The Cruelest Stranger Page 11

  I let her hold onto me a while longer, her heart beating so fast against mine it knocks my spirit down a humble peg.

  “Would you like to see your new room?” I rise.

  She nods, though still not smiling, and I take her hand. She slides it into mine willingly, and then she walks with me to a room down the hall.

  “If you hate the color, we can have it painted.” I imagine she’s never heard those words in her life. “And I’m working on stocking you up with some good toys. I wanted to wait first. Wasn’t sure what you were into.”

  She releases my hand and walks to the white canopy bed centered between two large windows. Climbing up, she settles in the middle, the pillowtop mattress and abundance of pillows and pale pink blankets cocooning her.

  “So soft,” she whispers, running her tiny hand along a plush accent pillow.

  I hired a local decorator to get the job done, giving her an impossible timeline but free rein and a generous budget—as long as it was appropriate for a five-year-old girl.

  “Do you like it, Honor?”

  She nods. Vigorously. You’d think I was offering her cotton candy and baby dolls.

  “You’ll be staying with your foster family another couple of weeks. I’ve hired a very nice woman to take care of you while I’m working, and she isn’t able to start until the end of the month.” I add, “Her name is Eulalia.”

  Honor slides off the bed and makes her way around the room, starting with the nightstand with the pink elephant lamp and making her way to the extra-wide rattan dresser with the gold framed antique mirror and the collection of children’s classics wedged between ballerina bookends. She slides one of the books down, flips it open, and plops onto the floor, paging through it with wide eyes.

  “You like books?” I watch her run her tiny index finger along the sentences.

  She nods. Again, vigorously.

  “Honor is an excellent reader for her grade level,” Jeannie says from the doorway behind me. “Ms. Carraro says she’s at the top of her class.”

  Ms. Carraro …

  Astaire’s profession came up in that background report, I had pulled on her the other week, so I was aware she taught at an elementary school before she shared that with me on our date last weekend, but I didn’t pay attention to the name of the school.

  There are fifteen public primaries in Worthington Heights.

  What are the odds there are two Ms. Carraros teaching kindergarten?

  “I’m pleased to hear that, Honor,” I say. “I’m a fan of literature myself.”

  She peers up at me, nose wrinkled. “What’s lit-er-a-chur?”

  “Books,” I clarify. “Shall we continue our tour?”

  Honor pops up, slides the book back where she got it, and skips across the room. Slipping her hand back into mine, she peers up at me with those familiar blue eyes and a smile that takes up half of her face.

  I show her to her private bath.

  Then to the study, the gym, and the laundry—not that she’ll be accessing those things regularly … just want her to get her bearings.

  We finish with the living room, dining room, and kitchen, where she climbs onto a bar stool and helps herself to a banana in the fruit bowl.

  “Honor, you need to ask,” Jeannie gives her a gentle reminder.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Everything in this apartment belongs to her now.”

  I imagine I’ll need to teach her proper rules, boundaries, and manners, but for now, I want her to feel comfortable. I want her to know that this is her home. She isn’t a guest.

  Everything here is just as much hers as it is mine.

  Jeannie checks the time on her phone. “We should be going. Unless there’s anything else?”

  Honor’s confused gaze passes between us. “I’m not staying?”

  “You’ll be moving in two weeks from today,” I say. “Remember?”

  Despondent, she slinks off the counter stool and takes her time shuffling to Jeannie.

  It shatters my icy heart into two imagining what’s going through her mind. She’s too young to understand, but old enough to know that grown-ups make promises all the time that they never keep.

  Going to her, I crouch down and place my hands on the sides of her arms, looking her straight in the eye. “Two weeks. You have my word.”

  Throwing her arms around me, she hugs me tightly one last time. When I peel her off me, I’m met with a Texas-sized grin.

  I escort them to the door and lock up when they’re gone. Back against the wall, I run my hands through my hair and exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  I’m in way over my head.

  But I’m fully committed.

  I’m heading back to my room to get dressed for a run when I realize I haven’t had a chance to wrap my head around the fact that Astaire is Honor’s kindergarten teacher. Last weekend, I took her out to Txikito, where we shared a delicious bottle of Spanish wine and she asked way too many questions, and afterwards, she refused to so much as entertain a drink together.

  I decided to back off because I know what happens when someone comes on too strong—it has the opposite intended effect.

  Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  I’m sure she’s spent the entirety of this past week wondering why I’ve gone radio silent on her.

  She’ll hear from me soon enough.

  I’m dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, a towel draped over my shoulder as I make my way to my home gym, when there’s a knock at the door.

  I’m tempted to ignore it when I allow curiosity to get the better of me.

  I peer through the peephole, groan, and yank the door open. “The hell are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk.” Errol looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes. Greasy hair tucked behind his ears. Ripped jeans. White t-shirt. Knowing him, this is all part of some derelict-chic look he’s going for.

  “Busy.” I attempt to slam the door in his face, but he places his foot in the doorway.

  “Two minutes.”

  “Busy.”

  “It’s about the girl.”

  “Oh, you mean the child you fathered with our adopted sister? That girl?”

  His eyes widen then squint. “Please, Bennett. Let me come in for two minutes.”

  I study his sorry face, the one that looks like a one-off of mine, the proportions just different enough so we’re occasionally mistaken for twins.

  “Fine.” I stand back and let him in, but only because I’m dying for a chance to tell him exactly what I think of him and this is the perfect opportunity.

  Errol begins to say something. I shut the door and then lift my hand to silence him.

  “First of all, what the hell is wrong with you?” I fold my arms tight across my chest. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me as if he’s wondering what I know and what I don’t. “It’s not a rhetorical question, Errol.”

  “You can’t adopt her.” He finally speaks, but there’s a hint of a quiver in his voice.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because it’s fucked up.”

  I chuff and scratch the underside of my nose with the back of my thumb. “No. What you did was fucked up. Adopting her is the best way to give this girl a chance. She deserves a good home.”

  Errol smirks. “And you think you can give her that? With your manwhoring workaholic ways?”

  “And what do you propose? You and Beth adopt her? Live as one big happy family with your infant son and secret lovechild?”

  He doesn’t answer, which I take as a “yes.”

  “You’re out of your goddamned mind.” I grab fistfuls of my hair. “If that’s what Larissa wanted, she’d have specified that, I’m sure. There’s a reason she chose me. You’re nothing more than a sperm donor. A disgusting, fucked-up-in-the-head, sorry excuse for a sperm donor.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “We were in l
ove.”

  “I think I’m actually going to be sick.” I can’t look at him.

  “Hear me out, Benn. We were in love, and we knew there was no way we could ever be together. I didn’t even know she was pregnant! I just knew that she stopped talking to me for about a year. I thought it was because I married Beth. I thought she was too heartbroken to come around anymore. Trust me, if I knew there was a child involved …”

  “What? What would you have done? Would you have swooped in and saved the day? Divorced Beth and married your legal sister? I’m sure Mother would’ve given you a glowing stamp of approval on all of that.”

  “I would’ve supported her. Financially. That’s all I could’ve done given the circumstances.”

  “You can hardly support yourself financially. Don’t think I don’t know about all the personal loans you’ve taken against your trust, all the handouts you’ve accepted from our mother over the years because the two of you can’t seem to live within your extremely generous means.”

  Errol is silent for a beat. He won’t look at me.

  “Are you going to come clean to Beth about any of this?” I study his face, worry etched across his sun-bronzed forehead. “Because I can’t imagine she’ll want anything to do with you or your biological child if she learns the truth.”

  His gaze flicks to mine.

  “According to my math, Honor had to have been conceived shortly after your honeymoon,” I add. “So there’s that. And there’s also the fact that Beth hated Larissa with a passion for reasons I never fully understood nor did I try to. I assumed it mostly had to do with our mother’s meddling ways, but now I’m beginning to wonder if she was onto your … perversions. So tell me, brother, do you honestly believe your wife is going to accept and raise this little girl as if she were her own?”

  “Don’t talk about my wife as if you know a damn thing about her.”

  “I might know her better than you think. For instance, were you aware she was taking birth control pills when the two of you were pouring thousands of dollars into fertility treatments?”

  Errol’s hand cups the lower half of his face and he forces a hard breath through flared nostrils. “You’re such a fucking liar.”

  “It makes no difference to me whether you believe me or not.” I shrug. “But I’m willing to bet money that she doesn’t want to have kids. This adoption thing is only happening because she’s running out of excuses. You and I both know this baby will be raised by a team of nannies—nannies that’ll surely be bankrolled by our mother because God knows the two of you can’t afford them. But that’s none of my business …”

  Errol’s hands clench at his sides, his complexion turning ruddy and flushed, and without warning, the pathetic bastard attempts to deck me with a left hook—which I block.

  I squeeze his fisted hand until he’s writhing, and then I shove him into the wall. He slides down, his skinny body landing in a heap on the foyer floor. “Get out of my face, and don’t you ever ask about that child again.”

  My brother braces himself against the wall as he rises to a standing, and then he shows himself out, shooting me daggered looks all the while.

  When he’s gone, I call my private investigator.

  “Have another job for you,” I say when he answers. “If I give you a cell number, can you pull text message records from six, seven years ago? Maybe longer?”

  “Without a court order?”

  “Do you need one if I own the line?” A decade ago, I purchased a cell plan for Larissa—mostly for safety reasons. There was a brief period when I hadn’t heard from her and I wanted to ensure she’d always be able to reach me if she needed anything. Not only that, but it was a lifeline for her, a way to call 9-1-1 should she have an emergency.

  As the years went on and she began to abuse my generosity and willingness to help, I may have stopped taking her calls, but I never stopped paying her cell phone bill.

  He’s quiet. “There might be a way, yeah. Not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Email me the account number, phone number, all of that.”

  I end the call and email him immediately.

  If my brother gets a wild hair and tries to pull some stunt again, I’ll be better equipped to handle his threats with one of my own—transcripts of every text message the two of them ever exchanged.

  If that sick bastard wants to raise Honor, he’ll have to pry her from my cold, dead hands.

  23

  Astaire

  “What are you doing?” Bennett asks from the other end of the phone Sunday afternoon.

  “Hey, stranger.” I turn down the volume on my Bluetooth speaker, Radiohead fading into nothingness. “Thought you fell off the face of the earth for a hot minute.”

  “No, really. What are you doing?”

  “Cutting apples.”

  “You know you can buy them that way. Already cut. Or you can eat them the way God intended.”

  I sniff. “Paper apples. Construction paper. It’s for a unit we’re doing this week. Want to help?”

  “As enthralling as that sounds, I’m actually in the midst of a project of my own, and I was hoping you’d have a couple of hours to help.”

  “I don’t hear from you for nine days and now you want my help with something?”

  “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” I count six apples. Twenty more to go. And I haven’t even gotten to the seeds or stems yet.

  “You’re one of maybe five people in the world who now knows my life story and I’m well versed in yours, so yes. I suppose I consider us friends now.”

  “Funny. You don’t strike me as someone who tends to label things.” I cut the next one. “But maybe you do when it’s convenient. You know, when you need something.”

  “Are you upset with me for some reason?”

  “Upset? No. You just brought me flowers, took me out on a fancy date, engaged in deep and meaningful conversation, walked me to my door like a perfect gentleman, and then didn’t call me for nine days. Why would I be upset about that?”

  “Fair enough. But in my defense, I’ve been dealing with a personal issue the past couple of weeks, and this last week it required all of my focus and attention.”

  “Well, when you put it that way …”

  Bennett sighs into the receiver. “My sister, the one that died … she had a daughter. A five-year-old daughter. And I’ll be taking custody of her soon. I’ve been preparing for her arrival, interviewing nannies, furnishing her room ... My apologies if you were hoping to hear from me sooner, but I can assure you, you’ve not once left my thoughts.”

  “You’re taking in your niece?”

  “I am.”

  “Huh.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

  I move onto the next apple. “You don’t strike me as the father-figure type, that’s all.”

  “I’ll give you that. I don’t strike myself as the father-figure type either.”

  “So crazy that we actually agree on something for once.”

  “First time for everything,” he says. “Now back to that favor … I need to purchase some toys for her room. I have a list of things she likes, but I haven’t the slightest idea what any of these things are, and since you work with children her age, I thought you’d be better equipped to—”

  “—you want me to go toy shopping for you? Don’t you have assistants who do this stuff for you?”

  “Not for me.” His words are terse, slow. “With me.”

  * * *

  To say Bennett looks out of place in this four-story toy store in the heart of Chicago would be an understatement.

  He examines a baby doll, flipping the box and reading the back. “I don’t understand how this … pees.”

  I laugh, swiping it out of his hands and placing it in one of our two overflowing shopping carts. “All you need to understand is that she’ll love it.”

  We push our carts out of the baby doll aisle and head for the STEM s
ection across the way. He’s been loading up on Barbies, babies, and bejeweled craft sets, but it’s time to home in on some learning-related toys.

  I grab a talking microscope off the shelf. “We have one of these in my classroom. It’s got these little plastic slides, and you press these buttons on the bottom and it tells you what they are. My kids love it.”

  He takes it from me, places it in his cart, and then reaches for a volcano-making set.

  “You do realize how messy that’s going to be, right?” I wink.

  I’m not sure how experienced he is with children, but I’m willing to guess his floors have never seen a crumb and his counters have never seen a baking soda and vinegar explosion.

  “Does she have a toy kitchen?” I point to another section filled with miniature kitchens arguably nicer than the one in my apartment. “At this age, kids love to role play. It’s good for the imagination, too.”

  Two children chase each other through the aisles, ducking around us and squeezing past, giggling. One of them says, “Excuse me.” I watch for his reaction. Some people might mutter under their breath, annoyed. Others might laugh, finding it endearing. Kids being kids.

  He does neither.

  I lean in and keep my voice low. “Sometimes I think it’s good to remind ourselves that children are children and not soldiers.”

  When I was eight, I lived with a family for six months. The father was retired military and he ran the household with drill-sergeant precision. We weren’t allowed to talk out of turn. We weren’t allowed to giggle or laugh or run amok, not even in the backyard.

  In my opinion, children should have childhoods.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  “Yeah. We should probably check out. I think she’s all stocked up on toys.”

  “No.” I laugh through my nose, placing my hand on his arm. “I mean … are you ready for this? To be a dad?”

  He turns to me, slow, his dark brows angled. “Can you ever be ready for something like that?”

  I shrug. “This miniature human is going to change every last aspect of your entire world. Make you feel things you never knew you could feel. I hope you’re at least somewhat ready …”