“God help me,” she muttered as she returned, without so much as a robe, to the living room. She didn’t care if Mr. Crouch saw her in the sweatshirt and boxers she’d slept in. She wanted to get rid of him as fast as possible.
Cracking open the door, she squinted against the blinding sunshine as she peered out. “You again?”
He didn’t seem pleased to see her, either. Obviously, he’d hoped for better results than what he’d gotten at the casino. “I’m sorry. I’m still trying to locate—”
“Someone I don’t know. I remember.” She rested her head against the doorjamb. “What was her name?”
“Anita. Anita Christensen. Although that’s not her only name.”
She scratched her head. “Right. There were others. None of which I recognized. I got that, but apparently you didn’t.”
He studied her closely. “I have a court document giving this as her address.”
A fresh wave of fear swept through Presley. “What kind of court document?” she asked, but was still pretending it couldn’t apply to them, still playing her role.
He pulled a file out of his briefcase and showed her a Summons and Complaint from a bill collector who’d sued her mother for nonpayment of a credit card three years ago. It wasn’t dissimilar to others Presley had seen through the years.
Her mind raced as she pretended to read it. He wouldn’t believe her if she said that document was in error. In trying to track down Anita, he’d bumped into her twice. Obviously, they had some connection.
So what now? She couldn’t let him in—or could she? Presley wasn’t sure how he seemed to know Anita had taken Cheyenne, but would it be possible to convince him she no longer had any association with the child in that picture? It had been a long time. They could’ve parted years ago, when Cheyenne turned eighteen and became an adult, if not sooner.
“Well?” he said.
Presley cleared her throat. “Fine.” She used a grudging tone. “I’m sorry I lied to you. Anita is my mother. But…she’s dying of cancer. I didn’t see any point in letting another bill collector come after her when she’s on her deathbed. I’m sure you can understand why I’d feel protective.”
His expression didn’t say he understood; it said he didn’t believe her. “She’s dying.” He might as well have added, “Yeah, right.”
“Yes.”
“Of cancer.”
She nodded. “Any day now.”
“Listen, I’m not a bill collector. I’m looking for a little girl named Jewel who was—” he tempered his voice as if he was unwilling to make an actual accusation “—seen in your mother’s company twenty-seven years ago.”
Jewel. Was that Cheyenne’s real name? Jewel what? Presley wondered, but she tried to appear unaffected by this information. Although she’d initially felt some sorrow for Chey’s other family, her first family, she felt nothing but anger and panic now. If they didn’t back off, she’d lose her only sister. And she certainly needed Chey more than they did. They’d lived without her this long....
“I was six then,” she said. “I don’t remember any little girl suddenly appearing. But…I’m not lying about my mother’s health. You can see for yourself if you want.”
He straightened. “I can?”
“Why not?”
“When?”
Gripping the doorknob so hard she couldn’t feel her fingers, she glanced behind her, into the house to take a quick survey of what he might see. “Right now.”
His eagerness was as apparent as his surprise. “That’d be wonderful. I’d very much appreciate the chance to talk to her. Thank you.”
Presley motioned toward her bare legs. “Give me a minute to get dressed.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
Forever polite, she thought, and shut the door. Then she hurried from room to room, looking for pictures of Cheyenne. They didn’t have many. Just one on the mantel of Chey with her friends and a few in Chey’s bedroom, which he wasn’t going to see.
She dropped and broke the picture frame on the mantel as she took it down, but she didn’t have time to clean up the glass. Leaving it, she shoved that photograph and all the others under Cheyenne’s bed before closing off that part of the house.
After pulling on a pair of sweat bottoms, she ran to her mother’s bedside. “Mom, wake up,” she said, jiggling her arm.
Anita moaned but didn’t open her eyes. “What? Ow! Don’t shake me. Are you here with my meds? I need morphine. I think you missed my last dosage. The pain’s terrible....”
Presley had slept through her alarm over an hour, but she counted that as a blessing. Now Anita might be coherent enough to convince this man that they no longer had any contact with the child he was searching for.
Maybe his appearance at this particular moment wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was a golden opportunity to put this frightening issue behind them for good.
“Listen to me.” Presley squeezed her hand. “I’ll get you all the morphine you want. You’ll soon be high as a kite. But first you have to help me.”
Anita’s eyes opened. They were glazed with pain, but she seemed to understand the urgency in Presley’s voice and manner. “Wh-what can I do? You see me here…good for nothin’…”
There was no time to waste. She didn’t want Mr. Crouch to get suspicious while waiting on their doorstep, not after she’d gained a bit of trust by offering to prove her words. “That P.I.—Eugene Crouch—he’s at our door.”
“Now?”
Thank God she was lucid. “Yes! I told him you didn’t live here but he had proof. So this is what we’re going to do. I’ll show him in, and you’ll tell him that Cheyenne ran away when she was sixteen and you’ve never seen or heard from her since. Only you’re not going to call her Cheyenne. Cheyenne is now my best friend, a roommate who helps me take care of you and pay the rent, if that name comes up. Do you understand?”
When she didn’t seem to be tracking what Presley was saying, Presley’s panic leaped to a whole new level. “Mom! I need you to think straight. Please do your best. Five minutes. Can you give me five minutes? Can you fight the pain? Tell the man I bring in here that the girl you stole ran away years ago. Will you do that?”