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ROSE JANUARY HAD PUT off calling September as long as she could, still embarrassed about losing control during their last encounter. Rose smiled sadly. Her youngest daughter had been a challenge from the start. If she’d had her way, Rose would have stopped with her first perfect child, beautiful April, who now lay dying in the hospital. The family dinner had been too much for her fragile health.
Rose had insisted that Lysle stay at the hospital to comfort Steven and be strong for April’s husband. He’d let her know should something change. “My poor beautiful girl.” She dabbed her eyes, careful not to disturb her makeup. Over the years, she’d perfected the art of hiding her emotions. Or of showing what emotions others expected. She’d survived the hard years, but at what cost?
This wasn’t the life she’d envisioned, that she’d wished for. That she deserved. She gritted her jaw, and took a deep, cleansing breath. One made the best of choices thrust upon them. Dwelling on such things helped no one. You could let life crush you, or fight back and win the next round. And the next. Rose had always been a fighter. She fought for her kids, for all of them. Accidental families could be as fiercely loved as those planned.
Rose had fully expected September to call and apologize for upsetting her. September always apologized, even for things not her fault. They were so much alike, both deeply hurt, both having paid awful prices for Rose’s damning mistakes. When September hadn’t called, and April’s situation worsened, Rose phoned several times. She hung up each time it went to voice mail. This conversation must be in person, not a message.
Rose squared her shoulders, and dialed again.
“Hello?”
Had she mis-dialed? “Who is this? I’m calling my daughter, September.” Her brow furrowed.
“This is Officer Teves, of the Chicago police department. Do you know where your daughter is?”
What in the world had September done now? “Of course not.” She snapped at the woman. “Why would I call her phone if I knew—” She cut herself off, bewildered. “Chicago? What’s she doing in Chicago?”
“South Bend, actually. She’s a friend of mine, and lost her phone. We haven’t been able to find her, found her car at the airport.”
Rose slowly sank to perch on the arm of the sofa. “I don’t understand. South Bend?” September’s circle of friends included all kinds of strange people, from police officers to ne’er do wells. Rose stiffened her spine. If September ran off on some police case rather than stay to support her sister, she’d never forgive her!
“Her husband left paperwork she needed to see.”
“Husband? He’s dead.” None of this made sense. “I don’t care why you dragged her off on some wild goose chase, Officer. But she’s needed here. At home. Find her. Tell her she has to come home right away. Her sister April is in the hospital and... it’s very serious.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell this stranger about her precious daughter, dying for want of a kidney match. She’d put off being tested, knew in her heart they couldn’t be compatible—news that would destroy her family—and now...now, the results, even if good news, would come too late.
“I’ll tell her. Please call this number if you hear from her first.” Officer Teves hesitated, and then added, “Christopher Day’s old investigation stirred up a hornet’s nest stretching from Chicago to South Bend, and possibly further afield. We don’t know how, but it involves September and Victor Grant.”
She stiffened. One hand unconsciously rose to her throat. “He’s in jail. He can’t hurt us. I mean, hurt her—not anymore.” She squeezed shut her eyes. She’d had no choice. How long would her children continue to pay for her sins? When would it end?
“If she contacts you, just tell her to be careful.”
The phone disconnected. Rose sat for a long, silent moment, and then shakily accessed the phone’s browser. She searched for South Bend, Indiana news, and began to read.
Horror grew.
The past had found her.
(29 Years Ago)
AFTER FIVE YEARS, HER new name and life felt more real than her previous fifteen years as Latana Ojo. Circumstances forced her to grow up fast, and what started as an act—pretending to be older to match her new persona—became reality.
At first, she’d lived frugally off the money left from her sister’s grudging payoff. She never stopped looking over her shoulder, though. They moved every six months just in case someone from her past reappeared. Once she found a theater job she loved in Chicago, she started to relax. A little.
She lived for her girls. The twins, now six years old, loved school. Their golden-haired younger sister hated the regimentation, and begged to stay with Mom at the theater, trying on sequined costumes and performing for an empty house. When coworkers commented how alike they were, she just smiled with wistful longing.
Her dream of stardom died with Latana Ojo. Her face hadn’t changed, after all, and she couldn’t risk an audience member recognizing her. Now she supported other performers, helping with costumes, selling tickets, planning dinner theater meals—wearing a hairnet and dumpy apron like she’d previously scorned—so that someday Rosalee Dixon’s little girl received all the applause Tana had missed.
Then he showed up again, a hornet circling to get in yet another sting. The one-time errand-boy driver professed to be an itinerant actor, pestering the house manager and director for auditions. She recognized him, of course, sure he still hustled for Kali.
She prayed he hadn’t seen her, or if he had, didn’t recognize her as the same skinny, sick, and desperate runaway. He couldn’t hurt her without implicating himself. Still, she left work early to pack up her girls and run—where? Anywhere!
But he was waiting for her, already inside her tiny apartment, and not alone. An infant and a dark-haired toddler slept in two carryalls atop the sofa. He ranted about a business deal gone sour she must help him fix. And unless she agreed, he’d tell the cops everything.
Tana had no choice. She couldn’t go to her sister again so she called her parents. And prayed they’d forgive her.
