“I’ve been meaning to turn those sprinklers off,” Derek said from the front porch. “Rough night?”
I cleared my throat. “Not the parts I remember. What time is it?”
“She’s not up yet, if that’s what you mean.”
It was what I meant.
“I have coffee,” Derek said. “There’s a little leftover breakfast. You hungry?”
I shook my head. My stomach rumbled and my hands formed to fists. “I shouldn’t be here.” I surveyed the area for any signs of danger—of someone or something that didn’t belong in the quaint neighborhood. “Shouldn’t be seen with you. It’s too dangerous.”
The sprinklers turned off, leaving me soaked and shivering in the cool morning breeze. A car sped by, going about double the speed limit. A twinge of fear turned to anger, clutching at my heart. My seven-year-old daughter lived in this neighborhood, lived in the house right behind me. That car had no right to speed.
“Mel’s doing good,” Derek offered. “Just started second grade. Her teacher loves her. She has lots of friends.”
I sniffled, the cold weather getting to my sinuses. “Today is the day,” I said, opening and staring at my shit-smeared palms. Normally, I wasn’t this morose. But something about the anniversary of my wife’s death—something about those memories stole my usual humor. “Seven years ago to the very day.” I grunted as I stood. “Derek.”
“Yeah?”
I still faced the street with my back to him. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to go. You know I shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous for Mel.”
“I know.”
Before walking away, I hesitated, licking my dehydrated lips. I should have drunk from the sprinklers like a dog when they were on for a little water. “Does she…” I swallowed, then cleared my throat. “Does she know about me?” I couldn’t help but ask the question. Since giving Mel to Derek and Marie shortly after her mother died, I’d never spoken to the man. I gave him Mel, and he accepted her as a daughter—we both understood that we could never speak after that.
Derek didn’t say anything at first. I fought hard not to look back and see his face. After a minute, he said, “No.”
“What about Callie? Does Mel know about her mother?”
Quieter this time, but quicker in his response, Derek said, “No.”
Another car passed at a much slower pace than the previous. I glanced at the driver—a focused old lady who hugged the steering wheel. The sun had risen above the roof of the house across the street, and I had to squint against the brightness. Despite the cloud cover, the light burned into my throbbing head, but I accepted the pain.
“Don’t ever tell her.”
“Never,” Derek said.
He was about forty. He and Marie, his wife, had tried to conceive for over ten years, but they found success about as often as I found happiness. I’ll you deduce the correct answer to that word problem. Nothing that modern medicine had to offer worked for them. Shortly after Callie’s death, I had asked Xander—who was good at finding things, and who you’ll meet soon enough—to find a family for Mel that would love her and keep her safe. He found the Anderson’s. Good people who had loved and cared for and protected my daughter for seven years now.
But the main reason I had decided to hand Mel over was that Derek and his wife had no life—and, at the time, I had planned to dedicate what remained of mine to finding Callie’s killers and introducing them to excruciating mental, psychological, and physical pain. I couldn’t allow Mel to grow up in my home, where my enemies could get to her and hurt her, or use her against me. So, I moved her out of Sacramento and into a smaller town with the impotent nerd and his gorgeous—seriously, Derek was batting way out of his league—wife.
The decision was easy to make.
Derek and Marie woke up at five on the weekdays, six on the weekends. He prepared breakfast—fried eggs on buttered toast—for himself and her. He always tore open two packs of Stevia to dump in his coffee, while his wife preferred hot tea with honey. They followed that routine every single morning. On weekdays before work, he visited the gym, where he swam—I dizzied just watching him go back and forth like a damn windshield wiper. She went to yoga or ran in circles around a track like a damn hamster. After their morning workouts, they went to the old grindstone until four, came home, completed house chores, and ate dinner. Derek played online chess while his wife shopped the online sales, then they climbed into bed and watched a movie until they fell asleep.
Rinse and repeat.
I know you’re thinking it, so I will go ahead and say it. Yes, I stalked them. I stalked them good and hard for month to pinpoint their routines, their patterns, and their behaviors. I strategically chose them for Mel, because they would be there for her. They would provide structure—something I would never be able to offer.
Back to the story. I stumbled off Derek’s lawn, leaving wet boot prints on the cement sidewalk. I didn’t dare glance back at the house. What if I saw her standing at his leg, or peeking from behind the open door, or staring out a window?
I wiped my face, smearing the forgotten shit over my skin and into my hair. Cursing again, I tore off my jacket and used the soaked sleeve to wash off the mess. When I finished, I threw the jacket in the first trash can I came across—a metallic bin standing beside a wooden park bench. I sat on the bench and stared at the empty playground—the ghost of
