In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  The man nodded.

  God, he was easy prey.

  Rodney let him go and gave the man three seconds to pull air in. “What happened?”

  “She…,” his voice squeaked out. “She came here with her dad. I did what I told you I was doing. I gave her a letter that was supposed to be from her mother.” He ran his hand over his neck. “She’s not going to look into it.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “You can’t do anything,” Jack said. “You can’t hurt that girl, Rod. She didn’t do anything.”

  “She can talk.”

  “And say what? She was three years old. She won’t even remember you. It’s my ass on the line, not yours. Just leave her alone.”

  Rodney stared at the old fart. Jack was right.

  The girl might not remember him, but that just reminded him of someone who would. The nanny. He’d read in the newspaper the description she gave of the man she’d seen talking to the kid.

  Holy hell! He was going to have to kill them both.

  The question was, who was he going to kill first? He started out the door.

  “Wait,” Jack pleaded. “What if I gave you money. Ten thousand dollars. You could disappear. Forget everything.”

  Rodney stopped and looked back. “Twenty-five thousand.”

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, Cash walked out of his bedroom with a backpack containing everything he’d need for the day and night.

  Chloe had spent the last three days trying to pull herself out of a depression. He stopped trying to convince her she was wrong and pretended he was letting it go. But damn it, everything in his gut said she was Emily. He was going to prove it.

  Only a few steps into the hall, he heard the Fullers arguing again. He stopped and his gut became knotted with guilt. Then a door slammed and he assumed it was safe to leave.

  When he got downstairs, Mr. Fuller was in the living room. Recognizing it as an opportunity, he said, “Hey, a group of kids are getting together to study for the SAT retake, and we might just stay the night at Jack’s.”

  “Not on a school night,” Mr. Fuller said.

  Cash flinched. “Look at my GPA. I don’t think staying up too late one night is going to ruin me. Besides, I’m three weeks away from being eighteen. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  He took off for the garage and was about to get into his Jeep when Mr. Fuller walked out.

  Cash stiffened, prepared to argue, but then Mr. Fuller said, “You ask first.”

  “What?”

  “I know you aren’t going to study. So you ask if she wants to have sex.”

  Cash shook his head. “This isn’t—”

  “Just listen—”

  “No,” Cash said. “Stop worrying about me and worry about your wife.” But damn, it hurt seeing them so unhappy, especially when he’d caused it. And if telling them the truth wouldn’t completely piss Chloe off, he’d confess. But he couldn’t. Not that he was giving up. And tonight he’d get the proof.

  “I’m plenty worried about her,” Mr. Fuller said, sounding offended. “She’s going to have to pull herself out of this.” Then he shook his head. “Look, in this day, you don’t just let it happen. You ask. And for God’s sake, use protection.”

  “This isn’t … I’ve got to go to school!”

  * * *

  Wednesday afternoon, at almost five o’clock, Cash parked his car in the strip center’s parking lot, a block down from the adoption agency. A gloomy day, night had fallen early. He grabbed the burner cell from his glove compartment. He’d bought the phone from a kid who used to go to the private school. The guy worked at a phone repair store and regularly made extra money by selling the older phones.

  After checking the time, Cash climbed out of his Jeep and grabbed his backpack. He started walking down the block toward A New Hope Adoption Agency.

  Yes, Cash still believed that Chloe was Emily. And it was past time for him to prove it.

  He knew Chloe would be pissed, hence the reason he hadn’t told her he was doing it. However, she was already pissed that he didn’t believe the asinine letter had come from her real mom. Not that they were arguing about it, but he felt it between them. He also felt her pain at thinking that her real father was a rapist.

  Yes, the reason he could sympathize was because he lived with knowing his father had been a worthless human being. Almost subconsciously, he touched the scar at the center of his chest. The scar from the bullet that almost killed him. The bullet from a gun that his father might as well have fired himself.

  A blast of a car horn yanked him out of this reverie and back to the project at hand.

  Standing at the pharmacy again, he moved to the side of the building to keep out of the direct view of anyone leaving the agency. When he saw the black SUV, which he knew was Mr. Wallace’s, pull out, he knew it was almost time. If they kept to their regular pattern, Wallace’s partner at the agency would leave in five to ten minutes. The desk clerk always stayed about fifteen minutes later. And that was when he had to go into action.

  Sure as heck, Wallace’s partner’s tan Malibu pulled out. Cash put on his gloves and waited until he got down the block before crossing the street.

  He moved to the back of the agency building, where the desk clerk parked her blue Cruze. From the street, you could see only part of her car. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he pulled the slim jim tool from his backpack and went right to work. He’d already checked and knew she didn’t have an alarm, which was greatly appreciated by car thieves.

  In seconds, he heard the slight click of the lock. Good to know that breaking into cars was like riding a bicycle. He got in, released the trunk, then opened the passenger door as well.

  Running on adrenaline, he got out of the car and headed to the back of the building. Pulling out the thick fiber-filled jacket and a ski mask from the backpack, he put them both on. Then he stuffed the backpack in the front of his coat—patting it down to give him the appearance of a man with a beer gut. Finally, he pulled out the burner phone and dialed.

  He’d called several times to make sure she answered the phone after everyone left. She had.

  The phone rang once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  If she didn’t answer, this wasn’t going to work. The muscles in his neck tightened.

  “A New Hope Adoption Agency. Can I help you?”

  Relief washed over him. “Yes, I’m Charles Tannon and I work next door to your agency. I just saw some guy in the back trying to get into a blue Cruze. I yelled out. He took off, but he left the car open.”

  “Oh no. Is he gone?” she asked, panicked.

  “Yes. He got in another car and took off.”

  “Thanks! Can you meet me—?”

  Cash hung up, moving to the opposite edge of the building from where her car was parked.

  He heard the front door shoot open and hurried footsteps. Waiting for her to cut the corner, he ran for the door. Before he got all the way in, he slipped the ski mask on.

  Without slowing down, he darted into the men’s bathroom, right off the waiting room. The door had been open, so he left it that way. He moved into a stall, took the throne, and placed his feet on the stall wall.

  He heard Mrs. Carter walk back in, and she was talking—on the phone? He listened.

  “No. The guy scared him off. He didn’t even get into the glove compartment. My twenty-dollar emergency money is still there.” Pause. “No. I don’t want to wait around for the police.” Pause. “And say what? Someone opened my car? I’m coming home. Turn on the oven, and I’ll put dinner in when I get there.”

  He could swear he heard the door open and shut, but he still waited almost an hour before stepping out.

  Mask still in place, backpack still serving as a gut, he looked for cameras. He wasn’t sure they had them, but because they had one in the meeting room, he figured they might. But if this played out like he wanted, they’d never even look at the
tapes.

  He slipped his gloves on and went to the file cabinet. There wasn’t a Holden file. Shit! If they’d destroyed it, all of this was for nothing.

  He stood there fuming, then realized the file could still be on someone’s desk. He ran from behind the counter and entered the first office. There were stacks of files. He went through them. His breathing felt restricted by the ski mask.

  One file. Two. Three …

  Seven. It wasn’t here.

  He shot out of one office and into the other. And there, smack-dab on top of the desk, was the Holden file.

  Because he’d cased the building for only one week, he couldn’t bet that the cleaning company came at the same time every night. He took out his phone and, page by page, snapped images. While not taking time to read, he noted a photocopy of the letter they’d given Chloe.

  His heart raced. He continued taking pictures. Every few minutes, he swore he heard something.

  Don’t panic. You always screw up when you panic. Remember, this is a game. It’s fun.

  It may have been his father’s game, but Cash never liked playing it. And for damn sure, it wasn’t fun.

  Finished, he put the file back together and placed it right where it was before. Then he went to the front of the office to find the best place to hide and wait for the cleaning crew.

  Because the lights in the back of the building had come on first when they’d been here before, he assumed they cleaned the back offices first.

  He looked around. If he hid behind the counter and one of them stepped behind it, he’d be seen. If he went into the bathroom and they decided to clean the bathroom first, he’d be caught for sure.

  His safest bet was behind the counter. He curled up on the floor.

  He sat there, remembering similar jobs with his dad. Pushing those thoughts away, the desire to start reading files hit. He’d just gotten his phone from his pocket when a car’s headlights flooded the front room.

  Was the cleaning crew coming this early? They hadn’t shown up till almost eleven last week. And it wasn’t even nine yet.

  Or was one of the employees coming back?

  Breath held, he sat frozen, waiting, listening. If it was an employee, he was screwed.

  The lock on the door clicked. The door swished open. The light in the front office came on. Voices filled the room along with the sounds of rolling wheels.

  It was the cleaning crew.

  “Vamos a terminar rapido. Yo quiero estar en casa pronto.”

  One of the foster families he’d lived with had been Hispanic. He understood one woman saying she wanted to finish quickly.

  “Sí. Yo voy a limpiar los baños primero. Tu limpias las oficinas.”

  One was cleaning the bathrooms first, and the other offices.

  Footsteps echoed. But not toward the bathroom or the offices. Toward him. He closed his eyes. Didn’t breathe.

  The sound of crackling paper echoed about him, and he remembered the candy dish on the counter. Great, a sweet tooth was going to be his undoing.

  He stayed frozen. The need to bolt bit hard.

  Stay calm, never react too soon.

  The footsteps started moving the other way. He waited until he heard the bathroom door close. Telling himself it was time, he shoved his backpack under the jacket and shot up and around the counter.

  He’d barely gotten into the front room when he heard a scream from the hall.

  You can screw up a wet dream, kid. I can’t believe you’re my blood! He heard his father’s words.

  Shit!

  30

  It took him two seconds to turn the key they’d left in the lock before exiting the building. Time enough for the other cleaning lady to storm out of the bathroom and scream as well. When he got out of the parking lot, he tore off the mask but kept moving. It was almost dark. He darted between two businesses, caught his breath, yanked off the coat, and crammed it back into his backpack with the mask.

  Then, with the backpack over his shoulder, he took off, trying to look calm. He never looked back, just kept walking, marking his steps to freedom and to his Jeep.

  He got in. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat. He started the engine and drove off. As he pulled down the street, a cop car, sirens blaring, passed him.

  Only then did he remember his phone. Had he dropped it in his backpack? Or had he really fucked up and left it in the office?

  He pulled over, yanked his backpack open, and didn’t breathe until he found it. Panic still clawing at his insides, he resumed driving, listening to his wheels roll and his heart race.

  Trying to control his breathing, he told himself it was okay. He’d taken precautions. He’d worn his mask, his jacket, the stuffed jacket that made him look heavier.

  He kept driving for thirty minutes before he decided it was safe to pull over. He saw a Whataburger and turned in to park. Heart still thumping, he got out his phone to read the files.

  He saw he had one call and two texts from Chloe.

  He read one: Where are you? Please tell me you’re not doing it!

  The voice message said the same thing.

  He texted her back. I’m fine. Will call later.

  Then he swiped over to his images and started reading.

  He read one page, then moved to the next. Each one had his gut clenching. There were signed documents with the Holdens’ names and another one from a Marie Garza—the woman the agency claimed was Chloe’s birth mom. The next image was a copy of the handwritten letter to Baby Girl. There was an envelope with only Maria Garza’s name in the return address, and another handwritten letter to the agency.

  Dear Mr. Wallace,

  I am so sorry I got upset when you called. I realize it is not your fault that this child needs answers. Unfortunately, I am unwilling to divulge my information. I have, however, written a letter that I’m asking you to deliver to her.

  I’m so sorry I am not now in a place, nor do I believe I ever will be, to meet her.

  She signed the letter: Maria Garza.

  Cash exhaled. Frustration swelled inside him. He swiped his phone, and on the screen was a birth certificate.

  It named a child born on November 18, Christina Garza. If he believed what he was reading, then it was true.

  Chloe wasn’t Emily.

  Shit! How could he have been so wrong?

  His phone rang. Chloe’s number flashed on the screen.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I’m coming to your house. Can we talk?”

  “About what? What did you do, Cash?”

  “Meet outside. Wait on the porch. We’ll ride to the park and talk. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  With his new stack of cash, Rodney had decided to skip work. Instead, he bought a gun off the street—no way was he using his own. He also picked up a hat. One of those sock hats people wore in the winter that went past the ears. One that would hide his graying red hair. He stole a car, too. A nice little black Corolla that wouldn’t stand out. No use paying for that when so many idiots left them unlocked.

  Hell, he’d made a good living snatching cars for a few years. Never mind that was what he’d been caught at, and what had gotten him nearly a year in prison.

  Thankfully, he learned from his mistakes.

  Jack was stupid to think he’d leave. He wasn’t running, looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. He took care of his problems. Always had.

  He didn’t like doing this, but it had to be done. Jack would thank him, too. That fat fart wouldn’t last in prison.

  With the girl out of the way, tomorrow he’d go to a library and pull all the old articles that had been published about the case. He remembered one had listed the nanny’s name. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be too hard to find.

  He pulled his car over in front of the girl’s house. Lights were still on. He cut the engine off and settled in.

  He’d wait until she went to bed. Go to her window and—bang. Easy work.


  Right then, the front door opened. She walked out. All by herself, too. He picked up his gun. Maybe he didn’t have to wait after all.

  * * *

  I step onto my porch in the dark; the air smells like rain and fall. I’d told Mom I was going to ride to the store with Cash. It’s almost eleven.

  “Just fifteen minutes,” I told her, reminding her I don’t ask for much.

  She nodded.

  Headlights beam down the street. It’s him. When he pulls up, I hurry to his Jeep and climb inside. “Did you break into the adoption agency?”

  He starts driving, then looks at me. Guilt brightens his eyes. “Yeah.” He takes a right like he’s going to the park.

  “I told you not to do it.”

  “I know. I just … I thought I was right.”

  I hear something in his voice. “And now you know you weren’t, don’t you?” I swear I’d stopped believing it, but maybe I hadn’t. Because I feel another wave of disappointment fill my chest.

  He pulls into the parking lot at the park.

  “What did it say?” I ask.

  He pulls over, stops the car, and hands me his phone.

  “There’s a birth certificate for a Christina Garza on November eighteenth.”

  I read the screen. “Christina Garza.” I feel my lips quiver. “That’s my name.” My name before I became Chloe Holden. The father is listed as unknown. Of course, she wouldn’t put his name.

  I swipe the screen to see what else he got. There’s a picture of an envelope addressed to A New Hope Adoption Agency with only the name Maria Garza on it where the return address would be. But there’s no mailing address. I enlarge the image and look at the stamped seal. It reads NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE, and the stamped date is listed as four days ago.

  I swallow. “So I’m really the daughter of a rapist.”

  “Just because he’s a piece of shit, doesn’t mean you are.”

  I hear his words and then remember. “You said trouble was bred into you.” I breathe in, then out, and I realize how much Cash and I have in common.