I grab the receiver off the base and turn the dial, calling Mr. Grady one last time. The phone rings in my ear four times before the answering machine picks up.
“This is Grady, make it good,” his deep, masculine voice sounds through the receiver. The first time I heard his voice in the message, I was slightly stunned by how rough and deep it is. Admittedly, it was an immediate turn-on. But now, I just like to imagine that it’s choking on his own bullshit that’s made his voice so husky.
“This message is for Sterling Grady. My name is Holly Mercer and I am your daughter Cheyenne’s administrative advocate at Fort Bragg High School. Please return my phone call immediately as I need to meet with you regarding Cheyenne’s continuing education at Fort Bragg High,” I say in my most professional voice—the one I use to pretend not to hate the man’s guts. I leave him my contact information as though he’s going to actually use it and then hang up. Mr. Beck’s conviction that Cheyenne won’t be going anywhere in life gets under my skin. Between her clearly absent father and Mr. Beck’s lack of faith, I can’t help but wonder if this kid has anyone in her corner. I looked through her file, and there’s zero mention of a mother in any of the records. The idea that she’s just floating out in the world without anyone really having her back saddens and infuriates me at the same time.
Looking at Cheyenne’s contact information, I find her address—1370 Riverwood Drive. Just on the outskirts of town and off Sherwood Road, Riverwood Drive is a street I’ve only ever dreamed of living on. It’s all old battered concrete and dirt mixed in and shaded by a wealth of redwood trees and beautiful, sprawling homes, set hundreds of yards apart. If Mr. Grady has a home on Riverwood Drive, chances are good he makes decent money. The homes on the street were all built sometime after I was born, and before that, the land belonged to the county. Even when the parcels were first sold off, they went for a pretty penny.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I stand from my desk before I think better of it. Taking a single deep breath, I grab Cheyenne’s student profile and the parental acknowledgment form I’ve been trying to get Mr. Grady to sign for months and head out.
The trip to Riverwood Drive is pleasant enough despite my reasons for making the drive across town. As I angle down Sherwood Road and then toward Riverwood, I have to fight to keep my hands from griping the steering wheel too tight. My nerves are on edge, and my belly is flip-flopping. If I keep it up, my palms are going to callous over soon.
With a quick check for the house number, I park my white Jeep Grand Cherokee on the side of the road across the street from Mr. Grady’s home.
The house looks like a white single-story from the front. It rests atop a sloping hill and from the right angle, I can see an expansive bottom level that boasts a wraparound porch. To the left is an attached two-car garage, and to the right is a porch that leads to the front door and is supported by beams that jut out from the pitched ground below. The home appears to be well-taken care of and Cheyenne’s beat-up Volkswagen Bug sits in the drive.
Something I learned early on in my job as office admin is that sometimes it’s easy to spot signs of abuse or neglect. Some parents are obvious in their disregard by providing their children with inadequate housing, poor conditions, and a total lack of love and attention. Other cases, like this one, aren’t as obvious. While the house appears in good shape, there’s no telling what kind of disaster awaits inside.
While I’m certain I could get in trouble for doing it, I put the car in drive and pull into the driveway and cut the engine. I’ve committed to confronting Mr. Grady in person about the form I’d like him to sign, and now that I’m in his driveway, there’s no turning back.
Only, I don’t know when I decided to confront him.
I take several deep breaths and gather my wits before I climb out of the car with paperwork in hand and walk toward the front porch, smoothing my black pencil skirt the entire way and hoping I don’t look as terrified as I feel.
As I round the garage and catch sight of the open front window, I find several lights on inside the house.
Now or never, Holly.
I lift my hand to knock then wait for the door to open, but it never does. I knock again, louder this time, and again, I wait. Still, no answer. Finally, I knock as hard as I can, determined to get a face-to-face with the man who has spent months avoiding me.
The door swings open and, instead of Mr. Grady standing before me as I expect, it’s Cheyenne. Her dark brown hair is up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a pair of torn jeans and a dark red tank top with no shoes. Her expression turns flat when she realizes it’s me.
“You were serious?” she whines. I had warned her once I’d show up here to meet with her dad, and she hadn’t believed me. Then again, at the time, I hadn’t believed me either.