“I just thought you’d be home early to make sure I survived my first walk without you,” he teases, flashing me one of those adorable grins that makes it impossible not to laugh.
Wrapping my arm around his shoulders, I pull him to my side. “How was it? Everything you hoped for?”
Jackson shrugs. “It was fun. We just talked about the new FPS game coming out on PlayStation next week. Oh, and Tanner invited me over for a sleepover this Friday. Can I go?”
“Sure. As long as you can get your homework done before school on Monday. I’ll call his mom to confirm the details. Now, go get cleaned up and do your chores while I get started on dinner. I’m making broccoli cheddar bake tonight.”
“Yum!” Jackson swings the door wide, racing to the kitchen to deposit the groceries before heading upstairs.
Meanwhile, I grip the front door and turn purposefully to close it, taking one last long, sweeping look before I do to rid myself of that tingling sense that someone’s hiding somewhere in the shadows.
4
GIO
If there were any doubt in my mind that the phantom from my walk downtown was, indeed, Stephanie, when she turns to stand in the doorway of her dark-gray and white townhouse, I can’t deny the truth.
It hits like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of my lungs as I stare, stunned.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
If the little boy who called her Mom hadn’t clearly seen her as well, I would almost be certain I’m hallucinating.
After all, I have been thinking about the woman I lost far too often lately.
But with one last glimpse of her captivating green eyes before she closes her front door, I know it to my bones.
Stephanie’s alive.
Stephanie’s amom.
And she’s here, safe and sound, living on a quiet street in the suburbs of Chicago.
Every part of me aches with how much I’ve missed her.
Seeing her fills me with an overwhelming need to be near her, to touch her and prove that I haven’t finally snapped and lost my mind completely.
It’s physically painful to see the truth with my own eyes, and yet here she is, carefree and oblivious about the fact that I’ve been mourning her death for eight agonizing years.
As soon as I lose sight of her, I’m on the move again, clinging to the shadows of her neighbors’ homes until I’m at the side of her picturesque little abode with its cheery yellow door and vibrant garden that could only be the handiwork of the woman I fell in love with a decade ago.
Stephanie’s always had a green thumb, so it doesn’t surprise me that her front yard looks like it came straight out ofThe Secret Garden.
Just one more piece of evidence to confirm the identity of the woman I followed home.
If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, “stalking” would be a more accurate term—especially considering the lengths I had to go to in order to keep up with her nonsensical path and remain unseen.
But I didn’t want to frighten the woman if she didn’t turn out to be who I thought she was. But now, there isn’t a shadow of doubt.
How could Stephanie have been alive all this time and never told me?
The question rises unbidden to the front of my mind, and I can’t staunch the hurt and anger that well up inside me.
Rounding the corner of the house, I follow the narrow pathway to the high-gated fence that hides her trash bin.
From there, I can spot her through the kitchen window as she washes vegetables in her farm-style sink.
An intense desire to barge through her door and demand answers surges through me.
