“I’m house-sitting,” I say. “I grew up here and have a cousin here. It’s just by chance.”
He frowns. “Well, it’s well-timed. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
I run my hands down my thighs. “Okay. What is it?”
“Jeanette Hannigan is your sister. Correct?”
My stomach revolts against the stress. It churns and twists so hard that I lean forward slightly to try to ease the pain.
Boone angles his body toward me.
“Yes. She is my half sister,” I tell him. “We had the same mother but different fathers. Why?”
He folds his hands on his desk. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your sister has passed away.”
What?
No. It can’t … She can’t be … dead.
I sink back in the faux-leather chair, my clothes squeaking against the fabric as I move. My gaze falls to an uneven grout line on the floor as his words echo in my brain.
My palms are cold now, the sweat having evaporated into the cold room. The pain in my stomach easing, only to have relocated into my chest.
Nettie died?
I blink slowly and try to pry myself out of the downward spiral in my head. I need to pay attention.
Boone’s hand rests on my forearm. I don’t really even feel it.
“What happened to her?” I ask. The words sound like they are coming from someone else.
“From what I understand, she went to the emergency room sometime in the past forty-eight hours and was diagnosed with sepsis. You need to talk to the medical professionals about that if you have questions.”
“Okay.”
My voice is as hollow as I feel. It’s a strange sensation to process.
I have seen my sister twice in the past fifteen years. Once when our grandmother died. I think Mom guilted her into attending the funeral. The other instance was when Mom passed away when I was nineteen, Nettie twenty-seven. We spent two days together for that six years ago. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.
“I always thought she was so cool,” I say, mostly to myself. “I would tell everyone she was my sister. You’d think she was a movie star or something by the way I talked about her. But if she was around, she’d emphasize half sister and then explain that we had different dads and different last names.”
The gazes of Boone and Sergeant Boudreaux are heavy. Still, I keep talking.
“She was so talented,” I tell them. “She would constantly be singing Mariah Carey songs, and she loved to dance. I used to watch her and then go to my room and try to mimic it.” I smile at the memory. “She was a better cook than our mom, even as a teenager. And she has the best hair.”
Boone squeezes my forearm. It causes the dam in my eyes to break and a cascade of tears to drop across my cheeks.
I sniffle. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry.”
“It’s all right,” Boone says softly.
Sergeant Boudreaux hands me a tissue. “Crying at the loss of a loved one is a normal reaction, Miss Thorpe.”
I nod and dab at my eyes.
It might be normal, but I still hate it.
“There is one other thing that I’d like to talk to you about,” Sergeant says. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Are you aware that your sister has a child?”
“No,” I say, scooting to the edge of my seat. “I had no idea.”
“Well, she does. And your sister, Jeanette, signed a Last Will and Testament at the hospital and named you as her guardian.”
Whaaaaaaaaaaat?
My jaw drops to the floor as I let that bit of information sink in.
I hold my head in my hands. “She named me as the guardian. What does that mean?”
“It means that if you would like custody of the child, a little girl, then that’s what the State would like to do. But if you don’t, then the State will take custody and put her into foster placement.”
“No. I’ll take her.”
I answer quickly—probably too quickly, but there’s no way I can let that happen. This little girl that I’ve never seen before is my flesh and blood.
A flurry of questions and situations and potential problems catapult through my brain, and the influx of energy causes me to feel light-headed. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to stay balanced.
The sergeant says something that I miss altogether. I sense him getting up and walking to the door, but my gaze falls on Boone.
His eyes are wide, but the centers of them are calm. I grab onto them like buoys in a raging ocean.
“Miss Thorpe?”
I look up to see a woman in a black pencil skirt and tan blouse standing in the doorway. She walks toward the desk and sets a pad of paper on it.
“I’m Shera Wan, and I’m sorry for your loss,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“Sergeant Boudreaux told me that you are opting to take custody of the minor. Is that correct?”
All I can do is nod.
How is this happening? How the hell is this happening right now?
Nettie … Oh, Nettie. What happened to you? Why did you not reach out for help?
I blink back tears.
“Are you in a place to financially and emotionally care for the child?” she asks me.
I nod even though I have no idea if that’s actually true.
“Okay.” She scribbles something on the paper. “This is a process we will have to work through together. But because this is probably quite a shock to you, we will make it as painless as we can today.”
“I would appreciate that.” My brain picks one question out of the queue and blurts it into the room. “So do I adopt her or … how does this work?”
She smiles. “You can. Right now, you’ll have guardianship. The State gives us a process to follow to ensure that the child is in the best environment.”
“I understand.”
Lies. I don’t understand at all.
She scribbles something again. “So you can care for the child. I just need
