by Lisa Lace
I let my head rest against hers. “Thanks, Dayna. You’re an angel.”
“I’m going to put some dinner on,” she tells me. “It’s spaghetti. Your favorite.”
“That sounds amazing.” I stretch my arms out above my head and smile. “Have I got time to have a shower and freshen up?”
“I think so. I’m going to have a power nap.” She yawns. “I’ve been on my feet all day.”
Dayna’s house is small, a one-bedroomed row house in downtown Manhattan. I’ve been sleeping on her sofa. I go upstairs to the tiny bathroom, which is right next to Dayna and Mike’s bedroom. I turn on the shower and am about to step in when I hear them arguing through the walls.
“How long is she going to stay here?” Mike’s voice is an angry mumble through the plaster. “We said a week, Dayna. A week. She’s been here nearly a month.”
“I know, babe, but she needs me.”
“She’s freeloading.”
“She’s paying a fortune to keep her mother in care.”
“So she doesn’t need to pay rent? She’s supporting her mom, so we should support her, is that it?”
“She pays what she can, Mike. You know that.” Dayna’s voice is sharp and protective. She’d defend me to the death.
“We’ve only been married for two months. Call me old-fashioned, but I thought we’d be spending this time on our own. We’re supposed to be newlyweds, but we can hardly be all over each other and be close with Elise sitting between the two of us like the world’s biggest third wheel. I think you need to tell her it’s time to move on.”
“I’m going to do no such thing, Mike,” Dayna retorts. “You spent a whole summer at my parents’ house after college, remember? It took you six weeks to find a job, and you weren’t paying for your mother—who has dementia, by the way. Have a heart, Mike. Elise is a saint.”
“Elise is great. You know I like her, Dayna, but there has to be a limit. When will enough be enough? I want our lives back.”
“We’ll get our lives back when Elise is back on her feet.”
“When will that be? When her mom finally bites it?”
“Mike!” I can hear the shock in Dayna’s voice. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Think about the words that just came out your mouth. How would you feel if it were your mom in a home?”
“I’m sorry.” I hear the springs groan as he sits down on the bed. “I’m just getting a little tired of this, that’s all. I want you all to myself again. Remember when we used to be in the middle of a movie and I would reach over and grab you, like this?”
I tune out and quickly step into the shower. Once under the water, the tears come hot and heavy. I have to choke back the sound of my sobs. I’ve learned the hard way that the walls are thin, and I don’t want Mike and Dayna to hear me cry.
I know I’m a burden to them, and the pride in me wants nothing more than to walk out and make my own way, but the realist in me knows I can’t make it happen. Without Mike and Dayna’s charity, I’d be out on the streets in a week. I just don’t have the money to look after myself and my mom—and Mom comes first.
“Dad,” I mutter to myself. “You really screwed me over. Send me some help, would you? It’s the least you can do.”
Rory
Bill Dougherty is the best family lawyer in the state. He’s not much to look at, but that makes people underestimate him. Bill is in his mid-fifties and has a round, childish face, and a receding ginger hairline. He looks like a caricature, and dresses like one too, in oversized suits and comical ties.
It’s all part of his technique. Nobody sitting opposite Bill Dougherty would ever suspect he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s a shark in the world of divorce law and child custody.
He was recommended to me by my corporate lawyer, someone who has never let me down.
So, here I sit, opposite a man who looks like a child dressed up in his father’s clothes, trusting my loyal man to have steered me right. We’re in the boardroom of my offices. We have the space for as long as we need, and I’ve told Charlotte to make sure we aren’t disturbed.
Bill sits in front of the panoramic views of the city. It’s not as spectacular as my view on the top floor, but it’s not bad. The air conditioner sends a cool breeze through the office. A water cooler in the corner lets out intermittent gurgling sounds as bubbles rise to the top of the tank.
He sits in silence. He’s had the files for a week, but he still takes his time to review them again now. I drum my fingers on the surface of the table as he rifles through them at a sloth’s pace. Every now and then, he takes out a handkerchief from his front jacket pocket and dabs at the sweat on his forehead.
“So?” I lean forward across the table. “I think she hasn’t got a chance in hell.”
Bill holds up a hand. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Why? Because I have a drug possession charge? That was eight years ago. I’ve been clean and sober for six.”
“Not just any drugs charge, Mr. Everest. Schedule One. Heroin, to be precise.”
“Does it matter if it were heroin, crack cocaine or Viagra? It was a lifetime ago.”
“Custody battles are about the welfare of the child.” He smacks his lips together like they’re dry. The sound gets under my skin. “A judge won’t look kindly upon any kind of darkness in your past.”
“At the age of thirteen, my father disappeared after killing a man in a bar fight. The first I knew of it was when he never came home. Next thing, I’ve been taken into care. I never heard from him again. Everybody knew the story. All the kids at school were constantly reminding me that my father was a murderer on the run. Can anyone blame me for being a screwed-up teenager?”
I rest my head in my hand, slamming a fist down on the table. “I’m a good man. I’ve turned my life around.”
Bill nods slowly. “I understand what you’re saying, but that doesn’t change the facts. You have a drug charge. Margot does not.”
“On paper.” I scoff. “She’s the one who introduced me to the stuff. She took twice as much as I did, and as far as I know, she never stopped. Just because she never got caught doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a problem. She’s more of a criminal than I ever was.”
“Apparently not. The information I have tells me she’s married and working as a receptionist.”
“A receptionist?” I let out a disdainful laugh. “She must have slept with the owner. I’d never put that junkie in the lobby of my building.”
“She’s not a junkie anymore, Mr. Everest. That’s the point.” Bill clasps his fingers together on the table, meeting my gaze with his watery blue eyes. “On paper, she never was. Margot Rosenthal is a model citizen with a stable home.”
“And I’m not? I run a multibillion-dollar company. I’m a pillar of the fucking community.” The words leave my mouth like bullets. I can’t keep the spite and bitterness out of my voice. “Look at everything I’ve built here. No—” I correct myself, holding up a finger. “Look at my daughter. Grace is happy, healthy, and excelling at school. Isn’t that enough? Forget Margot and me. Look at Grace. She’s settled and enjoying life. What judge is going to want to upheave her life for a woman who abandoned her at birth? Margot is no mother.”
“According to her, you’re not Grace’s father.”
I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”
Bill slides a document across the table toward me, pointing out a highlighted line. “In her statement, she claims that the father is someone else.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Can you be sure Margot didn’t have relations with anyone else around the time of Grace’s birth?”
I can’t be sure of anything. Margot and I were hardly a traditional romance. There were no dates or fancy dinners, no roses or love poems. We hung out sometimes and screwed in a drugged-up haze. I have no idea what she did when we weren’t together. For all I know, she slept with every guy in a fifty-mile radius.
But she told me Grace was mine.
“Grace is my daughter.” My voice is husky with emotion. There aren’t many things that scare me, but the thought that Grace might not be mine chills me to the bone. Even if someone else did conceive her with Margot, Grace is still my daughter.
I raised her.
I love her.
“She’s my girl.”
Bill shrugs. “It’s easy enough to prove or disprove. We’ll ask for a DNA test.”
My breath catches in my throat. My heart feels like it’s in a vice, being squeezed tight. What if Grace isn’t mine?
“Let’s say the tests came back and say…” I take a deep breath. “…and say I’m not the father. Do I still have a custody claim? After all, I’ve raised her.”
“Your case will be stronger if your name is on the birth certificate.”
I close my eyes. “It’s not. I wasn’t there.”
“You weren’t at the birth?”
“Margot and I weren’t close that way. She was supposed to call me when she went into labor. She didn’t. I didn’t know Grace had come into this world until Margot left her on my doorstep and disappeared.”
“Hmm.” Bill writes down a note. “That makes things harder, but not impossible.”
“What are my options?”
“Well, you could apply for guardianship as a non-parent, but that would require Margot’s consent. Even if she gave it, she could withdraw it at any time. It would be tenuous.”
“Is there anything else?”
“You could file a custody petition. You would have to prove you have a long-standing relationship with Grace, that it would be in her best interest to stay with you, or that it would be harmful or to her detriment to be returned to her mother.”
“Her mother doesn’t give a damn about her.”
Bill lets out a long, slow breath. “The courts favor biological parents. You’d have to have a rock-solid case to petition Margot’s custody if you were not, in fact, Grace’s biological father.”
“She’s been with me since day one. She doesn’t even know who Margot is. How could it be in her best interest to be taken from me? You can’t tell me that’s possible, Bill. It’s madness. It’s cruel.”
He holds up his hands. “I can’t say, Mr. Everest. These cases can be tricky. Family law—custody law, in particular—can be complex. There are gray areas. No two cases are alike. If the results were to show you weren’t Grace’s father, the courts would need to take many things into account. We’d have to build a case against Margot and a case for you.”
A shudder runs down my spine. “You’re saying it’s possible, by law, for Margot to win custody of Grace?”
“I’ve seen things happen that you wouldn’t believe.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I have money to fight this. My pockets are deeper than Margot’s.”
“Money isn’t everything. The courts take parentage very seriously. It’s already an unusual situation for Grace to be living with her father when her mother is alive and well. If it were found that you weren’t her biological father, it opens a whole new can of worms. You may have a fight ahead of you, Mr. Everest.”
“This is bullshit.”
“We’re going to fight this one step at a time,” Bill advises me. “The first thing we must do is prove or disprove paternity.”
“And what if I refuse the DNA test?”
“Your name is not on the birth certificate. As things stand, Margot’s story is the stronger one.”
“It’s not a story. It’s a fact. Margot told me she was pregnant and said Grace was mine. Nine months later, she delivered a child into my arms and left me to raise her. There’s no deceit in there, Mr. Dougherty. That’s how things went.”
“With all due respect, how things have gone before are not always an indicator of how they are set to go in the future. Nothing is certain. We can only gather as much information as we can and fight with what we know. I advise you to take a paternity test. At least then we can know what position we’re fighting from and make sure we create a solid case.”
Rory
Returning from lunch, I enter my office. Charlotte already has the coffee pot going, and the familiar burble and hiss are calming. The mail should have been delivered by now. It’s been a full five days since the DNA test was sent in. I had them put a rush on it so that I would get it in the shortest amount of time possible—it cost me an arm and a leg, but I could afford it. Anything to know, for a fact, that Grace is my child, one hundred percent. It’s the only thing that’s been on my mind, and I feel like I’m going insane waiting.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, leaving it black. There is a light knock at the door.
“Yes?” My hand shakes a little, and hot coffee spills on my hand. I inhale in pain.
“I have your mail, Mr. Everest,” Charlotte tells me. I look at the pile in her hand. Sure enough, there is an envelope with the Helix DNA lab’s logo on the top corner. I take it from her, and tear it open, pulling out the paperwork that is inside. My eyes travel over the results, decoding the information. I reach the final line.
My knees go weak, and I sit down in my chair heavily as everything goes quiet in my mind. It is as though a bomb has gone off inside of me, obliterating everything.
“Mr. Everest?” I look up to see Charlotte, still standing in my doorway. “Are you okay?”
“No.” And I may never be again. According to the paperwork in my hands, Grace is not mine. We have no matching biological markers. Not even one. I look at the picture that I keep of Grace on my desk—it was from her first day of school this year. In it, she’s grinning, her brand new hot pink backpack on. Not mine? How can that be?
“Is there anything that I can do?”
“No.” I honestly can’t think of what to do. If Margot gets Grace…No. I will fight this, every step of the way. But now there’s the chance that the judge…I can barely think. I should call Bill, but all my energy has been sapped. Charlotte says nothing, closing the door behind her with a soft click. I place the paperwork down on my desk.
My glance goes to the cabinet where I keep a bottle of Wild Turkey. It’s for visitors—I’m sober. The sobriety chip that I carry seems to weigh heavily in my pocket. Reaching into my pocket, I take the chip in my hand. I return my attention to the picture of Grace. I can’t let her down. Not now. Not ever. I reach for the frame, holding it in my hand. She’s my daughter. Even though we aren’t blood, she’s still my girl. I raised her, and I love her. Margot will never offer her that. My intercom buzzes. I press the button.
“Yes, Charlotte?”
“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Everest,” Charlotte tells me. “But you have an appointment downstairs in twenty minutes. Should I cancel it?”
“Who is it with?”
“Esther Bailey.”
“Who is that?”
“A reporter, sir.” I sigh. Charlotte keeps reminding me that I need to have good press. I place Grace’s picture back down on my desk. My life is suddenly spinning out of my control. I need to figure out what I’m going to do about it.
“No. I’ll go.” I close my eyes, preparing myself. I need good press—it will help my case. Do it for Grace.
Elise
When I wrote my article on Rory, it was nothing but a spiteful rant I used to take out my anger over being treated like dirt. I never expected it to take off, let alone end up in US Weekly. I almost feel bad about it now.
Worse still, the success of the article has put me in an awkward position. My editor is on my back for a follow-up piece. The article has drawn a lot of new visitors to the site, and she’s keen to build on the initial success of the first insight into Rory Everest.
“Do whatever it takes to go deeper,” she told me, gripping onto my arm with wild eyes and a fervent nod. “I want as much on Rory Everest as you can get. We want a full behind-the-scenes tell-all on this guy. Our readers can’t get enough.”
I tried to tell her there was no way Rory would ever entertain a second meeting with me, bu
t she wouldn’t listen. Now I’ve had to stoop to new lows to save my career. I can’t risk being in my editor’s bad books; I have too much riding on my meager income.
So that’s how I’ve ended up here in Rory’s office today, under the fake name of Esther Bailey. I’ve asked for the interview to take place in the lobby of Rory’s building under the pretense of wanting a photograph to go with the piece. In truth, I didn’t want Charlotte to recognize me and stop me before I’ve even gotten as far as the office.
I’m sitting instead on the sofas on the ground floor of the huge skyscraper, nervously casting sideways glances at every person passing by. I don’t want to imagine how Rory might react when he sees me sitting here, after first ripping him apart in my article, then insulting him at the waterpark over his parenting. It’s another reason I wanted to meet in the lobby. Less chance of him tearing into me.
Ten minutes after our agreed meeting time, I see Rory step out of the elevator and look around. My heart quivers in my chest at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous. My head isn’t the only one that turns when he steps onto the floor. He has such presence that all eyes are on him. He looks immaculate in his pressed suit, his dark hair worked into the perfect corporate style. His expression is stern and hard; he always looks like a hunter on the prowl.
I hesitate on the trendy gray futon-style sofa, wondering whether I should stand up and approach him, or wait for him to notice me first. Before I can decide, his eyes fix on me, and he scowls. He strides over to me with a disapproving frown.
“Esther, I presume?”
“Hear me out.”
“The answer is no.”
“Mr. Everest, please—”
“Miss. Sawyer, I find your persistence not only distasteful but offensive. You are showing a high disregard for my privacy and the effect your slander might have on my personal reputation and my company. If I were you, I’d save what little self-respect you might have left and walk away.”