Page 3 of Ten Years Later
“Ugh. I can’t draw a stick figure to save my—” The friend noted Keaton standing just behind them. The dark-haired girl turned around. Her brown eyes met his. She tucked a clump of curly hair behind her left ear. He sucked in a breath.The birthmark.
Nervously, the girl smiled. “Can I help you?” Her voice came much deeper than expected, raspy too.
“Sir!” A teacher hurriedly approached. “Do you have a child who goes here? You can’t be on this campus without permission.” She surveyed his painter’s overalls, confused. “Oh, are you a worker?”
“Yes, um, sorry. I parked in the wrong lot.” He turned away. “I’ll go move my truck.” Quickly, he walked, ignoring the curious looks of students, parents, and staff.
A bell rang. Teenagers dispersed.
Seconds later, he climbed back into his truck. At the school, the dark-haired girl had gone in but the teacher still stood there, staring at him.
He peeled from the lot.
Thirty minutes later, Keaton squealed to a stop in front of Cora’s brand-new townhouse. He raced up the sidewalk and knocked hard on her midnight blue door.
He rang the bell.
He knocked again.
Inside, the sound of bare feet smacked against the floor. The door whipped open. With a flushed face, wet hair, wrapped in a robe, and Benjamin, her one-year-old, on her hip she snapped, “What?”
The attached garage door went up. An engine purred to life. Leo, Cora’s husband, backed out in a gleaming black Tesla. He surveyed Keaton with his ever present, patiently condescending look.
Halfway down the driveway, he stopped and lowered his window. “Everything okay?”
Cora waved him off. “It’s fine. I’ll see you later today.” Not giving Leo a chance to respond, she moved aside, letting Keaton enter.
The smell of fresh paint and toast filled the air. They’d only lived here a few months. From its crème walls and laminate floors to its matching wicker furniture and carefully placed fake plants, the house did not favor Cora at all. She’d always been a mismatched old soul gypsy, not a brand-new model home.
Keaton closed the front door before following Cora into the kitchen. In the corner a small TV played local news—yet another thing not Cora. She hated television.
Condolence cards and flowers filled the island.
She put Benjamin into a high chair and sprinkled Cheerios across its tray. He cooed and clapped. Keaton’s heart tugged.
Cora faced Keaton. “You have got to stop coming here. It’s driving Leo nuts. I’m glad we’re friends. I am. But—”
“I saw Vivian.”
“Come again?”
“I saw her, Cora. I did. I was up in Ponte Vedra heading to a job. I saw her running down the sidewalk trying to catch the bus. I followed the bus to school. I approached her. It’s her. The dark curly hair—yourhair. The brown eyes—myeyes.” Keaton grabbed her shoulders. “The birthmark. She’s got it just there below her left ear.”
For several seconds, Cora didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t blink.
Then she stumbled back, coming up against the kitchen table. Shakily, she sat. Her gaze never deviated from Keaton’s. “You can’t do this. She’s gone. They found her floaties in the water. Shedrowned.”
“No, she didn’t. They never found her body.”
“And here I thought you came over to offer your condolences.” She got to her feet. “Keaton, not every little girl with dark curly hair is our little girl. You can’t keep seeing her.”
Okay, granted he’d done this a time or two before, but this one felt different. “The birthmark, Cora. And—” his voice broke— “I think she’s an artist. A friend was returning her art supplies. I saw the case. She’s an artist, just like me.”
“No.” Cora’s head shook. “I can’t do this again. I need you to leave. Our daughter is dead. I came to terms with that. You need to as well. Please go.”
2 /FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Dana Zielchristand her Match-dot-com date were drunk.
