surviving,” he said instead.
Taylor blinked. “But she’s all alone.”
Ah, Jesus
. “It’s okay,” Luke said. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll take care of it.”
Those blue, tear-sheened eyes fixed on him. “How?”
He had no idea.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said.
• • •
L UKE WAS USED to going door-to-door in hostile territory. He couldn’t let a little thing like the Simpsons reporting him to Child Protective Services discourage him from his current mission. At least they weren’t going to shoot him through the door.
Probably.
He’d been to their house before, when he came to collect Taylor three months ago. Forty years ago, in his parents’ day, this town had a textile plant and a sign out on the highway: THE KKK WELCOMES YOU TO TWISTED CREEK. But the town had died along with the factory. Here and there the residents had tried to get into the Christmas spirit with plastic Santas and strings of Christmas lights, but the streets were pocked with barred and empty storefronts, and the sidewalks were cracked.
Ernie and Jolene lived in a cinderblock bungalow with a detached shed near the end of a block. Luke parked his Jeep, collected from the storage lot that morning, and climbed the steps. The sound of the TV inside almost covered his knock. The sagging porch held a mildewed couch, a broken fan, and a black plastic trash bag, but he could smell ammonia, as if someone had recently tried to clean something.
The limp curtains in the front window fluttered.
Dawn’s mother, Jolene, opened the door, a big woman built like a biscuit with large, white arms and a doughy face and pale, protruding eyes. “You. What are you doing here?”
Be professional, be polite.
“Hi, Mrs. Simpson. I want to talk to you about Taylor.”
“Unless you’re bringing Taylor back, I got nothing to say to you. You can talk to our lawyer.” She started to close the door. Luke stuck his foot in the way.
“Jolly, who is it?” Ernie Simpson called from inside.
Jolly?
Luke raised his voice over the noise from the TV. “It’s Luke Fletcher, Mr. Simpson. I was hoping you could tell me what happened to Taylor’s cat after Taylor came to live with you.”
Jolene crossed her pillowy arms across her massive bosom, blocking his view inside. “I don’t know. We couldn’t have it here. I have allergies.”
“So you took the cat to a shelter?”
“And have them put it down?” She looked genuinely shocked by the suggestion. “I couldn’t do that. It would have broke poor Taylor’s heart.”
So they’d abandoned the cat instead. Thinking of the strays he’d known, Luke thought it was probably the cruelest thing they could have done, both for the pet and Taylor.
Ernie came up behind his wife, as brown and thin as she was pale and round, with dark wisps of hair on his head and chin. His look of bleary suspicion hadn’t changed in ten years, as if Luke was still a high school boy up to no good with his daughter.
Luke suppressed a twinge of guilt. Ernie Simpson had been right about him back then. But times had changed.
He
had changed. “Hi, Mr. Simpson.”
“What do you want?”
“Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk to you about Taylor.”
“I’ll tell you what about Taylor,” Jolene said, her round face set. “That little girl don’t belong to you. She belongs with us. She knows us. It’s not right for you to come here and take her away from her own family.”
“I’m her family, too. I’m her father.”
“So you say.”
Luke gritted his teeth. “It’s what Dawn said. And I had a paternity test.”
“Then how come Dawn never told you she had a little girl?” Jolene’s watery eyes glittered with tears or anger. “How come you never sent a dime while she was alive? It’s only now she’s gone that you show up, looking for what you can get.”
“All I want is a picture,” Luke said.
He felt a tickle on the back of his neck like the crawl of sweat or a spider and
Taylor blinked. “But she’s all alone.”
Ah, Jesus
. “It’s okay,” Luke said. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll take care of it.”
Those blue, tear-sheened eyes fixed on him. “How?”
He had no idea.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said.
• • •
L UKE WAS USED to going door-to-door in hostile territory. He couldn’t let a little thing like the Simpsons reporting him to Child Protective Services discourage him from his current mission. At least they weren’t going to shoot him through the door.
Probably.
He’d been to their house before, when he came to collect Taylor three months ago. Forty years ago, in his parents’ day, this town had a textile plant and a sign out on the highway: THE KKK WELCOMES YOU TO TWISTED CREEK. But the town had died along with the factory. Here and there the residents had tried to get into the Christmas spirit with plastic Santas and strings of Christmas lights, but the streets were pocked with barred and empty storefronts, and the sidewalks were cracked.
Ernie and Jolene lived in a cinderblock bungalow with a detached shed near the end of a block. Luke parked his Jeep, collected from the storage lot that morning, and climbed the steps. The sound of the TV inside almost covered his knock. The sagging porch held a mildewed couch, a broken fan, and a black plastic trash bag, but he could smell ammonia, as if someone had recently tried to clean something.
The limp curtains in the front window fluttered.
Dawn’s mother, Jolene, opened the door, a big woman built like a biscuit with large, white arms and a doughy face and pale, protruding eyes. “You. What are you doing here?”
Be professional, be polite.
“Hi, Mrs. Simpson. I want to talk to you about Taylor.”
“Unless you’re bringing Taylor back, I got nothing to say to you. You can talk to our lawyer.” She started to close the door. Luke stuck his foot in the way.
“Jolly, who is it?” Ernie Simpson called from inside.
Jolly?
Luke raised his voice over the noise from the TV. “It’s Luke Fletcher, Mr. Simpson. I was hoping you could tell me what happened to Taylor’s cat after Taylor came to live with you.”
Jolene crossed her pillowy arms across her massive bosom, blocking his view inside. “I don’t know. We couldn’t have it here. I have allergies.”
“So you took the cat to a shelter?”
“And have them put it down?” She looked genuinely shocked by the suggestion. “I couldn’t do that. It would have broke poor Taylor’s heart.”
So they’d abandoned the cat instead. Thinking of the strays he’d known, Luke thought it was probably the cruelest thing they could have done, both for the pet and Taylor.
Ernie came up behind his wife, as brown and thin as she was pale and round, with dark wisps of hair on his head and chin. His look of bleary suspicion hadn’t changed in ten years, as if Luke was still a high school boy up to no good with his daughter.
Luke suppressed a twinge of guilt. Ernie Simpson had been right about him back then. But times had changed.
He
had changed. “Hi, Mr. Simpson.”
“What do you want?”
“Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk to you about Taylor.”
“I’ll tell you what about Taylor,” Jolene said, her round face set. “That little girl don’t belong to you. She belongs with us. She knows us. It’s not right for you to come here and take her away from her own family.”
“I’m her family, too. I’m her father.”
“So you say.”
Luke gritted his teeth. “It’s what Dawn said. And I had a paternity test.”
“Then how come Dawn never told you she had a little girl?” Jolene’s watery eyes glittered with tears or anger. “How come you never sent a dime while she was alive? It’s only now she’s gone that you show up, looking for what you can get.”
“All I want is a picture,” Luke said.
He felt a tickle on the back of his neck like the crawl of sweat or a spider and
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