But this guy—the embroidered name on his big, hard chest said, Neil—didn’t know her. He didn’t seem all that interested in helping me, either.
“You’d know Veronica,” I insisted. “Dark nails and—”
“Dude, I don’t know this chick.” He slammed his door shut and got the engine revving before backing up, squeezing me off the street and onto the sidewalk. As he drove off, he gave me a crazy glare, but nothing else. No middle-finger, no head-shaking, nothing. He just drove off, and I was stuck there wondering about my decision to trust this complete stranger with the biggest secret of my life.
I walked home down Maple, surprised by the pedestrians. I passed McCann Worldgroup—beautiful building—and wondered just how hot it might get at a workstation with all of that glass turning the place into a corporate greenhouse. I noticed a handful of other pedestrians, and then beyond the Chester Street parking garage, not another soul. I was alone to enjoy my little walk on my own, stuck with the thought that I probably should never have trusted Veronica as much as I had.
Just past Baldwin, halfway over the bridge, I grabbed my phone and pressed the call history button to see if Veronica had even bothered inputting her number into my phone, or if that had all been a bunch of bullshit. When I saw her number, I laughed silently at myself for being so paranoid. What would someone like Veronica want with Karen’s old yearbooks and her last letter, if not to help me? The most talented and devoted conspiracy theorist in the world couldn’t come up with a reason for that.
My finger rolled across the number on my screen as I deliberated calling or texting, just to make sure she was okay, alive, or if maybe she might want to grab coffee or something. Of course, I weighed the pros and cons over and over and over and, before I could make a decision, I was already walking up my driveway, past the Chrysler—oh, Lena’s home—and decided against calling Veronica today. After all, she had said she would contact me. Right?
“Lena?”
I heard the toilet flush, and she came toward me, wiping her face. “Can I drop out now?”
In the kitchen, I poured myself a cup of water from the tap and listened to her footfalls leading to the basement. There was silence again. I could’ve opened the laptop to return to my investigation, but instead, I returned to the phone. Now that I knew her number, it seemed I should use it.
So I hit the call button and raised the phone to my face.
If she answered, I would invite her out for drinks; if the voicemail answered, I would let her know I was thinking about her—er, the “investigation.”
I had no plan for what really was about to transpire.
“Who is this?” a male’s voice snapped. He sounded high or drunk, abrasive enough that he made the abrupt courier from earlier today look like a daycare teacher.
“Uh,” I stumbled for the right words. “Is this Veronica’s—”
“Who the fuck is this!”
“Sorry, wrong number,” I blurted, then hung up.
My body felt numb from the surprise of hearing that voice, my ears burning from the fresh sense of betrayal. I should’ve known better, should never have trusted her. It seemed so obvious in hindsight. Nothing qualified Veronica, a delivery person, to help me hunt down and find Elena’s biological father.
Fucking idiot, I scolded myself.
Now I had another mystery to solve: who was Veronica Murphy, and where could I find her to get my stuff back?
Chapter 10
Of all the things Karen could’ve done to break my heart, I never expected the worst to have something to do with our daughter. Elena had grown into a beautiful, grown woman. We were sitting together on the basement sofa, watching Frozen on DVD. She had picked it up during a late-night snack run yesterday while I had been sleeping (or pretending to) in my room.
I watched my beautiful, grown daughter’s eyes tear up as Anna blamed herself for chasing her sister, Elsa, off to the mountains. Guilt. In a Disney movie, there was this kind of guilt. It baffled me.
“Stop staring at me, Papa Bear,” she sniffled.
“You’re crying.”
“My allergies are brutal this time of year.”
I let it go, grinning at just how similar our personalities were. Denial. Guilt. My two best friends over this past year.
Shifting my attention back to the screen, I felt a vibration in my pocket. The phone, not some vibrator hiding underneath the cushions. I fished it out, swiped at the screen, and noticed an alert from my messaging application.
“Got yourself a girlfriend, Papa Bear?”
I fumbled a little because I recognized the number. It was the one I had called Friday afternoon, the one that belonged to the dickhead.
“Put that away, it’s movie night,” she said, smacking me in the shoulder.
I caught a glimpse of the message.
Meet me @ church down the street. 30 mins.
My heartbeat increased. Did the message come from Veronica? Or the psycho who had answered my call?
“Papa Bear…” Lena taunted me. She narrowed her eyes into evil slits, daring me to test her moodiness. “Put. It. Away.”
I complied, tucking the phone away for fifteen minutes of action in this Disney movie that failed to distract me from the message burning into my leg.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I finally said, slipping off the sofa.
“I’ll pause the movie.”
I had hoped to avoid returning, but when I glanced back and saw Lena’s hopeful eyes, I realized just how lonely she must be. Without Joffrey with an ‘O’ for orgasm in her life, she now spent a lot of time alone, dealing with a boredom that most teens never knew. And, being pregnant, a lot of her friends’ parents surely asked their daughters (and sons) to avoid the mess of a girl known as Elena Fitch. If only they knew just how messy my daughter’s life truly was—not knowing that the man who had raised her was not her biological father.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling back down the stairs at her. “It’ll be the quickest urination ever,” I promised.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s gross.”
“At least I’ll close the door.”
“Just go,” she huffed.
Upstairs, I made a show of slamming the door shut, just to hammer home the fact that normal people closed the door when they piss. I knew she’d hear it. And then I sat on the toilet, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Multitasking, I tapped a quick response to the earlier message.
Me: No. I’ll meet you. 11pm tonight.
And then I waited. Flushed the toilet. Got the faucet going when the phone vibrated again.
Where?
Me: YOUR place. I know where you live.
I opened the door and came down the stairs, slowly, the phone still out when I noticed the vibration of an incoming text.
OK. C U @ 11pm.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
“Did you text your girlfriend back?” Lena asked, aiming the remote at the screen and getting the movie rolling again.
“There’s no girlfriend,” I responded, keeping my focus on the television like she might detect the fresh burn of Veronica’s betrayal.
“Uh huh.” She didn’t care, so I didn’t argue my case any harder. I let it slide and watched the rest of Frozen with my daughter, like this two-hour movie night could make up for the past year and bring back those toddler years where we did this kind of thing all the time.
During the final minutes of the film, I glanced over and saw that Lena had fallen asleep. But I didn’t use her over-fatigue as an opportunity to slip away. I stayed where I was, rubbing her back to wake her up, but it didn’t work. She continued to sleep. And I continued watching through to the end.
When the final credits started rolling, I got up. She mumbled something unintelligible—sounded a lot like fucker’ll melt in the summer—and I reached down and lifted her into my arms. I carried her to the back room with the narrow window. Setting her on her bed, I considered that window and wondered if, at
six-months pregnant, she could escape in the event of a fire. Given our history—setting fires with the toaster oven—I decided I couldn’t delay the baby’s room. I needed somewhere safer for my daughter to sleep.
“Night night, Papa Bear,” she muttered, folding her blankets over her body like a burrito.
I leaned down and kissed her head through her early-pregnancy snores and just watched her for a beat before whispering, “I love you too, Baby Bear.” I waited a few seconds for a reaction that never happened. In many ways, that was a good thing. It meant she had fallen back into Type II sleep.
The commute to Veronica’s neighborhood didn’t take long. As I drove, I replayed the directions in my head a few times and chuckled at them—get off on Big Beaver, exit sixty-nine. It seemed incredibly suggestive, but I knew that once I saw Veronica and the surprise in her face when I showed her the text message some jerk sent me about meeting at her place, the last thing on my mind would be that kind of beaver or any number, least of all that one.
Her apartment complex of a dozen or so two-story buildings was located behind the Somerset Mall, just off of Crooks, which happened to be yet another suggestive name because Veronica had taken all that I had left of my dead, cheating wife. I steered into the private drive and located her building. Slowly, I reversed into a vacant Visitors space and stepped out of my Chrysler, surveying just how calm this area appeared despite being so close to one of the city’s most notorious malls.
Then again, what had I expected? Gunshots, rap music, and junkies? No, this was Troy, not Detroit. In fact, it seemed like a great area for a single mother to raise a young daughter.
Still, I reached back with the key fob and made sure the doors were locked. The single toot from the horn confirmed it, then I sauntered the rest of the way to the building’s main door. I hit the button for her unit and waited for the speaker to come to life, or for that unrefined sound indicating the lock had disengaged.
Instead, I heard nothing.
She’s not home, is she?
I had planned on surprising her and explaining, when she asked, “Um, what are you doing here?”. I would reminder her that she had texted me—see the message on my phone?—we agreed to meet here…Unless that wasn’t you, Veronica, which means you’ve stolen every physical and important memory that remains of my wife, you lying jerk, so tell me why, and I’ll leave you alone before making a big scene.
Just as I started to get really paranoid, I noticed movement inside the building, through the narrow window next to the door, so I stepped to the side and watched her come down the stairs. She waved at me, a friendly smile on that young face of hers. She wore a pair of jeans that hugged the curves of her legs with attractive precision, and I suddenly prayed (silently) to be reincarnated as a pair of Veronica’s pants.
“You’re early,” she said, opening the door and letting me in. I glanced past her, deeper into the building to see if there was an angry male nearby, the one from the phone call. I heard nothing. Only silence.
“I, uh…” I hadn’t expected this, I had been so certain that the jackass had sent the text.
“It’s alright,” she continued. “I didn’t buzz you in because Ava’s sleeping. She was with her father these last couple of nights, and that often gets out of hand with the sugar and junk he feeds her, so sleep isn’t quite what it should be on a Sunday night.” She shrugged.
“I see.”
Her apartment was typical—small entry, larger living space with a sectional sofa facing a television, Wii with the expected Dora, Thomas the Tank Engine, and Sesame Street games piled next to it, a hall that likely led to a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom at the end.
“I was lucky to get accepted here,” she said, her voice kept quiet. “Normally, they don’t accept tenants with young children, but…” she shrugged. She seemed to shrug a lot, probably a sign of her own nervousness.
She walked me to the dining area, just next to the kitchen. She had a circular table with a laptop on it, and Karen’s yearbooks and the letter next to that. On the laptop’s screen, I noticed a picture of a man I didn’t recognize. He had dark brown hair and a hairline that stretched dangerously close to his eyebrows. He was good-looking and charming, with a smile that belonged in an oral surgeon’s ad.
“Who is this?” I asked, nodding at the demigod on the screen.
She walked over and closed the computer, chuckling. “You first. How did you find me, Elliot?” Crossing her arms, she studied me.
It felt instantly hot in her apartment, which was entirely possible for September in Detroit. But the reality was tonight’s low was expected to hit fifty, a little lower than average, but right on track as we headed into October.
I shifted my focus from the weather report in my head to the situation at hand— Veronica’s question, her glaring eyes, arms crossed, and her bare feet angled in a dancer’s V. She looked tasty tonight, and I could tell she had taken a shower before I arrived because I could smell her shampoo and her makeup looked a little too fresh and perfect.
I chuckled, shook my head, and wondered how silly I’d look if I simply bolted from the apartment and never returned. Um, awkward.
She unfolded her arms and tapped on the closed laptop with her fingernail. “It’s okay, Elliot. I’ve been stalked by worse, guys that think ‘finance’ is the slurred word for ‘fine ass.’ Plus, you’ll want to tell me so I can show you what I’ve been up to for the past couple of weeks.”
I sighed, crossed my arms, and considered her laptop. If I hadn’t seen that good-looking guy on the screen, I might’ve done it, just run like a kid who had been caught stealing a vegetable from a neighbor’s garden. But that picture had been unfamiliar to me; I had expected Nathan Darien because a long laundry list of evidence supported his being Lena’s father, yet that picture wasn’t Nathan’s.
I shifted—fuck, it’s hot in here—and opened my mouth to tell her the simple truth. “I Google-stalked you. Facebook wasn’t as forthcoming as you’d expect, but Pinterest was the jackpot because it listed your last name.”
She narrowed one eye; I had just taught her something new. “Good to know. Is that it?” She already knew the answer, her silent expectation told me as much.
Now the darkest admission of all. “There was a picture on Instagram where you were raising funds for Ava’s gymnastics club, so I made a donation through PayPal, and the email receipt for my donation listed your address.” I shrugged, raising my eyes to hers. “Sorry.”
Her stare bore into mine with a hardness only a single mother could pull off. At the same time, I found her eyes incredibly beautiful. I opened my mouth to tell her, but thought better of it. The age gap would make me out to be an old perv—has anyone ever told you that you’ve got the most beautiful eyes….
She raised an eyebrow, letting it go. “So what’s on your mind, Elliot Fitch?”
I shook my head, conveying that nothing was on my mind.
She stepped toward me, her eyes playing a game of chicken. I nearly took a step backward, but I held my ground. Single mother or not, I was the one whose wife had confessed her infidelity on her deathbed. Like Veronica, I was a survivor. I got this.
“Nothing,” I said aloud.
She stopped a couple of feet from me, close enough that her shampoo worked its way into my nostrils. I wanted to hold that scent inside me.
“You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Fitch? Mr. Detective.”
“You gave me a bogus phone number,” I responded, but my voice came out weak and timid when I had hoped for defensive or accusatory.
“Did I?”
I nodded. “Some guy—”
“Ugh,” she interrupted, balling her hands into idle fists. “Erik. And he’s not ‘some guy.’”
“Ava’s father.”
She shrugged, then moved back to the table where she had closed her laptop. “Yes, he’s that too.”
“Too?” What else could he be, her live-in, a boyfriend?
“He’s not just the sperm donor who helped procreate that beautiful girl of mine, Elliot. He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.” She wasn’t lying. As beautiful and hard as those eyes of hers seemed moments ago, they were also the most transparent; she hated Erik. “And yes, he had my phone. Not Erik, but Ava.” She avoided eye contact altogether now, and the heat in the apartment seemed to evaporate. She tapped her laptop again with that dark fingernail. “I need a way to trace Ava because I don’t trust assholes, especially not Erik.”
I gulped, watching her open her laptop and tap away at the keyboard.
“So,” she said, her tone lighter now, but I could tell she worked real hard at forgetting about my mention of Erik answering her phone. “Down to business. Nathan Darien.”
I sat in the seat next to hers, edged it closer so I could get another taste of that shampoo, a closer peek at her and whatever other tattoos might be hidden on her body. “Have you seen him?”
“Better,” she said. “I’ve spoken with him. I’ve seen his house, the same bedroom where all of your fucked-up thoughts convinced you that your wife fucked him.”
The bedroom? “How did you speak with him?”
She shrugged. “With Ava away this weekend as part of a court-ordered visit, I had lots of time to work and stay distracted.” She chuckled. “So I followed him to a jazz club, chatted him up, and…” She gave a look like all of this were so freaking obvious.
It hurt to think of the things she may have done—first Karen and now this young woman, both of whom… “Did you…?”
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