I don’t carry a cell phone, but even if I did, I’m not sure I would call 911. Not after seeing that piece of silver glinting on the driver’s belt. A badge. Not local police—I’d recognize him—but some kind of badge that signified the man is law.
Twenty minutes later I climb the stairs to the second floor of my apartment building. The building only has two floors, and there are four apartments on the top floor. My apartment is the one on the left at the end of the hall.
I eye the apartment door across from mine for a moment before turning my key in the lock and stepping inside.
My apartment is bare and only contains the necessities. I don’t have a TV or computer or phone. A pile of books—hardcovers and paperbacks borrowed from the library—are stacked beside the couch.
That’s where I head once I shut the door and flick on the lights.
I gently set the duffel bag on the carpet and open it up—and at once a sour smell slaps me in the face. At some point in the past several minutes the baby has soiled itself. Which is okay, that’s what babies do, but it’s not like I have diapers lying around the place. Or, well, anything that I need to take care of a baby.
First things first.
I lift the baby out of the duffel bag and carry it into the bathroom. I turn both faucets to run water in the tub. I take off the diaper and discover that it’s a she. I hate to keep thinking of the baby as a thing, an it, but right now I don’t know what to call her.
The sour smell makes me gag, and I drop the diaper in the trashcan, but it’s one of those small bathroom trashcans without a lid, so it doesn’t do anything to hide the stink.
I hit the switch for the vent, as if that’s going to do anything, and then cradle the baby in one hand while I test the water’s temperature with my other hand to make sure it’s not too hot, not too cold.
I start washing off the baby. I’ve never dealt with babies before, but I know you’re supposed to use a special kind of soap to make sure it doesn’t hurt their eyes. Still, I don’t want her to smell, so I use a fresh washcloth and spritz a dollop of body wash in it and lather up the baby all the way up to her neck. She still has the pacifier in her mouth, which I’m going to need to clean at some point. My worry is what she’ll do once I take it from her mouth. I figure she’ll start crying, and I need to make sure that doesn’t happen. My neighbors are good people, but they all know I don’t have children. If they hear a baby crying, that’ll create questions I don’t want to begin to try to answer.
The baby has a birthmark on her back, what looks like a little starburst.
I whisper, “Star. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you for now. Does that sound good?”
Star doesn’t answer.
Once I rinse her off, I take one of my towels and dry her and then wrap her in a new towel. I run the water in the sink and pluck the pacifier from her mouth, and at first I expect her to start crying, but she doesn’t. She stares up at me, like she’s fascinated by who I am and what I’m doing.
Cleaning off the pacifier the best I can, I dry it and slip it back into Star’s mouth.
Okay, now what?
In my previous life I worked as a nanny, but I wasn’t actually a nanny. I was an undercover bodyguard for my boss’s kids. I took them places, helped them with their homework, but I never did any actual childrearing. And when I started working with them they had moved past the diapers phase. I had seen diapers changed before, but I had never changed a diaper myself. In situations like these, one usually turns to YouTube, but again, I don’t have a computer or phone.
Well, that’s not true. I do have a phone—two phones, in fact. Both disposables I purchased a month after I settled into this apartment and decided to make Alden my home. I’d purchased minutes for the phones on the off chance I would ever need to use them, but to be honest, I’m not sure if those minutes have expired. And even if they haven’t, who am I going to call?
Star needs actual diapers. Clothes. Food. Basically everything every other baby needs.
I should call the police, but I keep seeing that glint of silver on the driver’s belt. For all I know, the badge is bullshit, something bought off eBay to make people think he’s a lawman, but I can’t take that chance.
Before I head back to the couch to check out what else is in the duffel bag, I make a quick detour to my bedroom.
A three-drawer dresser stands against the wall. Cradling Star in the nook of my left arm, I open the bottom drawer, the one loaded with sweatshirts and sweatpants, and dig down for one of the two guns I have hidden underneath.
It’s a SIG Sauer P320 Nitron Compact. The mag holds fifteen nine-millimeter rounds and is already loaded. All I need to do is rack the slide to put one in the chamber.
I haven’t touched the gun in months. Haven’t cleaned it. Haven’t even looked at it. The old me would have been much more careful with weapons. Would have made sure this gun—and the Mossberg shotgun hidden in the hallway closet—was better maintained. But after a year of solitary living, of integrating myself into this town with my new identity, I’ve never once felt the need to use either weapon. My old life is far behind me.
I make sure the safety’s on before I slip the gun into the waistband of my jeans.
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