Tracking Time

Stunned, Maslow sat back on his heels. Pain blasted through the muscles and torn skin of his calves.

'What?' He stared at her dirty, battered face, nausea sucking at his gut.

'Jerome Atkins is my daddy.'

Maslow's brain swirled back four months. In her written biography, she'd described a father unwell and crippled who'd needed help going to the bathroom. In great detail, she described the outhouse behind the modest house where they'd lived and how her father had abused her there from the time she was five or six.

'He didn't want you to know.'

Maslow shook his head as if he had water in his ear. 'How do you know?' he asked softly.

'I saw a newspaper article about him when I was ten. Some award he got. It mentioned your mother and you. I was-it was horrible. After that, there hasn't been a day of my life that I didn't think about you.' Allegra was having trouble breathing.

'Shh. You don't have to-'

'I want to tell you. I wasn't supposed to know you. Daddy was with you on holidays. He was with me and my mom the day before or the day after. Sometimes you went away on vacation, and we'd wait for him to come home. We were shadows. I felt like a shadow person.' She panted. 'I was always a shadow person.'

Maslow felt the nausea rise and water fill his mouth. He could hear the rats scuffling nearby, waiting for another chance at them. He didn't want to retch.

'I kept trying to tell you the truth about Daddy, but you wouldn't listen.'

Maslow closed his eyes. No more confessions. He had to get them out of there. He didn't want her to use up her energy and die, didn't want to throw up and be useless because of what she was telling him.

'That day I called you-well, I'd called you before. At first I just called to hear your voice.'

'How did you get my phone number?' he asked.

'I got it from information.'

Of course. He was a doctor, anyone could find him.

'I listened to your voice on tape. And one day, you answered.'

Maslow remembered it well.

'You thought I wanted to be your patient. And then before I could say anything, you were giving me times that you were available.'

'Jesus.' Maslow was rubbing her hands furiously. Small hands, like his.

'Owww.'

Bites. She had rat bites on her hands. Maybe one on her cheek, too. Her nose was a mess, she was going to lose her foot soon; and she wouldn't stop talking.

'I'd wanted to meet you for so long, and there you were inviting me to come and see you. Just like that. It was like God coming down from heaven and making my dream come true. You didn't ask who I was or what I wanted. You just gave me a time and told me where to go. And when I met you, you looked like Daddy, like me, but you didn't see it. You asked me what my name was. I don't know, I just said the first thing that came to mind.'

'We have to get going.' It was too terrible. Maslow didn't want to hear any more.

'And then we made another appointment for a few days later. I was so excited. I had planned to tell you that first day. But you were so nice to me. You asked me all kinds of questions. How could I tell you I was just a nobody, with a nothing story. Nobody ever hit me or hurt me in any way. I wasn't starving. I went to school. It wasn't like I was deprived at all. What could my complaint be? Last year I took a course on domestic abuse, so I made up a story like that. I wanted to tell you the whole truth, everything. But I liked being with you. I liked the interest you took in me. It was your idea that you analyze me. I never would have thought of it.'

'Oh God!' He was such a jerk. Maslow could see just how it happened. His nausea overwhelmed him. The subway rumbled and a clump of dirt fell from the ceiling behind them. What if she was right and they were going to die in there? He turned away and gagged. A little sour acid came out of him, nothing more. His head spun, and she was still talking.

'I knew, as a patient, I could see you five days a week, every week. But if I told you I'm your sister, who knew what you would do? I felt really bad. On Tuesday I was going to tell you no matter what, but you brushed me off.'

'I have to lift this gate, Allegra,' he said. 'So we can get out of here.'

'My name is Dylan Rodriguez and I don't care that I'm dying.'

'Oh God.' That was what Chloe had said.

Dylan stopped talking. She'd told him what she wanted him to know and now she was finished. The gate was wedged in such a way that he couldn't get it up. Frustration at so many ruined lives made him howl like a dog at the rats in the corner, the shadows in the night.

Fifty-six

Cheryl was fussing around in her new kitchen with the music on and the door half closed. She didn't have any particular intention of cooking anything, but she wanted to make things nice. Her decorator had considered his job done when the appliances were in and the wallpaper was up, so it was up to her to arrange the small appliances and even the utensils. Because of her surgery last week and a number of other things on her mind, Cheryl hadn't gotten to it until now. At the moment, she was trying to decide which was better next to the sink, the Cuisinart or the coffeemaker. Or maybe the toaster oven.

The plain truth was she'd had it with recovery. She wanted to go out and do something, but two things prevented her from taking off. The day was pretty much over in Manhattan, and she didn't think it was such a good idea to go out with things so unsettled with Brandy. Therefore, she was stuck in the house with nothing to do.

She needed the comfort of a man and called Aston at his office.

'Mr. Gluckselig's office.'

'Is Aston there?' Cheryl asked.

'Who may I say is calling,' his bitch of a secretary asked.

'Cheryl Fabman.'

'Oh, Miss Fabman, he's out of the office on vacation this week.'

Cheryl was shocked. He hadn't told her he was going anywhere. 'Where?' she demanded.

'I'm not at liberty to say.' The sweet tone was pure gloat.

Cheryl hated her, and hated Aston, too. She was terribly upset. It was Thursday. That meant she had a whole weekend to wonder what it meant. She chewed on her new lips, worrying as she moved things around on the countertops. She had no idea what the whole thing with Brandy was all about, didn't want to think about it, but brooded about it anyway.

Maybe she was upset about the divorce. People said divorce was bad for kids. Well, it was bad for her, too. She didn't have as much money as before. Her lifestyle had shrunk to nothing. And she couldn't just pick up and go to Jamaica like Aston could. Maybe the toaster oven was better next to the refrigerator. Cheryl checked her watch. Brandy had been in her room ever since the detective left. Cute guy. He didn't seem put off by Brandy in her motor-mouth mode. And her wacko story seemed to sit okay with him. He didn't know Brandy like she did.

Sometimes the kid didn't say anything for days, and then suddenly she was talking a mile a minute and wouldn't shut up. Jesus Christ, why couldn't Brandy be more like her? Cheryl considered going in and talking to her again. But what was the point? The little bitch was sulking now. It occurred to Cheryl that she was not able to handle her daughter, and that was very unsettling, too. She wasn't having a good day.

She chewed on her new lips, which felt weird but looked great. She looked so great she wanted to cry. In her brand-new kitchen a shooting pain in her side made Cheryl double over and almost fall to the floor. She knew the stabbing pain meant she missed Seymour and the life they used to have together. He happened to be a big slob and snored like a horse, but she'd known him for twenty years. And even if she did aim for a richer man to marry next, it wasn't so easy to land one. Seymour had done everything she ever asked of him, except forgive her for one tiny slip. It seemed unfair.

And worse, he was recovering from it, had a new girlfriend who Brandy said was really nice when they went