Henry wouldn’t be unfaithful, I know that. Simple flirting, that’s all it is. Men need their egos tended to, it’s practically biological. I hush my panic with Henry’s words. He worships me. Breathe in, breathe out. I wonder what he’s said to her. He hasn’t joked with me in a long time, or made me laugh like that. Like a protective reflex, my brain soothes me, hands me snapshots. Recent memories: Henry gently caressing my cheek at the benefit as we danced. His hands on my bare waist in bed, his low murmurs, God, you’re so beautiful. These are not things men say and do to women they do not love. Passionately. Passionately. The word gets caught on my tongue.
I adjust my blouse and straighten my hair. I walk briskly, shaking loose the sick feeling in my stomach, the self-disgust. I’ve spied on my husband and been properly chastised. Dishonesty is rarely rewarding.
The coffee shop is two blocks away and when I blow in, bringing the newly cool air with me, Cash’s head jerks up. He gives me a tentative smile as I slide into the chair across from him. We order two coffees.
“Hi Zoe. I wanted to call you. I, uh, wanted to see if you were okay? After the car thing?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. I reach into my purse and pull out the folded paperwork. “I’m fine. Listen, I didn’t really call you for the story. I want your help.” I smooth out the creases in the birth certificate. “What do I do next?”
He picks it up in his thick fingers and flips it around, examining the watermark on the back.
“This is an original.”
I shrug. That point is inconsequential to me.
“Well, they usually don’t do that. They’ll give out partials. Where’d you get this?”
I’m impatient. Who cares? “I don’t know,” I reply. “I just want to know what my next steps are. Where do I go next?”
He studies the memo. “You have a name, Zoe. Carolyn Seever.” His finger jabs into the paper.
“It’s a fake name. It’s worthless. I did all that legwork years ago. I just need to know what to do next.”
“How do you know it’s fake?”
“Because she doesn’t exist. I even tracked down the receptionist from the agency and she confirmed her belief that she didn’t leave her real name.”
Cash looks out the window and runs his palm along his jawline. “Yeah, but think about it, when you give a fake name, especially under stress, you don’t make something up out of the blue. This name,” he says and taps the memo, “it means something. It could be the key.”
“Okay, but if I didn’t have the name? Then what?”
“Um, then you’d start by looking at all the babies born in that hospital on that day. Most likely if she gave birth in that hospital, she was local. I would start there. Most counties have a birth registry. It might give you the same name back, it might not. It would depend on where they pull their information.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means, let me help you.”
“No.”
“Why? I could do this in my sleep. You have more information than I’ve had to start with in the past. I could find her in a week, tops.”
“Because, it’s something I need to do myself.”
“Why? That makes no sense, Zoe.”
Because I’m not who you think I am. I’m not who anyone thinks I am.
“Just tell me what you would do,” I insist. I tap my nails on my mug.
“It’s so complicated. I’d do several things at once. I’d run all the births, like I said, then depending what returned, I’d study all the names and try to make a connection between the name the agency has and the names on the hospital lists. I’d expect a fake name at the hospital, too, unless she had insurance, which I doubt. I’d try to figure out the connection between the Connecticut hospital and the agency in California. I’d try to figure out why your adoptive mother ended up adopting a baby from Connecticut.”
I feel overwhelmed. I want to toss the papers across the table and tell him to call me when he finds her. Instead, I gather everything, yanking the adoption memo from his hands, and shove it all back into my purse. Tears prick under my eyelids and I don’t exactly know why.
“Oh, Zoe, come on. I’m sorry. You asked me!” Cash puts his hand on my arm and I pull it away. “Just stay for coffee, we can talk about the story. Don’t go.”
I hesitate, but stand up. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you, okay?” When I turn to leave, I stumble over the chair and it crashes to the ground. I don’t pick it up and hurry out the front door.
On the walk home, I feel so stupid. The entire day is eerily off-kilter, even the mood has changed again. The sky has darkened to a deep black and before I reach my apartment, fat drops of rain start to fall, a loud splattering sound that foreshadows an incoming downpour. I hurry past the doorman with only a brief wave.
I struggle with my card key, flipping it one way, then the other, before I can get the lock to disengage. I’m cursing at the door by the time I hear the release click. I push open the door and flick the hall light.
“Oh, my God,” I say out loud, to no one.
The apartment is a disaster. End tables are upturned, drawers emptied on the carpet, broken glass everywhere. The brown velvet couch, with its intricately carved legs, has been violently ripped open, its cushions cut and the stuffing grotesquely exposed. I swallow the sick in the back of my throat.
Someone has come back for me.
CHAPTER 9