NINE

There was a chill in the air that had Autumn hunching her shoulders up around her ears. She stood on the corner of Magnolia and Diversey, a comfortable distance away from the house that once belonged to Vivian Elliott, her heart creeping further and further up her throat.

On her walk over, the disappearing sun had painted the western sky a gorgeous dark pink. Since she’d become immobile—all stalker-like in the shadows—the pink had given way to deep navy, casting the small lawn and the two-story brick home into darkness.

Several cement stairs led up to the front stoop, protected by a portico with off-white columns that matched the front door. She knew it was the right house, thanks to the four gold numbers on the black mailbox, which was attached to an equally black iron gate that was part of a black iron fence that ran along the edge of every property on the quiet, tree-lined street.

Coveted real estate in a city like Chicago.

Autumn jammed her hands deeper into her pockets and wrapped her fingers around the small jewelry box. The way she saw it, she had two options: stick the box inside the mailbox and hope Reese didn’t try sending it back. Or, buzz the intercom located beside the mailbox and hand deliver the expensive jewelry. This was probably the brave thing to do. Paul should know that his daughter was now sending her jewelry.

But Autumn wasn’t feeling particularly brave.

And she still wasn’t over their first encounter.

So she pulled a piece of paper from her purse, along with a pen, and decided on option three: go against Mr. Elliott’s wishes and write one last, very quick note, explaining why she couldn’t keep the earrings and why she would no longer be writing.

Hopefully, Reese would get the mail before her father. Hopefully, Reese would understand. Hopefully, nobody would be looking out the window when she worked up the courage to quickly stick the earrings and the note inside the mailbox.

Silly conversation from one of the Madagascar movies wove its way into the kitchen as Paul opened the oven. A wave of heat washed over his face. He stuck the pan of lasagna inside and set the timer, then moseyed into the living room, where Tate bounced on the edge of the sofa cushion, his eyes glued to the television screen. The Madagascar movies were part of a select few that could actually hold his attention.

Reese sat in her favorite spot—the bench tucked inside the bay window—where he was guaranteed to find her reading a book or filling up notepads with penciled stories. His daughter was a good writer. Granted, her stories had developed a dark edge these days, and she wasn’t as eager to share them as she’d once been. But she had undeniable talent. This evening, she sat with her legs curled up to her chest, her pointed chin resting on pointed knees as she read a well-worn copy of A Wrinkle in Time.

This was day number three of her grounding.

Three days into her sentence and she was still furious with him. It wasn’t the kind of fury that left her yelling or screaming or stomping about, either. It was the kind that left her tight-lipped and glowering. She’d barely spoken more than five words to him these past three days, even though she had been the one to shoplift. She had been the one to treat Mrs. Ryan rudely. She had been the one to run away.

To Autumn Manning’s apartment, no less.

Paul rattled his head, unsure how to process the fact that his daughter had been writing to her. Her, of all people. His daughter had been looking for answers to questions he didn’t even know she had, a truth that made him shift uncomfortably. He was her father. It was his job to know these things. And yet he had been completely oblivious.

What else didn’t he know?

He leaned against the wall by the doorway, studying his little girl. She wore the same outfit she wore to school, except she’d exchanged the Converse All Stars she’d bought with her allowance money last fall for a pair of electric-pink fuzzy socks.

For some reason, the sight had Paul’s chest pulling tight. He wanted to go to her and wrap her in a hug. He wanted to cradle her to his chest like he did when she was a curious toddler and managed to touch everything hot and sharp. He wanted to understand what was going through her head, but his daughter had turned into a question mark. One without an answer. He moved to the armchair near Reese’s spot in the window and sat down.

She bristled like a cat.

His very presence annoyed her, which in turn, annoyed him.

“Are you working up an appetite?” he asked.

She turned a page and kept reading.

“I’m making your favorite.”

Nothing.

“Liver and onions.”

Nada.

“With a side of tripe.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” she mumbled, shifting to show him more of her back.

“How long are you gonna keep up the silent treatment, kid?”

She turned another page and continued right on. There was no way she could actually read that fast.

Paul scraped his hand over his face, hating this growing sense of impotence. “Listen. I understand that you’re upset. Trust me, I hear that loud and clear. What I don’t understand is why you’re upset.”

Her attention snapped up from her book, her eyes narrowing. In accusation, it seemed. Like he had no right not to know. Like mind reading was the easiest thing in the world.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you going to enlighten me?”

“You told her not to write to me.”

“Reese.”

She looked away.

“I don’t understand why you want her to write to you.”

But it was hopeless. Reese had already returned to her book, her lips tight and small. It made him want to yell. Or punch something. She should be bringing her thoughts to him, not some stranger.

Not Autumn Manning.

The second he’d faced her, the second she opened the door of her apartment building, the memory that haunted him, the memory he tried hardest to bury resurrected itself like it had thousands of times before. Following a nurse in blue scrubs down a corridor. Walking into a sterile white room. Beeping monitors. The swish-whoosh, swish-whoosh of the ventilator. His chair creaking as he sat by her bed. The slow and confusing realization that something wasn’t right…

Tate’s laughter brought him back into the present. He cackled at something on the movie, completely oblivious to the terse, mostly one-sided conversation unfolding off to his right. It was a good sound. A great sound. One he wanted to bottle up and keep in his pocket. When was the last time Reese had laughed like that?

Paul rubbed his jaw. “I’m changing my mind.”

“About what?”

“Your grounding.”

“You’re shortening it?”

“That’s up to you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Once you decide to talk to me—and I mean really talk to me—you’ll no longer be grounded.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“That’s parenting.”

Reese scowled.

Paul knew his daughter. She’d been stubborn since infancy. Thankfully, she’d inherited that from him, and he had more practice. He’d give her a couple more days, and if nothing changed? Well, he wasn’t above taking away her books and her notepads, even if every English teacher across America would disapprove.

He clapped his hands over his knees and pushed himself to a stand, then returned to the kitchen to take out the trash. He pulled it out, tied it up, and walked through the yard to dump it in the bin by the garage out back. When he finished, he rubbed his hands together to ward off the early April chill, wondering what to do with himself.

There was the Tribune on the front stoop, rolled up in the plastic bag it came delivered in every morning. He had no idea why he kept up the subscription. Despite Reese and Tate being fully capable of dressing and feeding themselves, getting them out the door in the morning was like herding cats. It left no time for sitting down at the table with a coffee and the paper. On the rare occasion he did have the time, he wasn’t inclined to take it. He’d acquired a distinct distaste for the news approximately one year ago.

Right now, though? He wouldn’t mind catching up on the rest of the world. Maybe the headlines would put his own problems into perspective.

Paul shoved his hands deep inside his pockets, cut through the house, stepped out the front door, and stopped short.

Someone was standing outside, sticking something inside his mailbox.

“What are you doing?”

Her attention jerked up from the other side of the gate. It was Autumn, looking very much as if she’d been caught with a proverbial hand in the cookie jar.

He hurried down the stairs. “What did you just put in my mailbox?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I should…” She took a small step back, her attention flitting down the street as though she might turn and run.

He reached inside and pulled out a small package, the dull thud of his heart picking up speed. He asked her not to write. Three days ago, he’d looked into her face and explained that it would be best for his daughter if they discontinued the correspondence. And Autumn had agreed. She’d looked right back at him and said she understood.

“It’s not what you think,” she said.

At that particular moment, Paul didn’t care much about privacy. He didn’t care that his name wasn’t the one on the package. He only cared that this woman was subversively undermining his parenting. And Reese was refusing to talk to him. So he tore open the envelope and pulled out…a small jewelry box? He flipped it open. A pair of diamond earrings glinted in the moonlight.

His mounting exasperation crumbled into confusion. Pure, absolute confusion. “You’re sending my daughter jewelry?”

“I’m not sending. I’m returning.”

He pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it.

Dear Reese,

These belonged to your mother. They are a piece of her, one you will cherish forever. I hope you understand why I can’t keep them. Also, your father asked me not to write anymore. I hope you also understand why I have to respect his wishes.

Take care,

Autumn

He turned his attention to the earrings in his palm. A picture of Vivian flashed in his mind—smiling as she turned her head in front of their bedroom mirror, admiring the new gift. “Reese sent these to you?”

How? When?

Besides school, his daughter had been at home. At least, she was supposed to be. There was that ninety-minute window of time between the end of her school day and the end of his workday, when she was supposed to be at home watching Tate. Had she left her seven-year-old brother alone to stop by the post office?

Paul looked up, completely bowled over by his daughter’s defiance. “Why would she send these to you?”

“I don’t know.” Autumn took a step away.

Paul stepped with her, angry, but unsure with whom. “She had to have written something.”

The front door flew open.

Reese rushed outside, no longer tight-lipped or glowering, but flushed and almost…almost triumphant. Her attention slipped from Autumn to the small velvet box and the note Paul held in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Autumn said. “I can’t keep the earrings.”

“I understand,” his daughter blurted, without a trace of hurt feelings.

It was almost as if she hadn’t expected Autumn to keep them at all.

It was almost as if…

“You told her not to write me.”

Reese was angry because Paul cut off communication. And so, it seemed, she’d taken matters into her own hands. She sent something to Autumn that couldn’t be ignored. If he wasn’t so disturbed, he’d probably be impressed.

“I should get going.” Autumn cast him an apologetic glance and pointed lamely over her shoulder.

“Wait!” Reese stepped up to the gate. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Reese.” His voice came out low.

“My dad makes the best lasagna,” she continued.

“It’s from a box,” he said.

“But it’s really, really good. And we can never eat it all on our own. Right, Dad?” She stared at him with eager desperation. Like this was the best gift he could possibly give her.

Autumn, on the other hand, didn’t look eager at all. She did, however, look desperate. To escape. To grow a pair of wings so she could fly fast and far away. It was obvious that she was every bit as uncomfortable with him as he was with her. How couldn’t she be? The tie that bound them was bizarre and confusing and terribly distressing.

He put the jewelry box back in the package. “Reese, could you give us a minute?”

“But—”

“A minute, please.”

Her shoulders slumped. She looked for a long second at Autumn before climbing the stairs and slipping inside.

Paul dragged his hand down his face, unsure what to do. He was stuck. At a loss. Confident that this—whatever this was—could not be a healthy path for his daughter. And yet this was the first time in weeks he’d seen a spark of life in Reese’s eyes. All due to this woman standing on the other side of his fence. Her presence resurrected every horrible emotion he felt in that hospital room. She was irrevocably wrapped up in a day he wanted to forget.

This woman who had access to his daughter.

Access he wanted.

He didn’t have to look at the bay window to know that Reese would be sitting there, staring out at them. He pictured her watching as they went their separate ways. He pictured her mood darkening. Her stubbornness morphing into an impossibly thick wall of animosity. Weeks of silent treatment turning into months, turning into years. He pictured her dressing provocatively or cutting her arms. Behavior that would lead to teen pregnancy or self-loathing. All of which could be traced back to this day, this moment. When he turned Autumn Manning away.

A breeze whispered down the street, winding its way through budding branches. They swayed and creaked in reply.

Paul shifted uncomfortably and swallowed his better judgment. “Do you want to join us for dinner?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I know this is awkward.” At the moment, she looked a lot more than awkward. She looked horrified. Like he really was going to serve tripe for dinner and then force her to eat it.

“I thought you wanted her to…move on.”

“I do. But for some reason, she really wants you to join us.” He unlocked the gate and held it open while a world of tumult swam in Autumn’s eyes. “Please?”