I should have known Mark would be early. He seemed way too eager for tonight, especially for a man that’s very happily married. I’m also pretty sure he expected me to back out on him since my reply was nothing more than an exasperated “fine” after telling him numerous times.
I slide on a pair of shorts over my freshly showered body and head to the door. To my surprise, when I swing it open, it’s not Mark that I see, but an older woman and a little girl.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I pull the door open.
Looking at the older woman and little girl standing on my porch, I immediately wish I had covered up a little more.
“Hello, Ryder.”
“Dorothy?” I say her name as I try to come to terms with the fact she’s standing in front of me. “It’s been a long time.”
Five years, to be exact.
“May we come in?”
Without even thinking, I step to the side and allow them into my home. Leading them into the living room, I offer Dorothy a seat. The entire time, my eyes never leave the little girl at her side… who looks so strikingly familiar. So much like her mother.
Dorothy takes the seat, the little girl standing at her side, tightly holding the older woman’s hand.
“This is Amelia.”
“Nice to meet you, Amelia.”
The little girl gives me a slight wave while her eyes remain trained on the floor. Her hand drops and toys with the hem of her dress.
“I’m sorry to take you off guard like this. I may have jumped the gun a little when I heard you were back in town.”
How had she heard I was back in town when I’d barely been here a week, let alone in contact with anyone outside of Cole Security?
“What’s this about, Dorothy? If you’re looking for Norah, I haven’t seen her.” Thank God.
“I don’t have a clue where my daughter is, so I can’t believe you would. However, I have something I need to discuss with you.”
“Grandma?” Amelia speaks for the first time.
“Yes, dear?”
“Is he my daddy?”
“No. I can’t be.” I refute the notion the little girl put out there, not taking into consideration what it might do to her—how it would make her feel. Without a clue what she’s been told—the lies she’s been fed—Amelia is not my daughter. It’s not possible.
“I’m sorry, it’s just not possible,” I apologize to the little girl.
“Ryder—”
“It’s not. I can’t be,” I argue.
Rising from my seat, I pace the living room, my head swimming. The more I pace, the angrier I become. Only the person I need to direct that anger to is nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Norah?”
“Off doing Norah things, I suppose,” Dorothy tells me.
The statement shouldn’t make sense, but it does. Too much sense, actually.
“She left not long after Amelia was born,” Dorothy continues. “She’s been with me since she was six weeks old.”
Fucking Norah.