished.”
I tried not to give a sigh of relief. We were good, at least for the time being.
I dived on the food with unladylike manners, shoving strips of bacon into my mouth until my stomach stopped growling.
Bran chuckled and sat down across from me with a cup of tea. “I see I was correct.”
“Aren’t you eating?” I mumbled as I speared another forkful of eggs.
“Already did.” He pointed to the dishes in the sink. “I thought I’d let you sleep in a bit.”
I glanced at the clock. “Eight-thirty? Holy...” I grabbed my mug and slurped hot tea. “We’ve got to get going.”
“I saw Liam’s picture on the morning news,” Bran murmured. “The Callendars did a live interview. They were crying, both of them.”
“He’s safe.” It wasn’t much but all I could offer. “Let me check in with Jess.”
I dug out my phone from my jean pocket and dialed.
“What?” She answered on the first ring, her tone impatient.
I put the phone on speaker so Bran could hear. “Hi, Jess.” I kept shoveling food into my mouth. “How’s it going today?”
“The little one likes cats.”
I almost spewed eggs and bacon across the table. “What?”
“Don’t panic. He was fussing a bit last night and I thought I’d give him something to look at.”
Bran’s mouth fell open. He looked at me as if I’d been the one who had Changed.
“He did have a little stuffed lion in his crib.” I reached for my tea to try to avoid choking. The mental image of Jess Changed and cooing to Liam was almost too much to bear without laughing. “Aside from that, he’s fine?”
A disgruntled huff came across the line. “I was taking care of babies long before you came along. Just call me when you need him back.”
She cut the connection before I could respond.
“Would you think less of me if I said I found that both reassuring and terrifying at the same time? If he grows up with some sort of fur fetish...” Bran stole the last piece of bacon from my near-empty plate.
“Don’t even start.” I got up and dumped the plate in the sink. It took me another minute to finish off the tea, during which I tried to not giggle at the mental image of Jess and Liam.
“I figure we’ll start with the soup kitchen,” Bran said. “See who Shaw met.” He lifted a finger before I could speak. “Not necessarily my father. There’s a lot of bigwigs who go on these outings, you know.”
“Duly noted. Think they’ll tell you who showed up? Isn’t there some sort of secrecy pledge on this sort of work?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He pointed to his chest. “Hanover, remember?”
“And then what?” I turned the water on as he walked into the living room.
“Then we take it from there.”
The answer didn’t make me feel any more confident. I wagged my finger at Jazz, who immediately hopped up on the kitchen counter and spread out next to the Brown Betty.
“Don’t ever have kittens. I couldn’t deal with it.”
She trilled and rolled onto her back with a snort.
We caught a streetcar most of the way to the soup kitchen, hopping off a block early. Bran had given me an odd look when I rang the bell requesting a stop.
“I don’t want to step off right in front of the place,” I offered by way of explanation. “Gives us a chance to see what’s going on around the building before we walk in and start rocking the boat.”
“It’s a soup kitchen. Maybe stirring the pot?”
I ignored him and studied a trio of homeless men sitting on a nearby bench, graciously donated by some corporation that advertised their charity with a large metal plate screwed into the front of the seat. The blank-eyed stares at the pigeons gathering around their feet told a thousand stories.
This area of Toronto hadn’t undergone the deconstruction so popular these days, shredding old buildings in favor of high-priced condominiums with views of other condominiums.
“There’s the place.” Bran pointed at a storefront that had seen better days, the chipped pale yellow paint barely holding the wood together. He frowned, taking in the dingy façade. “You’d think it’d look better given the amount of money we pour into it.”
“They put up a fancy neon sign and it’d be broken within the week. Around here it pays to be quiet and discreet.”
No cheerful bell jingled when we walked in to announce our arrival. The large room held over twenty plastic tables covered with red-and-white paper tablecloths. Vases held artificial flowers on some of them.
At the back sat the serving area, with orange trays already cleaned and stacked for the lunch crowd. A lone woman looked through the stainless steel windows and frowned.
“We’re not open for lunch until noon.”
Bran strode the length of the room with long, leisurely strides that hid his impatience. “I’m here to see Stacy Hampton.”
The elderly woman looked him over, pursing her lips. I couldn’t blame her trying to figure out who this man was; I had no doubt emergency buttons lay within easy reach for all of the staff.
She turned away from us and adjusted her hairnet. “Stacy? Some man up front here wants to talk to you.”
I could imagine her fingers creeping toward the red button.
I tugged on Bran’s arm, pulling him to a stop a proper distance from the serving windows. “Give them a minute.”
He looked at me and frowned.
“They’re prepared for trouble. Give them a minute to assess the situation.”
A door opened beside the stacked trays and a woman walked through. Young, blonde and in her twenties, she smiled as she approached us. Wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt with the charity title emblazoned across the front in bright yellow letters, she latched on to Bran automatically as the leader.
“Can I help you?”
Bran extended his hand. “Brandon Hanover. I’d like to talk to you about your work here.”
I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. Hanover. Family. Grovel. Start.
“Of course, Mr. Hanover. A pleasure to meet you.” I got a half-assed nod. “And your friend. How can I help you today?”
“I’m working on a story about some of your employees.” He gave her a thousand-dollar smile. “Keeping it all in the family, as it were.”
“I see. Come on back to my office and we can talk.” She waved at the open door with a wary glance toward the front.
Stacy Hampton was a smart, street-savvy woman.
We followed her through the kitchen to a series of small offices carved out of the back loading dock area. Skids of canned vegetables sat near a forklift.
Stacy pointed at three men sitting at a folding table and playing cards. “When your break’s over, get this unpacked. The lunch crowd’s going to arrive soon enough.”
The three men got to their feet as one and nodded. They were all older men and looked like they’d been doing hard time before they’d hit puberty, their skin leathery and scarred with more than prison tattoos. She had their respect. Hampton wasn’t a woman to be taken lightly.
The office was as generic as they come, the appropriate motivational posters on the walls with whales and dolphins and penguins delivering their pep talks. I noticed a framed print advertising a benefit dinner for the soup kitchen, held last year and prominently displaying Hanover Investments as their sponsor.