I say my goodbyes to the few people who’ll care. The rest will be relieved I’m gone. I hug Noah goodbye, ignoring how he stiffens and doesn’t hug me back.
“Be good for Gardenia, please,” I implore him. He glares at me and turns to his friends.
“He’ll be fine,” Gardenia assures me. “I’ll drop him off late tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you.”
I follow them out the door, and I can’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder. Drakos stands where we left him, hands shoved in his pockets in a deceptively casual pose that’s not the least bit casual. The expression on his face sends fear coursing through me. He’s picked up on something, and I fear he surmises my behavior goes beyond our hatred for each other.
I wave to Noah, who’s safely tucked into the back seat of Jakob’s SUV. He doesn’t wave back. I hurry to my car, still a little wigged out after my incident in the parking garage. Locking all the doors, I pull out of the parking spot and down the road. It’s only five minutes to my tiny two-bedroom apartment. It’s eerily quiet and lonely without Noah. I am too keyed up to sleep and pace the living room floor. I’m worried, not just about Drakos and Noah but about my sister and what other surprises might be in store for me. She has a storage unit I wasn’t aware of, but before I go there, I must sort through the mail from the secret mailbox. An uneasy feeling sweeps over me that something isn’t right about my sister’s situation.
I open the door to her bedroom. I’ve avoided entering since she died. Everything is exactly as she left it. In the closet I find a couple large plastic bins. Somewhere in these boxes might be the legal papers relinquishing Drakos’s rights to Noah. I may need them. I’m not an attorney, but I suspect I might be in a precarious situation if Drakos changes his mind. Anna didn’t leave a will, and while the courts did award me full guardianship, I need to start adoption proceedings. Somehow, I’ll dig up the ten to twenty grand required for an attorney.
The sooner I wipe out all doubt that he’s legally mine, the sooner the threat of Drakos finding out the truth is neutralized.
I have no clue if the asshole will even care if he’s Noah’s sperm donor. If I have any say in this, he’ll never know because he doesn’t deserve to know.
Pulling the first box off the stack, I place it on the floor. I settle in cross-legged and pull out a handful of documents. My sister wasn’t known for her organizational skills. Everything has been thrown haphazardly into boxes and bins just to get them out of the way rather than deal with them
I riffle through it and find nothing of interest. It’s packed with junk mail, magazines, and other worthless garbage. I sigh. There’s no sign of any legal papers whatsoever. I can’t even find a birth certificate for Noah.
The other bin is full of junk too. A broken figurine, a bunch of clothes, some wigs, stockings, all sorts of crap, but nothing remotely useful. I’ve wasted precious time when I should be going through the other boxes of mail, but I’m resisting for fear I’ll find out more information I’d rather not know.
I lean against the wall and sigh deeply. Surely there’s an online record via the Vegas courts. I’m a reporter. I’ll find the papers if it’s the last thing I do. The storage unit may contain what I need.
I sit down at my laptop on the small dining room table. I have an article about tonight’s game to write. I’ll be up half the night doing it. I’m going to report on the game like a real sports reporter rather than leaning into team drama or creating some if I can’t find any.
* * *
The next morning after only two hours of sleep, I check my texts. Gardenia has asked if Noah can go to the zoo with them. Of course, I say yes. Next, there’s a message from my boss demanding I call immediately. He’s on the East Coast, and he expects his reporters, no matter what their time zone, to be available on East Coast time. It sucks when I cover home Icehawk games, and he expects me to answer his calls at five or six the next morning.
Steeling myself for what’s to come, I call his number. This isn’t going to be pretty, but any conversation with him never is.
“Hi, Charles.” I force cheerfulness into my tone. I dislike this man, and I’m forever grateful I don’t live close enough to deal with him in person. He’s a jerk who doesn’t care about anybody but himself and his precious online sports news empire.
“What is this crap you sent me?”
“Nice to talk to you too.” I can’t stop my sarcasm. It comes naturally.
He grunts something unintelligible. “This article is garbage.”
I count to ten before I respond. I can’t say what I want to say. I spent hours on that article. It’s a great recap of the game, with quotes from players and coaches. I’m proud of the job I did.
“In what way?”
“This isn’t what our readers want to read. They can get this shit from any other online sports news. We give them the stuff no one else will.”
“Or we make it up.”
“If necessary. They want behind-the-scenes exposés and stories no one else has the guts to publish.”
I’m in a mood. I’m operating on very little sleep, and my ability to play nice with this asshole is severely compromised. “Maybe I don’t want to write articles for the National Enquirer of sports news. I want to be a legitimate journalist.”
“Don’t fool yourself. You don’t have the talent, or you wouldn’t be working for me.”
He just managed to insult himself and me at the same time. The man doles out insults like most people give out candy on Halloween. Unfortunately, he has me where he wants me. He knows how badly I need this job. Not only do I have a child to care for, but there’s the maxed-out Visa and possibly more surprises of a financial nature on the horizon thanks to my sister.
“Give me something I can work with, not the usual drivel other sports media publishes.”
