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criminal.” I shrugged. “No biggie.”
    She crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Did ya throw the book at the bastard?”
    I bit my lip to hide the smile. “Something like that.”
    Cops shows were Baba’s favorite things in the world. That’s why it was always so easy to convince her to babysit Danny when I had the late shift. Her meager retirement income meant luxuries like cable television weren’t an option. So she hung out at my place most nights watching TV cops strut around saying things like, “This time it’s personal,” and “I’ll have your badge for that!”
    “Thanks for keeping an eye on Danny last night until I got home.” When I’d arrived the night before, she had been snoring on the couch. I’d gently woken her up and helped her home, but we hadn’t talked much since she was only half-awake. “Happy to.” She waved a gnarled hand. “The crime channel was having a marathon of
Blue Devils
anyway.”
    Blue Devils
was her favorite show. It was about a ragtag team of vice cops who alternately killed and fucked their way through every investigation while narrowly dodging Internal Affairs. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’d watched a late-night episode or twelve and it was pretty good in a totally inaccurate and trashy way.
    “Still,” I said, “I appreciate it.”
    “Look, Kate, I am happy to help out and all—you know that.” She lowered her beer and squinted at me. “Hanging out with the kid is nice and I enjoying being able to watch my stories.”
    I nodded, bracing myself for the
but
.
    “But don’t you think it’s about time you let Danny stay here alone?”
    My stomach clenched. “No.”
    “Kate,” she began in a patient tone, “he’s old enough not to need a sitter. He’s what? Fifteen?”
    “Sixteen on Thursday,” I corrected.
    “Old enough not to need an old biddy like me hanging around. Hell, if something happened he’d be taking care of me!”
    That was a lie and we both knew it. Baba might be old, but she could be meaner than a polecat when crossed. I’d seen her wield that cane at everyone from the mailman for running over her petunias to a Jehovah’s Witness who tried to save her soul. “Regardless, I feel better knowing he’s not alone here at night.”
    She pursed her lips, which made the wrinkles around her mouth accordion like an air filter. Baba’s second favorite thing in the world was smoking, and the habit had left its marks on her face and in her raspy voice. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But don’t be surprised if he comes to you saying the same thing.”
    I sighed. “Did he say something to you?”
    She shook her head. “He’s too polite to, you know that. But I can see it in his eyes every time I show up.”
    “Annoyance?”
    “Disappointment. Like he’s waiting for you to trust him.”
    Well, if that wasn’t a sucker punch. I knew Baba meant well, but after the night I’d had this was the last discussion I wanted to have. “I’ll think about it,” I lied.
    “All right,” she said softly. The woman hadn’t lived to the ripe age of seventy-two without picking up a thing or two about dealing with people. She knew I was lying, but she also knew pressing me about it wouldn’t convince me to see her side. “Anyways, I brought ya something.” She dug a gnarled, arthritic hand into the large pocket of her housecoat. From it she lifted a glass jar—the kind used to pickle vegetables—and shook it. The liquid inside was disconcertingly red, like fruit punch, and kind of oozed inside the glass instead of sloshing.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s that tea I was telling you about.”
    I shook my head. Baba talked about a lot of stuff and I found sometimes it was best to zone out a little. “Which one?”
    She sighed. “Remember? The other day you complained that you hadn’t had a date since that horrible one with the mortician.”
    I nodded. Barry Finkleman had been nice-enough-looking, but his idea of a fun time was