Three

I take the long way home.

It’s only another three blocks to my apartment building, barely a five-minute walk, but instead I go a circuitous route, staying close to buildings, moving from one shadow to another. The night is quiet for the most part, just the sound of a few cars out on the highway and a dog barking in the distance.

I cradle the duffel bag as I go, rocking it slightly, trying to keep the baby quiet despite the pacifier in its mouth. The way those men were talking, they’ll probably drive around once they clean up the body. The man in the cowboy hat mentioned the bag. Now that I know a baby is inside the duffel bag, I have to assume what the men really want is the baby.

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.

Next I check the bedroom closet and pull out the thick wool blanket. I give it a quick sniff—musty—but it’ll do.

I return to the living room and spread out the wool blanket on the floor. I fold it once, to make sure there’s enough padding, and then I gently set Star down on the blanket so that she lies on her back.

My hands now free, I turn and crouch down beside the duffel bag. It still smells sour, but not as bad as before. The baby blanket is going to need to be cleaned.

I want to search the bag, but the bottle and container of formula catch my eye. I have no idea when Star was last fed, but something tells me a baby this young needs to be fed a lot.

I grab the container, scan the directions on the back. Doesn’t seem too complicated.

I whisper to Star, “Stay here.”

I hurry into the kitchen with the bottle and container of formula. I wash and dry the bottle, set it aside, and then follow the directions to make the formula. Return to the living room to find Star is thankfully still on the blanket. I sit on the floor, cradle her in my arm, pluck the pacifier from her mouth, and replace it with the nipple.

At first I worry she won’t latch on, won’t start to feed, but then she starts sucking at the nipple.

I coo to her, “Good girl, good Star,” as she drinks the formula, and then I set the bottle aside, pick her up, and softly pat her on the back until she burps.

“All good for now, Star?”

She doesn’t answer, and I’m not sure if I should keep going. I take a chance and put the pacifier back in her mouth, set her on the blanket.

My hands once again free, I turn to check what else is in the duffel bag.

Two other items are buried at the bottom.

A bright yellow Velcro wallet, the kind a little girl would carry, and a pinkie finger.

Before I can reach inside to pull out either item, there’s a sudden knock at the door—two quick quiet raps—and a hushed voice says, “Police, open up.”