by C. C. Hunter
“I won’t.”
“Cash thinks … He thinks I’m the missing daughter of his foster parents.”
She stares at me as if I don’t make sense, which gives me a little hope. Because it doesn’t make sense. It can’t be true.
“What?”
“She was kidnapped.”
Lindsey’s eyes round. “He thinks you were kidnapped?” She makes a snorting sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief.
“Yeah. It’s crazy. I don’t think he ever even liked me. He thought I was trying to swindle his foster parents out of money. Oh, and get this! He did let the air out of my tires.”
“What?” she repeats. Then she looks back at the picture. “Okay, this does look like you, but … that’s crazy.”
“I know. I mean, yeah, I was adopted but—”
“Wait?” She leans closer. “You were adopted?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes go wider. “Okay, but when were you adopted, and when did this girl go missing?”
I frown. “Around the same time.”
She looks at the picture again. “Shit.” When she glances up, I can see in her eyes that she’s starting to believe it.
“It can’t be true. My parents aren’t kidnappers!”
She makes a face and gives the photo back to me. “Have you looked it up on the internet?”
“Looked what up?”
“The kidnapping?”
“No.” I stand up. “But I am now.” I run to my bedroom, where my laptop is plugged in.
“Do you know the kid’s name?” Lindsey asks, following me.
“Yeah.” I sit at my desk and set the photo aside. My phone dings. Probably Cash. I ignore it and type into Google’s search engine: missing child Emily Fuller. Typing out the name, I get chills, as if it means something to me. But it can’t mean anything. Then I hear the name in my head. Emily. Emily. Emily. There’s a familiarity about it that I hate but don’t understand.
I click on the first link, but there are, like, a dozen. The link opens. It has a picture of a little girl. A little girl who looks a hell of a lot like me when I was young. I start reading. “Missing September 3, 2004.” My breath catches. I was adopted September 4.
Lindsey is reading over my shoulder. “You weren’t adopted until you were three?”
“Almost three, yeah,” I answer.
“This is weirder than shit.” Her voice echoes.
I look at Lindsey. “It’s not me. It can’t be.”
My phone dings again. “Shit.” I pull it out. I see Cash’s name and cut it off.
Right then, the doorbell rings.
Lindsey turns as if she plans on answering it.
I grab her. “No. I don’t want to see him.”
“Cash?” she asks, and moves to the window. “There isn’t a Jeep. There’s a van with a flower shop logo on it.”
The doorbell rings again. I move to the front door and open it. A man stands there, flowers in his hands.
“Chloe Holden?” he asks.
It’s one of those questions I shouldn’t have to think about, but now I do. Actually, I’ve thought about it a lot in my life. Thought about who I really am. Who my parents really were. Thought about what I could have done wrong so young to be given away.
Suddenly, I know who sent the flowers. And I start crying again.
* * *
An hour later, Mom’s talking nonstop. We’re sitting in the kitchen. I take a bite of the cashew chicken she brought home.
“They loved me!” She’s excited. Happy. Which is why I hid the flowers in my room. I almost threw them away. I had them out of the vase, holding them above a trash can, but I couldn’t do it.
He’s my dad. And … he’s not a kidnapper. This whole thing is a mistake. So why am I not telling Mom?
I open my mouth to do it, but nothing comes out. Because it might upset her? Because maybe I’m not convinced it’s nothing? The dates. The cat named Felix. The picture. Crap.
“He told me that having had cancer, I could offer real support to the patients.”
I’m trying to listen, but she’s at the point of repeating herself. I’m looking up, then down, fork in hand, as I chase a cashew around my plate.
“It’s the perfect job for you.” I catch the cashew, stab it, and put it in my mouth. I chew. I swallow. I don’t even taste it.
Mom drops her fork. “Don’t eat too much. I bought rocky road ice cream.”
“Yum.” I push my plate away and fake another smile.
“I don’t start until the other nurse leaves. Which could be two or three weeks. I wish it were now.” She reaches for my plate. “Did I tell you I bought some of those Boost drinks? I weighed myself this morning. I’ve lost ten more pounds.”
Yeah, because you don’t eat when you’re upset, and you’re upset 80 percent of the time. “You should drink, like, three a day.”
“Two.”
I look at her and I’m afraid to ask, but I have to. Because even though she’s happy now, I’m scared that something small, like the vase of flowers hidden in my room, could change that. “Did you get the counselor names yet?”
“Yes. And I made an appointment, too.”
I’m shocked. “Really?”
“Yeah. And it’s tomorrow.” She points her fork at me. “They had a cancellation.”
“Good.”
She looks at me, all motherly. “You feeling well?”
“Yeah.”
“You look puffy.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m fine. I took Buttercup for a walk. I think it’s allergies.”
She continues to stare. “Did your dad call again?”
“No.” Shit. She knows I’ve been crying. And I can see the happiness drain from her eyes at the mere mention of Dad.
She keeps staring. “You sure?”
“I haven’t spoken with Dad.” That confession sparks a bit of guilt. I should have called him after I got his flowers. I didn’t.
“What upset you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine, Mom.”
* * *
“What’s got you so upset?”
Cash looked up at Mrs. Fuller standing in the kitchen doorway. Thursday was Mr. Fuller’s late day, so it was just the two of them. And because he’d skipped dinner, she was certain something was wrong. It was.
He wanted to head to his room and finish his homework, but they had a rule: If she was home, he wasn’t allowed to go to his bedroom until eight. Even if he had homework, he was expected to do it downstairs.
She thought that was what was wrong with teens today. Kids spent too much time in their rooms and not enough time with family.
Never mind that she was not his family.
It was a stupid rule.
“I’m not upset. I told you I picked up a hamburger.”
She frowned. “That explains why you didn’t eat. But why do you look so downtrodden?”
Because I hurt Chloe. He should’ve thought it through better. He should’ve … “It’s the homework. I hate doing math problems.”
She sat down. “I can help. I’m not as good as Tony, but—”
“No.” He glared at the book.
He felt her staring.
“Something is upsetting you, Cash.”
“I just need to finish this.”
She reached over and lifted his chin and looked him right in the eyes.
Her touch hurt, like Chloe’s had hurt today.
“I care about you.” She stared as if trying to read his soul. He didn’t want anyone seeing what was there.
“Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.”
She dropped her hand. “The other night when you came into the dining room, I was hurting and you helped me. I don’t think I said thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, unsure why she was bringing that up.
“I want to do the same for you.” Her sigh filled the room. “But you don’t come to us with your problems. You push us away. I want to make things right.”
/> You can’t make it right. “I told you I’m fine.” Eventually, he was going to have to go to them about the whole Chloe/Emily thing, but not with Chloe pissed. And not until he was 100 percent certain he was right. On the drive home, he’d thought about Chloe’s words. You think I was going to try to get money from them? What kind of a person would do that?
His kind. He’d done it. He remembered the dark pain he saw in the eyes of the woman he’d lied to about being her son.
He had to make sure he was right about Chloe’s being Emily before he told the Fullers.
He had to get Chloe unpissed so they could figure this out. But how, when she wasn’t even answering his texts?
“You aren’t fine,” Mrs. Fuller said. “It’s as if you don’t think we care. We love you.”
He dropped his pencil. “Stop.” The same frustration he’d used with Chloe leaked out.
“Stop what?”
“This. I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be.” He slammed his book shut.
Mrs. Fuller’s shoulders dropped. “What do you think I want you to be, Cash?”
The answer spilled out of him. “Your son! I’m not your son!”
Hurt flashed in her expression, and he wanted to kick his own ass.
He looked at the clock on the oven. “It’s five till eight. Can I go to my room?”
She nodded.
He walked out, but not soon enough. He heard her disappointed sigh.
Damn it! He couldn’t do anything right.
13
I pull up at the school the next morning. Lindsey talked the whole way here. Asking me questions I don’t know the answers to. But I don’t get upset, because they are questions I need to be asking myself. Did Emily Fuller have any birthmarks? Were there any suspects? Descriptions of the suspects?
I didn’t go back on the computer last night. I couldn’t face it. Instead I read. I stayed up and read an entire novel about vampires and shape-shifters, because the story was so far removed from my life. I wanted to be removed from my life. Because my life is a freaking Pandora’s box, and if I open it, I’m scared what I might find.
I park and look up at the school buildings. I’m tired. I think I slept an hour, maybe. Thank God, it’s Friday. I reach for my purse and backpack and realize I can’t face this either. Can’t go through the day pretending everything is fine. Can’t face Cash. I haven’t even found the courage to read his texts yet.
“Uh, I’m skipping school,” I blurt out.
“Really?” she asks.
“I want to read about Emily Fuller.” Why is it that every time I say the name, I get this feeling of déjà vu? Emily. Emily. Emily.
“I have a test,” Lindsey says, “but—”
“No,” I say. “I need to be alone.” Did that sound rude? “It’s not you. I have to digest this whole thing. I need to read all those articles.”
“Isn’t your mom home?” she asks.
“I’ll go to the library.”
She looks concerned. “You sure you don’t need me?”
I nod. “I’ll pick you up after school.”
“No. I’ll get Jamie to take me home.” She hugs me. “It’s going to be okay.”
How? I want to ask. The only way I can think it’s going to be okay is if I learn none of this is true. And even then, it isn’t okay. My life’s a freaking mess.
* * *
Mr. Fuller had finally gotten around to talking to him about his car being keyed. The talk almost made Cash late for school. He lied about not knowing where his car got scratched. Mr. Fuller insisted on reporting it to the insurance, but wasn’t forcing Cash to report it to the school. However, he had to offer the same promise to Mr. Fuller that he’d given to his wife. That if he got something from the camera, he’d handle it without using his fists. Keeping that promise wouldn’t be easy, but Cash intended to try.
Mr. Fuller hadn’t mentioned anything about Cash’s rude behavior with Mrs. Fuller. Mrs. Fuller might not have told him. Probably because she feared her husband would kick Cash out. Didn’t she know they’d be better off without him? He felt like shit for hurting her. Why had he turned into a bastard?
Stress. Worry about Chloe. Being pissed at Paul for keying the Jeep that the Fullers gave him. The Jeep he didn’t deserve. The Jeep that was the only new and perfect thing he’d ever had in his life.
He suffered through his first class, desperate to see Chloe. He waited by American Lit to catch her before she went inside—hoping she’d talk to him. She never showed.
Before the bell rang, he headed over to the East Hall, where Lindsey had her locker.
“Hey,” he said when he’d spotted her.
Surprise tightened her eyes. “Hey.”
“Do you know where Chloe is?” he asked.
She frowned. Not a good sign. “I hope like hell you aren’t playing games with her.”
Now it was his turn to be surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean! She’s got a lot on her plate right now, losing her boyfriend, her parents’ divorce, and her mom’s cancer, and you throw the whole you-were-kidnapped thing at her.”
He hadn’t told Chloe not to tell anyone, but he was shocked she had. “I need to talk to her. Where is she?”
“She skipped school. Said she needed to read everything she could find on the kidnapping.”
“Did she bring her laptop?” he asked.
Lindsey’s brow wrinkled. “Huh?”
“Did she have a laptop?”
“Why would—?”
“Her mom’s probably home, so she wouldn’t go back there. If she didn’t bring her laptop, that means she’s at the library.”
Lindsey’s expression confirmed it. “I didn’t tell you that.” Her words chased him down the hall as he disappeared into the crowd.
* * *
It feels as if the silence in the library is stalking me. Every few minutes, I look over my shoulder, afraid someone is looking at what I’m reading, seeing the images, seeing me. For reasons I can’t understand, I’m afraid. And not just of the truth. It’s a monster-under-the bed kind of fear.
I try to shake it off. Staring at the computer, I can’t believe there are so many articles about Emily Fuller’s kidnapping. Even if it’s a coincidence, I can’t help but wonder why Mom and Dad didn’t see the pictures or news media and think I looked like Emily.
I finish the eighth article. My heart’s swollen and raw. When I breathe, it bumps against my rib cage. I fight to keep from crying. I click on a video, and slip on the earphones from the side of the computer. Before I hit the start button, I stare at a woman’s face on the screen. Her dark hair, blue eyes, and facial features keep my eyes locked on her. I don’t want to see it, but I do anyway. I look like her.
My breath catches. All my life, I’ve tried not to wonder what my biological mom looks like. I’ve tried not to be resentful, because I have a mom, a mom who loves me. But I never could get over the fact that my birth mom didn’t love me. That she just passed me along to some agency to be given away. And in that one memory of me sobbing, I know I’m missing her.
I’ve always told myself it doesn’t matter that she gave me up, but the abandonment has always been there, crowding out the happiness in my heart. Always making me wonder what’s wrong with me.
But what if I wasn’t given away? What if she wanted me after all?
In my head, I see an image of Mom, mostly bald, and too thin in her pink nubby robe. Why is it I feel disloyal to her? A knot forms in my throat. I hit play.
“Please, please don’t hurt my baby.” Her voice rings in my head like music. Is it familiar or is my mind playing tricks on me? “She’s a good girl,” she continues. “She’s happy and sweet and smart.” There’s so much pain in the woman’s voice that it seeps out of the computer and into my skin, into my chest—it curls up like a super-tight ball of rubber bands that’s about to unfurl. “Please don’t hurt my baby. Please send her back to me. I can’t breathe with
out her.”
Tears fall down her cheeks. Tears are falling down my cheeks. I don’t even bother to wipe them away. It hurts. It hurts so bad.
How could this be? It’s too crazy. It’s absurd. This has to be a freaking mistake.
Someone sits down beside me. The fear attacks me. A scream rises in my throat. I jump up, then through watery vision, I see Cash.
I yank off the earphones.
“Chloe, please let’s talk.”
I grab my purse and my notes that I’ve been taking, and rush out the library door. It’s just Cash, but the fear hangs on. The monster under the bed is out there. Chills like spider legs crawl up my spine.
I hear footsteps behind me. Just Cash, but I hear my heart beating in my throat, still hear her voice pleading. There’s a swishing sound in my ears. Tears are wet on my cheeks. Fear, unfounded, unexplainable, follows me out.
I make it to my car and realize I have to look for my keys. Before I get my hand into my purse, Cash is standing in front of me.
“We have to talk!”
The ball of rubber bands in my chest starts popping free. One. Two. Three. Pop, pop, pop. They sting.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“You weren’t at school.”
I blink. “Did you go to my house? If you told my mom any of this!” I put my palm on his chest. “If you did—!”
“I didn’t.”
“She has enough shit. You aren’t going to tell—”
“I won’t. Believe me.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, it’s not like you’ve ever lied to me or anything!”
He holds out his hands. “You’re right. I lied. I made a mess of this. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry.”
I start going through my purse, looking for my keys.
“But, Chloe, I know you have questions, and I can answer a lot of them.”
I shake my head once more. “It’s a mistake,” I say, and I wish I believed it more. I wish the name Emily didn’t pull at some cord inside me. Wish the woman’s voice in the video didn’t keep washing over me. Wish this crazy fear would go away. “It has to be a mistake.”
“I know it’s hard. And maybe it is a mistake. But let’s find out.”