In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Her father went to the adoption agency to try to get information. If they were behind this, he wouldn’t have done that.”

  “So he knows they kidnapped her, and he didn’t—”

  “No.” Cash leaned back in his chair. “It’s not like that.”

  “Again,” Mr. Murphey interrupted. “Can we get to Carmen Gonzales?”

  Mr. Fuller set his hand on his wife’s. “Susan, we need to deal with other stuff first.”

  She nodded.

  Cash told the lawyer about contacting the nanny.

  Mr. Murphey nodded. “Detective Logan noticed you have an injury on your hand. How did—?”

  “I never saw the nanny,” Cash said. “I had words with a boy at school in the parking lot.”

  “Did anyone see it?” Mr. Murphey asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The lawyer frowned. “Be prepared to answer those questions. Now, how did you find the nanny?” Mr. Murphey asked.

  Cash swallowed and didn’t look at either of the Fullers when he answered. “I got the file from Mr. Fuller’s desk. The nanny’s name was in there.” He went on and told them about the man who found him at the service station.

  “Okay.” Mr. Murphey tapped his pencil on the paper. “One thing I’m not clear about: Why did the man threaten you and not the girl?”

  Cash exhaled. “Because I broke into the agency.”

  “You did what?” Mr. Fuller asked.

  “I broke in and took pictures of all her files.”

  * * *

  I go through the how-I-met-Cash story one more time for Dad. My throat’s raw from crying and talking. A knock sounds at the door.

  Mr. Jordon sticks his head in. “Is it a good time to talk?”

  “Yes,” Dad says.

  He walks in.

  “Who are you?” Mom asks.

  “I’m Mr. Jordon. The Fullers have hired me to represent Chloe.”

  “Leave,” Mom said. “We don’t want you here. We’ll get our own lawyer. They’ll try to take you away.”

  “I’m almost eighteen,” I say. “They can’t do that.”

  Mom slaps her hand on the table again. “She threatened to have me thrown in prison.”

  Mr. Jordon speaks up. “I’m not here about a paternity case. I’m here about Carmen Gonzales.”

  “I don’t care. We’ll get our own lawyer,” Mom insists.

  “Wait,” Dad says. “I’ll pay him. He works for us now.”

  “No!” Mom snaps.

  “Our daughter might be in trouble. We need him.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say. “And Cash was with me all yesterday.”

  Mr. Jordon sits down. “The police are wanting to talk to you.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re waiting for the officers. Dad went out and got me a drink and a pack of crackers. When he comes back in, he has a Diet Coke for Mom, too.

  When he hands it to her, she looks like she’s about to say something nasty. I clear my throat that’s already too raw.

  She accepts Dad’s offering.

  I scoot back, pull my legs up in the chair, and drop my head on my knees. I sit there and worry about Cash. I don’t talk. I don’t move. Neither do Mom or Dad.

  In a few minutes, Mr. Jordon walks in, accompanied by two officers. There’s just enough chairs for everyone. They sit down. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but now I think I am. There just doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the room.

  “I’m Detective Carter,” the officer I’ve never seen introduces himself. I recall Mrs. Fuller asking for him, and I can feel him staring at me. I can’t help but wonder if he still thinks this is a scam.

  The bigger officer, Officer Logan, the one who was so rude at Mrs. Fuller’s house, looks at me. “Where were you yesterday?”

  “At the Fullers’ lake house.”

  “All day?”

  “Yes. We didn’t get back until after seven.”

  “She’s telling the truth,” Mom says. “I was home.”

  “How is she?” I ask. “The nanny?”

  “She’s in a coma, but still alive.” The officer shifts in his chair. “Did you see the man shooting at you today?”

  “No.” Tears fill my eyes. Dad grabs my hand. “Cash pushed me down in the seat.”

  “Did Cash say who he thought it was?”

  I try to think. “I don’t think he said, but he’d just told me that a guy had threatened him that morning about us not looking into the adoption. So I think we both assumed it was him.”

  He nodded. “Mr. Colton has an injured hand. Do you know how he did that?”

  “Him and a kid at school argued this morning. He thought the guy was hurting me. He didn’t hit him, just pushed him against another car.”

  The officer nodded once again. “And the name of this guy?” he asked, but I could tell he was just testing me.

  “Paul Cane. Cash never even saw the nanny. We were going to talk to her tomorrow. We were the ones getting shot at.”

  “Have you found the man who did that?” my dad asks.

  “We found a black Corolla that fits the description of the car, but, no, we have not located the man.”

  “Ms. Holden,” Detective Carter says, and places his hand on the table. “Do you believe you are Emily Fuller?”

  I feel Mom and Dad staring at me. “Yes,” I say, and my tonsils shake.

  “Do you remember anything?”

  I nod. “For years, all I remembered was sitting on a dirty sofa. There was a dirty carpet, and I was holding a tiara and wearing, like, a princess dress.”

  The man’s eyes widen. “And have you remembered more?”

  Again, I nod. “A face. A man with red hair. He told me … that my mama and daddy didn’t want me anymore.” A knot forms in my throat. “He hit me.”

  Mom makes a scratchy noise and reaches for my hand.

  Now Detective Carter nods. “We would like to run a DNA test.”

  “No,” Mom says. “They’ll try to take you.”

  “No one is going to take me.” I focus back on the officer. “Tell me where and when I need to do it.”

  “Actually, I already have two here. The Fullers have requested one. They have access to a lab that will come back quicker than ours.” He gives me instructions on preparing a DNA sample.

  I swipe my cheek twice with what look like Q-tips. The detective seals them up. Then he hesitates. “One other thing,” he says. “The Fullers would like to speak to you. All of you.”

  “No. Chloe’s tired,” Mom says.

  Mom’s right, I’m exhausted. So much so that I almost give in—then I realize Mom needs to know this is my call. “We’ll see them.” I turn to Mom. “And we’ll play nice.”

  * * *

  Time passes, and finally Mr. and Mrs. Fuller walk in. Everyone is gone but Mom, Dad and me, but the Fullers don’t sit down. They just stand there.

  They both look at me and then focus on Mom and Dad.

  “Is Cash okay?” I ask.

  “As good as can be expected,” Mr. Fuller says, and the way he stares at me makes my chest hurt.

  “Can I see him?” I ask.

  Mr. Fuller speaks up. “They still don’t want you two talking until things are cleared up.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” I say.

  “It’s protocol or something,” Mr. Fuller says.

  Mrs. Fuller steps forward. “I need to apologize.” She looks at Mom. “What I said earlier about you and jail. I wasn’t thinking straight. If what Cash believes is true, then you aren’t at fault. He tells me…” She tears up and her voice cracks.

  My own tears well up again. I remember how she smelled like … like home. I ache to stand up and hug her again, lose myself in that smell, but I know it’d hurt Mom. And, like it or not, right now I have to think of her.

  Mrs. Fuller continues, “I’m sorry. I … I needed to blame someone.”

  Mom nods, but sh
e doesn’t look all that forgiving.

  “One other thing,” Mr. Fuller says. “We’re worried that whoever shot at Chloe and Cash earlier might return. We want to make sure that she’ll be safe.” I hear a crack in his voice, and my heart cracks, too.

  I see their side of this. They just found their daughter, who had been stolen from them, and they have to walk away. My chest burns with the injustice of all of this.

  “Don’t worry,” Dad says. “I’ve got this.”

  The Fullers leave. It’s still a few hours before we are told we can go. We walk out to the parking lot. It’s only the afternoon, but it’s cloudy, the sky is dark, and I feel like it’s midnight. I crawl into my mom’s backseat and curl up into a ball. I hear Mom and Dad arguing over something, but I’m too tired to referee.

  I hear Mom opening her door. “You want to put on your seat belt, hon?” Mom says.

  “No,” I say. “I’m lying down.” I know it was stupid, but I can’t be nice anymore. I just want to go to sleep and for just a little while forget all of this.

  The next thing I know, Dad’s waking me up. “Come on, sleepyhead. I don’t think I can pick you up anymore.”

  I lift up. He helps me out of the car and puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

  I look up. “For what?”

  “For how you handled everything. I can only imagine how hard today’s been on you.”

  I lean against him and let a few more tears leak out. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. And so does your mom. This is hard on her, but she’ll come around. I promise.”

  We get to the porch. “Are you hungry? I can order a pizza or something.”

  “No, I just want to go to bed.”

  He nods. “I’m staying here,” he says. “So don’t worry about anyone hurting you.”

  I look at him. “Mom’s okay with that?”

  “She’s going to have to be.”

  I keep looking at him. “Hide the kitchen knives before you go to sleep.”

  He smiles. “I’ve already thought about that.”

  We walk into the house. Mom rushes over and hugs me. I purposely inhale her scent, thinking it will smell like home, too. And it does, but it’s not the same as Mrs. Fuller. More tears sting my eyes. I hug her tighter because I feel disloyal.

  “Can I get you something to eat or drink?” Mom asks.

  “No. I want to go to bed.”

  “I love you,” I say before I walk into my room and fall onto my bed. I’m certain I’ll be dead asleep in five minutes. But I’m not. I’m back on the dirty brown sofa. I’m scared. I’m lonely. I want my mama. I remember being hit. Then time seems to jerk, and I remember hearing the gun popping off.

  I roll over, sure that I don’t have more tears in me, but I find a few. I think about Cash. And how hurt he seemed when the cop didn’t believe him about being shot. Felix and Buttercup come and curl up beside me.

  When I wake up, it’s dark. Mom brings me soup and insists I eat. I manage a few bites. Dad tries to get me to come out of my room and watch television with him, but I refuse.

  I curl back up in my bed and sleep some more. A little later, I hear Dad in my room. “Sorry,” he says. “Just checking to make sure your window is locked.”

  “It’s probably not,” I say, too emotionally sunk to care that someone might be after me.

  * * *

  The bright sun wakes me up and yanks me into the past. Not too far back, just a few years. To the sleepover days when Cara and Sandy and I’d stay up all night, talking about boys, college, and our grand plans for our lives. Funny how fast your own past starts feeling like it belongs to someone else. I can’t help but wonder if I felt like that when I was three.

  I lie there for a long time without moving. I remember Dad’s here. In the same house as Mom. I don’t recall hearing them arguing during the night.

  If I’d known all it took was to get accused of attempted murder to make them cordial, I might have considered it earlier. Then the sarcastic thought bumps against my conscience, and I think about the nanny. I wonder if she’s okay.

  I sit up. When I do, I see pillows and blankets on the floor. I instinctively know Dad slept there. Probably scared of Mom.

  I throw my covers back, but see my phone on the bedside table. I know I’m not supposed to, but I can’t help it. I grab it, look at my closed bedroom door, and text Cash.

  Me: You okay?

  I hold my breath and wait. Three dots appear. Then …

  Him: We can’t talk.

  Me: Since when are you a rule follower?

  Him:..……

  Nothing. Five minutes later. Still nothing.

  I see Lindsey texted yesterday. Like, five times.

  Her: You okay?

  Her: What’s going on?

  Her: I’m worried about you.

  “I’m worried about me, too,” I mutter.

  I force myself out of bed. I smell coffee. I seldom drink it, but I will today. I go pee and move into the kitchen.

  Dad’s on the phone. He looks at me and smiles. “Yes. I moved the meeting to next week,” he says as if he’s talking to his boss.

  He hangs up. “Good morning.”

  I move to the cabinet to get a cup for my go-juice. “Where’s Mom?”

  “I convinced her to go to work. She’s called three times to check on you.”

  I see the clock. It’s ten, and—bam!—I remember. “I was supposed to drive Lindsey to school.”

  “Your mom drove her.”

  I pour coffee in my cup and lean against the counter. “You slept on the floor in my room?”

  “Yeah. Finding your window open got me worried about…” He doesn’t finish, but I get it.

  I put the cup to my lips and talk through the steam. “You sure you weren’t just scared of Mom?”

  “Well, there was that.” He smiles, then doesn’t. “I don’t blame her for hating me, Chloe.”

  Before I can stop them, the words come out. “Me neither.”

  He wipes a hand over his face. “I don’t expect this to change what I did, but just so you know, Darlene’s gone.”

  “I should hope so, after her brother stole your credit card.”

  His brow creases. “How did you—?”

  “She posted it on Facebook. Cash friended her.” I take my first real sip of hot, bitter caffeine. “She thought he was a hot soccer player.”

  He turns his cup. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Me neither.” I sit down.

  “Oh, I do have some good news.”

  I look up. “What?”

  “A detective called. The nanny woke up. He was going there to talk to her.”

  * * *

  Mr. Fuller tapped on Cash’s bedroom door, then stuck his head in. “You up?”

  Up? He hadn’t slept. But he answered, “Yeah.”

  “Can we talk?” Mr. Fuller said.

  “I’m talked out.” How many times had he told the same story? How many times had the cops looked at him as if he were his father?

  “Well, you can just listen, then.”

  Mr. Fuller walked into the room and sat down in a chair by Cash’s desk. “Detective Logan called this morning. Carmen Gonzales woke up. They think she’s going to be okay. This whole thing is getting cleared up.”

  Cash slumped back against his pillows. “Yeah, cleared up after they talk to her, because they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “They’re just doing their job.”

  Cash’s gut twisted. All night long, he kept hearing Chloe’s words. I told you not to break into the agency. I told you. But damn, he’d almost gotten her killed.

  Remembering Mr. Fuller was still in his room, he looked up. “Did they find the guy who shot at us?”

  “Not yet. They’re trying.” He hesitated. “Mrs. Fuller and I want to say thank you, again.”

  “Why? I screwed everything up. That guy almost killed Chloe. That bullet went through the passenger wind
ow.” His chest clutched.

  “None of that is your fault.”

  “Yeah, it is. I’m the one who took down the flyer. I was the one who made the photocopies. I hurt Mrs. Fuller. And when I was young, I helped my dad con people like the guy who conned you guys out of money. I did terrible things.”

  “That has nothing to do with this. And, yes, perhaps the thing with Emily could’ve been handled differently, but—”

  “Maybe that cop’s right. I’m going to screw everything up because I’m just like my old man.”

  “Stop!” Mr. Fuller said. “You know what I don’t get? You get so angry because people judge you, but then you judge yourself harsher than anyone. Give yourself a break, son.”

  I don’t deserve one. “Can you leave so I can get up?”

  Mr. Fuller frowned. “I’m leaving, but we hired a security guard. He’s out front in a car.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter! If you want to hire someone, hire them for Chloe.”

  “I did. But don’t say anything. I think Mr. Holden might be insulted.”

  * * *

  I’m planted on the sofa, staring at the television but not really watching it. Dad’s in the kitchen, working on his computer. A knock comes at the door. I haul ass off the sofa.

  “Stop.” Dad steps out of the kitchen. “Go back in the living room.”

  I stop, but I don’t move. My heart’s racing. I’m praying it’s Cash. I’m already figuring out what I’m going to say if Dad won’t let him in. I’ll break eggs left and right. Even scramble a few. I need to see Cash.

  Dad moves to the dining room window, peers out, then glances back. “It’s Mr. Fuller.”

  Bam! I get a lump in my throat.

  Dad opens the door. “Come in.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Fuller walks in, his gaze finds me, and he smiles. “I just wanted … I got word that Mrs. Gonzales cleared Cash and Chloe of any wrongdoing.”

  “That’s good,” my father says.

  “How’s Cash?” I take a step closer.

  “He’s coping.” Mr. Fuller’s gaze stays on me.

  Coping doesn’t sound good.

  My dad looks back at me. “I … need to make a call.” He holds up his phone and walks into my mom’s bedroom.