I hung up before he could respond. I turned off my phone.
In the next room, Ethan had stopped screaming. There was only a choked sob of rage and helplessness. I didn’t cry. I took out Frank’s report and started planning my next move. The game had changed. Now I was the one holding the cards. And the queen, though she had been lost for eight years, was about to be brought back to the board.
William returned to New York the following afternoon. He didn’t come home. He sent a curt text: arriving at 8. We’ll talk. I ignored it. I had more important plans.
Sister Catherine was waiting for me at the door of the group home. Her smile was tired but sincere.
“Valerie’s in the backyard helping the little ones with a soccer game. It’s her favorite time of day.”
“And how did she react when she knew I was coming back?”
The nun made a gesture of uncertainty.
“She asked if you were rich. I said yes. She said, ‘Rich people usually have weird intentions.’ But she didn’t refuse to see you. That’s something.”
She led me through a clean but worn hallway, its walls painted with children’s drawings. Laughter and shouts drifted from the yard. As I stepped outside, I saw her. Valerie was wearing the same torn sneakers, the same faded jeans. She was directing a chaotic game among five- and six-year-olds with the authority of a professional coach.
“Iker, on the right. No, not like that. Pass it to Laura. Come on, you can do it.”
Her husky, clear voice cut through the air. I watched her agile, decisive movements. When one little boy tripped and started to cry, she was the first to reach him. She crouched down to his level, not with coddling, but with a firm pat on the back.
“Come on, man. It was nothing. See? Not even any blood. Get up. You have to score a goal to make up for the scare.”
The boy stopped crying, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and nodded with renewed determination. Valerie gave him a wink, a small, quick gesture that made my heart stop. It was my gesture, the same one I used to make when I was a girl to cheer up my younger brother after a fall.
Sister Catherine cleared her throat. Valerie looked up. Her grayish-green gaze, which I now knew so well, landed on me. The fun vanished from her face, replaced by a cautious reserve. She said something to the kids and walked over, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“Hi,” she said without preamble.
“Hi, Valerie. How’s the game going?”
She shrugged.
“We’re winning. We always win.”
She looked at Sister Catherine.
“Sister, the faucet in the boys’ bathroom is dripping again. I put a bucket under it, but it’s filling up.”
“I’ll call the plumber, dear.”
“You don’t have to. If you can get me a wrench and a new washer, I can fix it. I watched Mister Manuel do it the other day.”
Sister Catherine rolled her eyes affectionately.
“Valerie, you can’t fix everything yourself.”
“Why not? I know how.”
Her tone wasn’t arrogant. It was practical. A statement of fact.
She turned to me.
“Did you bring the books? Sister said you were bringing books.”
“Yes. They’re in the car. Adventure books. Animal books. Books about whatever you want.”
“The animal ones are fine. And mechanics if you have any. Or soccer.”
She said the last part almost reluctantly, as if revealing a personal interest were a concession.
“I’ll go get them.”
As I walked to my car parked on the adjacent street, I felt her gaze on my back. A strange, challenging, and protective sensation all at once. As I opened the trunk to take out the boxes of new books I’d bought, a movement at the end of the street caught my eye. A black Honda. William’s? No. It was the other one, the one with Jessica’s license plate, parked on a corner, half hidden behind a van.
My body tensed before my mind could fully process it. William got out of the driver’s side. He was wearing jeans and a casual jacket, clothes he never wore in New York with me. He went to the back door and opened it. Ethan jumped out with a wide smile. Then from the passenger door, a young blonde woman in a simple dress got out. Jessica. The three of them were less than fifty yards from me, but their backs were turned. They were looking toward the entrance of a playground across the street. They couldn’t see me.
I saw William put a hand on Jessica’s back, an intimate, possessive gesture. I saw Ethan take Jessica’s hand and pull her toward the playground, laughing. I saw Jessica’s wide, carefree smile as she looked at Ethan. A mother’s smile. The smile she never gave to Valerie. The smile that should have been mine.
A wave of cold so intense it almost burned ran through me from head to toe. It wasn’t jealousy. It was pure, crystalline, lethal rage. There was the living proof of his betrayal, strolling with my stolen son while my real daughter was learning to be a plumber at age eight in a group home.
Ethan pointed at something in the park and ran toward it. Jessica laughed and went after him. William hung back for a moment, pulling out his phone. He looked at it and frowned. My call, my threat, would be there. He put the phone back in his pocket and followed the other two, but his stride was no longer so carefree.
I grabbed the boxes of books with hands that didn’t tremble. I slammed the trunk shut. When I turned, I met Valerie’s gaze. She had come out to the home’s gate and was watching the same scene. Her eyes went from the fake family in the park to me, standing by the car with the boxes. Her expression was unreadable. She walked closer.
“Is that them?” she asked, no preamble.
“Yes. The boy is the one who hits my friends and the others. His father and his father’s friend.”
