Fragmented (26 page)

I shifted in the lawyer’s chair and the leather upholstery squeaked beneath me. “Mr. Belair, why am I here?”

The lawyer tugged at his tie. “I’m sorry that I’m the one you have to hear this from, Ms. Dawkins, but your father has passed away.

I had never known my father, but the lawyer’s admission still took my breath away. “Wh-when?” I sputtered out. “How?”

“It was last May. He had a heart attack.” Alan Belair folded his hands on top of his desk. “I’m sorry it’s taken my office this long to track you down, but you’re a very difficult woman to find.”

“You’ve been looking for me since May?” I was flabbergasted. “Just to tell me that my birth father—a man I literally have no memory of—died?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. Your father left you quite a sum of money.”

“He did what?”

“After he left your family, your father started up a very successful business,” the lawyer noted. “Now that he’s passed, the fruits of that labor go to you.”

It was a good thing I was sitting down. “How much fruit are we talking about?”

Alan Belair smiled for the first time of our meeting. “It’s more like an orchard,” he said. “After taxes and fees, it’s about a million dollars to be split between you and your brother.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” I gaped. “Does my brother know?”

“Yes. We found him in May.”

“I just saw Damien a few weeks ago. Why didn’t he say something to me?” I wondered out loud.

The lawyer looked troubled. “When we contacted him, he said he didn’t know where you were.”

Damien knew exactly where to find me; he was about the only person from my life in Memphis who did.

I instantly thought the worst. “If you couldn’t find me, what would have happened to the money?” Maybe Damien had wanted the money all to himself.

“Nothing. It would have sat in the bank account, collecting interest, until you turned up.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind,” I said aloud. Privately, however, I couldn’t fathom how he would have forgotten to tell me about half a million dollars.

I was on the phone as soon as I left the lawyer’s office. I didn’t expect Damien to answer—not that he had any reason to avoid my calls—but I knew he was probably still at work at this hour. I left him a message to call me and shoved my phone into my bag.

I’d been longer at the lawyer’s office than I’d anticipated. I’d have to catch a cab to Lincoln Park if I wanted to pick up Sasha from school on time. Taxis were an indulgence I normally didn’t allow myself since the L was so convenient and practically free with my student pass. As I raised my arm to hail a cab a thought struck me with the force of a gale wind. I could afford a cab ride; I had half a million dollars. In fact, if I wanted to, I didn’t have to keep babysitting for the Henderson’s anymore.

When my ride pulled up to the curb in front of Sasha’s school, I saw my young charge walking outside, simultaneously struggling with her backpack and jacket while I paid the taxi driver.

Sasha’s face was scrunched in concern until she saw me bound up to my normal position at the assembly line of parental units.

“Heya, kiddo.” I ruffled her mop of tight, springy curls. “How was your day?”

“We made turkeys!”

She rummaged around the blue backpack that was nearly bigger than she was and produced a thin folder. The backpack was forgotten momentarily, left on the sidewalk and other papers threatening to spill out, while she produced the construction paper cutout of her hand, which she’d transformed into a turkey with the help of markers and crayons.

She shoved the project into my hands for a closer appraisal. “This is fantastic, Sash,” I complimented. “What’s that red on its beak? Lipstick?”

“Turkeys don’t wear makeup, Harper,” she huffed.

“Silly me.” I chuckled at her exasperated expression. Her emotions were too big for such a tiny body. “What is it then?”

“It’s blood. It’s a zombie turkey.”

“Of course it is. Why didn’t I think of that?” I carefully put the re-animated turkey back into the folder and returned it to Sasha’s backpack. I could only imagine Mrs. Henderson’s reaction when Sasha re-told the story to her. I transferred Sasha’s backpack to my shoulders and took her mittened hand in my own.

It was starting to get too cold for our usual trip to the park on our way back to the Henderson’s house. I’d have to come up with some fun new winter activities for us while we waited for her parents to get off of work.

“Where’s your friend today?” Sasha asked as we walked past the Lincoln Park Zoo’s main entrance.

I knew who she was talking about, but I was curious how a five year old might describe Raleigh.

“Which friend?” I fished.

“You know.” She puffed out her cheeks and nearly rolled her eyes. “The Candy Land one.”

My lips did an involuntary twitch at the description. “Why? Did you like her?” I was an idiot, asking a child for her approval, but it somehow felt a whole lot safer asking Sasha what she thought of Raleigh more so than my friends whom I’d only just included in the news that Raleigh and I were dating.

Sasha swung our enjoined hands back and forth like we were a human jumping rope. “She’s nice. Plus we got ice cream yesterday.”

I laughed at Sasha’s reasoning, but felt better for having asked the question.
 

Mr. Henderson arrived home at his usual time a few hours later. Mrs. Henderson wouldn’t be far behind as long as traffic wasn’t bad. Seeing him in his police uniform reminded me that there was something I’d wanted to talk to him about.

“Would you be able to run a license plate number for me?” I asked.

“What for?”

I pushed out a deep breath. “The past few weeks I’ve noticed a car in my neighborhood. I could be imagining it, but I think it’s been following me.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A fancy muscle car. I’m not really sure of the year or anything, but I think it’s an old Dodge Charger. Candy-apple red paint.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No. I’ve never been able to get close enough, but I got the license plate number the other day. I followed the vehicle with my car; I couldn’t make out the driver, but I got close enough to see the license plate. I can text the information to you.”

Mr. Henderson frowned. “That’s really dangerous, Harper. If this person really is following you, what could have happened if they discovered you had been following them instead?”

“I know. And I know I should have just called the police when I suspected something was off.”

“Cops are here for a reason. There’s no need to be reckless.”

“Can you look up the plate for me?” I asked again. I didn’t have the patience for a safety lecture.

“Sure. Do you want to file a report?”

“No. Not right now.” I realized it very well could have been someone associated with Alan Belair’s law office.

“I’ll run the plate number tomorrow at work and let you know what I find out.”

“Thank you. And just a heads up,” I said as I slipped into my jacket, “there’s a zombie Thanksgiving turkey in Sasha’s backpack.”

“Oh God,” he said, running a hand over his face. “I knew I shouldn’t have let her stay up to watch
The Walking Dead
with me this week.”

“I thought there had to be a reason for it,” I grinned.

“Thanks for letting me know. It gives me some time to come up with an excuse before Pam gets home.”

I gave him a little wave in parting. “Good luck with that. See you tomorrow.”

He absently waved back as he dug through Sasha’s backpack to find the incriminating evidence.

I stopped just short of opening the front door. A handful of city workers were standing in front of the Henderson’s brownstone, staring up at one of the mature maple trees that lined either side of the residential street. It looked like they were about to trim some of its branches, so I shut the door instead of walking through the center of their project.

The Henderson’s had a secondary exit through the connected garage, which was actually below the two-level brownstone. I pressed the garage door opener at the top of the short stairs that led into the one-car garage. Usually Mrs. Henderson’s SUV was parked in the single covered spot, but a different car, one with a protective canvas car cover, was parked in its place.

I ran my hand over the boxy lines of the covered vehicle. I hadn’t realized the Henderson’s had a second car. My hand caught on the protective cover, and the material shifted with the movement of my fingers.

“Damn it,” I cursed my clumsiness.

The door that led back into the house flew open. Mr. Henderson stood, wide-eyed, at the top of the steps. “I thought I heard the garage door open.”

“Yeah. There’s city workers out front, so I came through here so I wouldn’t get in their way,” I explained. “Sorry I bumped your car.”

He bounded down the stairs, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix it.”

“My hand got caught on the cover. I don’t think I scratched it though.” I flipped back the corner of the material to make sure I hadn’t done any damage. I ran my fingertips across the finish to make sure there were no invisible scratches. The shiny gloss was smooth to the touch with no imperfections. I was relieved that the candy-apple red paint looked flawless.

My fingers froze. I knew this car.

I tugged at the protective sheet with both hands to reveal the rest of the vehicle. I mumbled out the number and letters on the license plate. I knew them by heart.

Mr. Henderson lifted his hands. “Harper. I can explain.”

It was then that I noticed perhaps for the first time the size discrepancy between Mr. Henderson and myself. He was massively built, like a brown bear standing on its back legs.

I swallowed hard to steady my nerves. “This is the car I just told you about. What is it doing in your garage?”

“It’s my car. It’s usually in storage, which is why you’ve never noticed it before. Pam drives the SUV, and I take the L to work.” He grimaced before continuing. “I was following you, but not in the way you think. I was worried. We got that missing persons call about you, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that when I asked you to run the license plate?”

“I panicked,” he said. “I knew how it looked—a grown man following his babysitter around town.”

“What about the calls and the texts and the knocking on my apartment door?” I demanded. “Was that you, too?”

“What? No. I swear I don’t know anything about that.”

I hesitated. I’d always thought Mr. Henderson was a really great guy.

“Thad?” I heard Mrs. Henderson’s voice call out from inside the house.

“In the garage, hun,” he hollered back, keeping his eyes on me.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” her disembodied voice stated. “Josh continues to insist we center the new exhibit on the influence of the 1956 Venice Biennale when clearly the story should be about the New Deal and the Works Progress Administration.”

Mrs. Henderson appeared in the open doorway a moment later and peered into the garage. “Oh, hey, Harper. I didn’t know you were still here.” When she noticed the open garage door and the uncovered muscle car, her eyebrows knit together. “Were you going for a ride, Thad?”

“Harper found the car. I was just explaining to her how this is all a big misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Henderson’s red lipsticked mouth formed a perfect ‘Oh’ of surprise. “I thought I told you to tell her about that!”

I looked between husband and wife and the open garage door. I didn’t know what was going on, and I didn’t know whom to trust. I should have just run and not looked back. I didn’t need the Henderson’s. I didn’t need this job anymore.

The motor on the electric garage door buzzed, and the metal door began to close. I swung my head in Mrs. Henderson’s direction. Her pointer finger was pressed against the garage door button. The late afternoon sunlight dimmed with each passing second as the door began its slow descent to reconnect with the concrete floor. I was too slow in reacting. I was trapped inside.

“Come back inside the house, Harper,” Mrs. Henderson instructed. “We should probably talk.”

I’d never sat in the Henderson’s formal dining room before, but I now found myself at one of the high-backed captain’s chairs with both Thad and Pam Henderson seated on the other side of the table. I could hear the high-pitched cartoon voices and comical musical scores of some television program they’d plopped Sasha in front of. I wanted to skip out of this conversation and watch TV with her instead and ignore whatever was going on.

“I owe you an apology, Harper. I was probably a little too gung-ho about the whole stakeout thing,” Mr. Henderson began. “I’ve been sitting behind a desk for too long. I saw this as an opportunity to do real police work.”

“I told my husband he should have told you right away.” Mrs. Henderson shook her head. “But I suppose he fancies himself a secret agent or undercover officer instead of a cop who answers the phone all day.”