Page 132 of Outlaw Heartstrings
Oliver ducks out of the path of Alba’s flying foot. “Patty called Mom. She sounded worried so we decided to come over, just in case.”
“Everything’s under control now,” I tell them as I march toward the door with Alba hanging over my back.
Alba’s still yelling at her sister. “Does your fiancé even know about Jagger?” She roars. “Does he know that you have a son? That you abandoned your own child?!”
I glance back just in time to see Raya flinch.I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Her silence says it all.
As I’m stepping over the threshold, ready to march Alba up to her apartment on the second floor, I hear her say, “Sign the adoption forms, Raya. Sign the adoption forms once and for all. You don’t deserve that sweet little boy.”
48
ALBA
There’s a sparkly welcome banner stretched across the lobby wall. Trays of cookies and pretty cupcakes sit on long tables. Giggly little children run around, weaving between the chatting adults at the end of tonight’s service.
The scene takes me back to my own younger years. Easton and I spent so many hours volunteering at the old church. It was all built on a lie.
I won’t stand back and allow Christopher to build yet another lie from the ground up.
Emmeline greets the members of her new church as she makes her way down the center aisle from the altar. When she catches sight of Easton and me standing at the back of the small chapel, the widest smile breaks out across her face.
She waddles quickly in our direction. “Alba! I’m so happy you made it!” She grasps my hands as her eyes move to Easton. “And you brought the hometown hero, too? How lucky are we!”
I feel a pinch in my chest. Emmeline seems like a niceenough person. I genuinely feel bad over what I’m about to do. But it’s time for the truth to be out in the open.
I lower my voice. “Emmeline, we need to talk. In private.”
Her eyebrows instantly draw down and she splays a protective hand over her baby bump. “Oh…?” She glances around and when she spots her husband she waves him over. “Um…there’s Christopher.”
The man’s eyes sharpen with suspicion as he walks quickly in our direction, assessing the situation with each step.
“Honey, look who joined us tonight.” Emmeline tries to maintain her pleasant expression. But her nervousness hangs in the air like a scent. It’s like sheknows.That’s a woman’s intuition for you.
Christopher gives a brief nod. “Nice to see you both,” he says to Easton and me as he tries to usher his wife away. “But do excuse us. We need to make sure and greet every one of our churchgoers who showed up for our inaugural service tonight. I hope you understand.”
“Not so fast,” Easton steps forward, blocking Christopher’s path. “We were just about to have a conversation with your wife. You might want to join us.”
“Or we could just talk to Emmeline without you. If you’re so ‘busy’.” Making air-quotes with my fingers, I give a cutesy shrug.
Christopher’s skin turns an angry shade of red. He glares at me, his grip tightening on Emmeline’s shoulders. “Wearebusy. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“It’s about Raya Anderson,” Easton says, and all the blood drains from Christopher’s face. I watch the way his fingers turn white on his wife’s shoulders.
Emmeline wiggles her upper body, freeing herself fromChristopher’s death grip. “Honey, what’s going on here?” Her voice trembles as she stares at her husband. Yet somehow, she keeps on smiling for the benefit of her churchgoers.
The man pauses for a second, like he’s weighing his options. Then he hisses through gritted teeth. “Follow me.” When Emmeline tries to join us, Christopher shakes his head at her. “Not you. You don’t need to be a part of this.”
Her eyes bounce between Easton and me. Then she says, “I think I do.”
Christopher’s gaze sweeps the lobby of the small building that now serves as a church. Around us, his new congregation obliviously mills about. He quickly seems to decide that it’s best not to make a scene.
On a begrudging growl, he turns and leads the way. The four of us walk down a short hallway to an office. The room is small and the carpet is cheap, but there’s a huge mahogany desk and an expensive-looking executive chair in the middle. Pictures of Christopher shaking hands with important-looking people cover the walls. There’s not a single photo of his family in sight.
Self-important prick.
“What is this about?” Emmeline asks, a hint of worry in her voice as she gently closes the door.
“It’s about my sister, Raya.” Turning to face her, I dig the toe of my shoe into the carpet. I hesitate. “She says that Christopher is the father of her eight-year-old son, Jagger.”
