I take a step back, giving the little girl space so she doesn’t feel threatened.
The rain picks up intensity, soaking through my Henley. The front stoop shelters the woman and the toddler from the rain and the wind, but not the spring chill. The girl must be cold.
I rein in my emotions at the woman’s outrageous claim. “There’s been a mistake. You have the wrong house.” Because I know for certain the toddler isnotmy daughter.
The woman shakes her head, her strawberry-blond ponytail slicing the air. “There’s no mistake. You’re Garrett Carson.”
Shit. Shit-Shit-Shit.Annie Wilkes 3.0. Is that what this is?
At least the last obsessed fan hadn’t tried to foist a child on me and pretend it was mine.
“I can guarantee she’s not my daughter. For one, I’ve never seen you before. And you might not know anything about genetics, but I do. Youand I are both white. The little girl isn’t. One of us needs to be Black for her to be biologically ours.”
Kellan moves up beside me, and the toddler lets out another whimper. Her fear-widened eyes dart between Kellan and me.
I pull out my phone from my pocket, ready to call the cops. It was bad enough being stalked, but for a child to be dragged into this woman’s delusions…
And how did she end up with the little girl? Yes, she might be the girl’s mother. But it’s also possible a family somewhere is desperately searching for their missing toddler. Like inUntold Mercy.
Shit, is that what this is about?
No, that can’t be it. The blurb for the book hasn’t been revealed yet. She might be imitating something she’s read in a novel, but it isn’t the one sitting on my laptop.
A flush spreads up the woman’s neck and cheeks, drowning out the freckles splattered across her face. “Oh, cats in a flying saucepan.” Her hand goes to the oval pendant around her neck, and she rubs it between her fingers. “I didn’t meanI’mher mother. Kenda is her mother.Washer mother.” Pain twists on her face, the final three words hovering on a silent sob.
The words—spoken so softly I almost missed them—roar in my head like a tornado tearing through a small town, turning my thoughts to dust. “What do you meanwas?”
“She-she’s dead.” The woman hugs the little girl closer as if protecting her from the truth.
A cold chill numbs my body more than the rain ever could, and my voice comes out like a shard of rough ice. “Dead? How?”She’s lying. She has to be lying.
I may not be in love with Kenda anymore, but she will always hold a space in my heart. She can’t be dead—I’d know if she was.
The woman straightens her shoulders. The flush on her face has faded, and her skin is once again pale. “She-she was shopping and-and was caught in the crossfire. A mass shooting. Several people died.”
“Maybe we should continue this inside.” Kellan eyes the pair with an unsettled interest. He doesn’t look like he believes anything she’s just toldus any more than I do, but he’s obviously willing to hear what she has to say.
Maybe because he’s thinking the same thing I am—the toddler has possibly been abducted to be used in this woman’s charade.
The woman shoots him a grateful, if not somewhat uncertain, glance and nods. “We’re going into your daddy’s house.” The words are spoken softly to the toddler like a lullaby.
She picks up the bag by her feet. I open the door, and they follow me into the foyer.
The woman scans the space, no doubt taking in the dark colors and the simple, masculine interior design. The same masculine theme can be found in the rest of the house—a fact Zara loves to tease me about.
Zara.
Shit.Kenda was one of her closest friends in college, and as far as I knew, they kept in contact. If Kenda had been pregnant, surely, she would’ve told Zara. Zara never mentioned Kenda had a baby. Why not? To spare my feelings, knowing I was once in love with her? That was a long time ago. Things change. People change.
People change, but Kenda knew me. She knew I would accept responsibility for my child if I’d accidentally knocked her up. She’d had no reason to keep the truth from me.
Kenda. Dead.
The woman’s lying about that too. This is nothing more than a twisted stolen-identity scam.
I should just call the cops and turn her in, but something has me stalling. Curiosity, maybe. Curiosity about what other lies the woman has planned. I point toward the living room, indicating for us to continue the discussion in there.
She toes off her sneakers and carries the toddler to where I pointed. Kellan and I hang back in the foyer.
