Waking Kylie Read online

  Everything had started to change about five years earlier. They’d gotten married so young that they just assumed a baby would come along eventually. Before they knew it, their thirties were almost over. The doctors said her weight might be the reason she hadn’t conceived.

  She and Greg went on a diet together. They joined the gym. Success came faster to him than to her.

  So did pregnancy.

  Ironically, it wasn’t until Greg broke the news that he was expecting a child with someone else—Grace from spin class, naturally—that her own weight finally started to come off. It was as if that one conversation changed her physical makeup. Her metabolism, her glucose levels, her fat cells—all transformed. It was like waking up in someone else’s body.

  But by then, the body was too old. She was forty-four. On a government salary, she didn’t have the money for in vitro, private adoption, or a surrogate. She’d always assumed she was lucky to have Greg. Now she couldn’t believe the person she saw in her mirror every day. She was finally the kind of woman who was appealing to men, but to what end?

  It wasn’t just her body that changed. So did her determination. In an office filled with athletes and health nuts who viewed physical fitness as a measure of character, she had nevertheless excelled over the years because she was like an uncaged tiger at trial. But the anger and indignation that had propelled her courtroom performances had somehow burned away with all those pounds. She found herself cutting corners. Winging opening statements. She rang in the new year by oversleeping on the final day of Kyle Chance’s criminal trial, then delivering her closing argument in a groggy haze.

  That epic cry in her office after the acquittal had been the first time she’d found herself caring about her job in months.

  And so, after climbing the prosecutorial hierarchy for eighteen years, she’d asked for a transfer out of the major-crimes unit, the most coveted job in the office. She knew the rotation into the wasteland of family court was intended as punishment, a message to the rest of the attorneys that they requested changes at their own peril.

  But now she realized the move had allowed her to stay in Kylie’s life. Who else would have protected her?

  She finally spotted Matt, who looked only in the direction of oncoming traffic on the one-way street before he dashed across Park Avenue. This was the kind of thing a mother noticed.

  She rolled down her window halfway.

  “Sorry, Light. No dice.”

  “You didn’t find him?” According to the social worker, Chance worked janitorial duty at the campus until nine o’clock.

  “I found him a’ight. Dude dipped.” Matt’s skin was white as Casper, but not his voice. She once tried getting him to drop the affect for his trial testimony, telling him he sounded like a twenty-first-century minstrel show. He responded by asking what religion had to do with it.

  “Are you sure you talked to the right guy?” She hit her dome light and showed him Chance’s mug shot again. If only Matt had recognized this photo in January. If only he’d had some connection to Kyle and Rachel Chance. Testimony placing the couple together near the time of Kylie’s abuse would have debunked their bogus story that the mother acted alone during a desperate binge brought on by their separation. “This picture’s a year old. He’s put on a little weight since then. Trimmed his hair.”

  It had been two days since Kylie officially moved in with her father full-time. According to Judge Stone, the one month of monitoring that had passed since the previous hearing was “proof enough” that he was capable of parenting.

  “I did my thing, you know? Acted like I was working the Park Blocks. Saw him coming. Sidled up to him. Asked if he was looking for H. Dude just said no, thanks, and kept on walking.”

  “I’m not buying it, Matt.”

  “You’re my girl, Light. Liked you better with that junk in your trunk, fo’ sho’, but you know I want to he’p you out. You think I’d cross you? I know better than to get DiLi mad.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “I want to trust you, Matt, but I don’t believe for a second that this guy turned down the opportunity to get high.”

  “Hey, whatchu want me to say?”

  “That you just sold the man in this picture some dope.”

  “Then you send your man in there to frisk him down but he don’t find no smack. That would make me a liar, and you know I only speak the truth. I bathe in the light of honesty, girl. I might sell folks to the law, but only if they did the crime, you know? Hey, don’t get so upset, Light. I never seen you so down. It must be that diet. Get yourself some cheeseburgers and onion rings, you know what I’m saying?”

  “You’re positive you approached the right guy?”

  Matt looked back toward the park, but she could tell he was just buying himself time to answer. “If it makes you feel better, I could tell he was craving it. Real tempted, you know? Like, pondering and shit. But—I don’t know—maybe I made it seem too easy. I knew you wanted him, so I floated twenty a bag. Price was too low; he probably figured I was po-po. Maybe try again in a few weeks?”

  A few weeks was too long. A man like Chance could break Kylie all over again in a few hours.

  “No, that’s all right. You want a ride back uptown?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Might hang down here for a bit.”

  “Dumb question, Matt, but any chance I can persuade you to get into another line of work?”

  “You cute, girl. And, seriously, you look good, Light. Maybe a little too light, if you get it. But good. Hang tough.”

  The next night, Chance showed up at home close to eleven o’clock. Diane watched Kylie hold his hand as they stepped from the bus onto McLoughlin Boulevard. From the university to the aunt’s house to here should not have taken him the nearly two hours it had. Chance was definitely up to something. Not to mention, what kind of father let a three-year-old stay up that late?

  She watched from her car as they walked hand in hand to their apartment complex. She saw Kylie’s bedroom light turn on. Five minutes later, it turned off. She waited another twenty minutes before stepping from her car out into the darkness.

  The chill of the night was perfect. Her quilted black hat felt snug on her head. Her neoprene gloves provided just enough compression to make her fingers feel extra alive. She placed her hands in her coat pockets, felt the knife against her left hand, the brick-shaped wad of paper against her right.

  He opened the door for her. Of course he did.

  It was over fast. She knew it would be. He was a lifelong junkie with slow reflexes and no idea what was about to happen when he turned to get that glass of water she asked for. Blade into the carotid artery, the results of which she’d seen in so many autopsies. He never even touched her.

  The hardest part was waking Kylie, but she had no choice. She lifted the girl from her bed. Was it her imagination or was the child lighter than the last time she’d held her at Janice Miller’s house? Chance had probably been trading food stamps for drugs instead of feeding the poor thing.

  She held Kylie close to her chest and grabbed the stuffed raccoon from the bed. “Shhh,” she whispered. “It won’t be long, baby girl.”

  She set Kylie on the worn linoleum of the bloody kitchen floor, and then started walking backward toward the living room, waving the stuffed toy in front of her as she moved. “Come here, sweetie. Come play with your Coo-Coo. Yeah, good girl. You’re such a good girl. Now you’re safe. No more bad things in the kitchen, okay?” Kylie followed her. Diane handed her the stuffed animal.

  She dialed 911 and let the receiver fall to the floor.

  “Don’t be afraid, Kylie. Someone will be here in just a few minutes. We’re going to be all right.” Diane tried not to cry as she looked one last time at Kylie, alone on the living-room rug with nothing but a blood-smeared acrylic raccoon.

  “The final case on the docket, Your Honor. Kylie Chance.”

  Stone nodded as Diane reminded him of the court’s decision to reinstate custody of the
child to her biological father, Kyle Chance.

  “Mr. Chance’s body was found in his apartment late Wednesday night.” Stone emitted multiple tsk noises as she outlined the facts. Fatally stabbed. A wad of paper found at the scene—a twenty-dollar bill folded around strips of newspaper cut to resemble bills. The police believed it was likely a drug deal gone bad. Chance tried to bilk the seller. Got a knife in the neck in return. The perpetrator at least had the decency to dial 911 before leaving. It was too late to save Chance, but at least Kylie had been found quickly.

  The judge said, “I guess we’ll have to chalk this up to a lesson about the fragility of recovery from addiction.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” As if she hadn’t warned him.

  “And what do you need from me today, Miss Light?”

  “Nothing imminent. I thought you deserved the earliest possible update on the case status. The child is back in the group home where she resided prior to placement with her father, and the State is trying to secure a foster home for her.”

  “Sad stuff. Awful. All right, we’re done here?”

  She had expected Stone to at least ask about the chances of a foster placement before calling it a day.

  “It won’t be easy to find a home for this girl. The prenatal drug exposure, the abuse, and now having apparently witnessed the murder of her father—she was covered in his blood—well, the deck is stacked against her.”

  I’m so sorry, Kylie. I’m so sorry for waking you. For putting you through that. For the blood. But I couldn’t take a chance. According to dispatch, it was only six minutes before police arrived. Six minutes I hope you will never remember. Six minutes that were nothing compared to what your parents put you through.

  “I thought there was an aunt or something?”

  “The father’s sister. Even she won’t take her. Potential parents assume she’s damaged goods.”

  “What about that offer you made, Miss Light? I don’t suppose that door is still open?”

  Stone laughed, mocking what he still considered her overly dramatic objection to his initial ruling. She joined him with an awkward giggle.

  “Actually, Your Honor, I suppose I should put my money where my mouth is. Yes, I guess if it’s acceptable to you, I am willing to take her home. Just temporarily. The child does know me, after all. Maybe something else will come through in a week or two. And if worst comes to worst, once she starts making progress with speech therapy, it will be easier to find another placement for her.”

  “Well, I’d say that’s very generous of you, Miss Light. You’re sure about this?”

  “Sure, Your Honor. Why not?” Not one of the million little goose bumps she felt beneath her sleeves revealed itself in her voice.

  That afternoon, Diane’s cell pinged as she strapped on her seat belt. She pulled it from her purse and saw a new message on the screen. From Greg again. He couldn’t call or even e-mail like a regular adult. He was like a teenager with the texting. Grace in Seattle so I’m mister mom this week. Any chance you’re willing to meet Nicole? Know it’s a lot to ask. Trying to find a way to be friends.

  Nicole. At least Greg and Grace hadn’t named their kid some stupid matching G name.

  She hit Delete and looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Behind her she saw last night’s purchases: a child safety seat and the biggest, best stuffed raccoon she could find. Maybe they’d call him Coo-Coo Two.

  She was careful as she backed out of the parking space. She was in a hurry but would need to be a more cautious driver now. She was picking up her daughter.

  “What color is this one?”

  “Red!”

  “How about this one?”

  “Yellow!”

  “And this?”

  “Ahnje!”

  “That’s right. Orange. And all of these flowers are called tulips. Isn’t that a funny name? Tulips.”

  Kylie smiled and pointed at Diane’s mouth. “Two lips.”

  She and Kylie had been together nearly six months. The adoption wasn’t quite finalized, but Diane had nevertheless succumbed to the calls from her old downtown colleagues to bring her daughter for a visit. It was a rare dry day in April, so after leaving the office, they’d gone over to enjoy the bloom of tulips on the Portland Park Blocks. The area’s potpourri of college students and homeless people shared the lush, green grass and an occasional park bench.

  She reached into the brown sack in her purse. “What’s this, Kylie?”

  “Coo-kie.”

  Maybe someday her daughter would talk her ears numb, but for now, Diane cherished every word. In light of Kylie’s progress, her speech and cognition therapists said she might even be ready to start kindergarten with her own age group.

  Diane broke off an especially chocolaty piece of cookie for Kylie and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s right. And you are my little cookie monster.” She allowed herself a bite as well. She wasn’t worried about the few extra pounds. It was normal to gain weight with a child around.

  She heard her cell phone beep in her purse. She recognized the office extension on the display screen.

  “Light.”

  “Hey, Diane. It’s Sam Kincaid.” Kincaid was the major-crimes attorney who’d inherited Diane’s caseload last year. “I hope you don’t mind my calling your cell, but I hear you and your cutie were doing the rounds on your old stomping grounds.”

  “Yeah, we just headed out.” Kincaid was a good lawyer but a little high maintenance for Diane’s taste. They’d never been close.

  “Shoot. I was hoping to catch you. Do you remember your case against Kyle and Rachel Chance? It was a Rape One, compelling prostitution, bunch of other charges involving their two-year-old daughter?”

  Twenty-two months.

  Diane had told her friends she’d adopted a daughter but hadn’t mentioned Kylie’s connection to the earlier criminal trial.

  “Not the kind of case you forget.”

  “I didn’t think so. You flipped a guy named Trevor Williams. He was the father’s former cellmate? He said both parents were involved in the abuse?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Did you ever doubt him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry. I mean, obviously, you wouldn’t have put him on the stand if you thought he was lying. But I think he’s a problem. He’s serving the five years he got on his deal with you and is trying to whittle it down by handing us his current cellmate. According to Williams, the guy confessed to a home invasion last year, but the cellmate doesn’t match the victim’s description. Looks like his story’s bogus.”

  “Well, it wasn’t bogus in my case. Williams’s DNA was found on Kylie Chance’s clothing. That’s why he’s doing five years.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. But he would’ve been looking at nine, minimum, if it weren’t for his deal.”

  Rachel Chance had confessed after she was arrested but steadfastly refused to turn on her husband. Williams had offered to give up both parents in exchange for leniency. If only Diane had had another witness. If only someone other than Williams could have placed the parents together during that time window—she would have had a second witness to contradict the Chances’ fabricated story about being separated.

  “The mom’s a piece of shit. So’s the dad. And so is Williams. Maybe he’s lying now, but he wasn’t then.”

  “All right. I was all set to write him off. Wouldn’t be the first bad jailhouse informant. I’ll take a closer look at the cellmate, just in case. Thanks for the info.”

  As she rezipped her purse, Diane caught sight of a familiar face near Market Street. She was too far away to hear his words, but after eighteen years as a prosecutor, she could spot hand-to-hand drug transactions across a football field.

  Once the customer had left, she waved in Matt’s direction. Kylie turned to look, then held on to Diane’s leg. Her sweet little brown eyebrows were furrowed.

  “That’s just a friend of your mommy’s.” She’d have to ask Kylie’
s psychologist whether a lingering fear of men was to be expected.

  Matt nodded to her, but then turned away to walk farther south. She supposed the presence of a deputy district attorney wasn’t good for a drug dealer’s business.

  “You want some more cookie? Can you say cookie?”

  Kylie was still clinging to her leg, but the worry in her eyes had transformed to panic. Her breath quickened, and Diane recognized all the signs of a serious meltdown.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is Mommy’s cookie monster all full? Is it nap time?”

  Her daughter’s gaze moved south, and her grasp tightened. “Matt.”

  “What did you say?”

  Kylie’s lower lip trembled, but her next words were unmistakable. She began to cry. “Matt. Cat.” She let out a meow that sounded more like a wail.

  “How do you know—”

  It all came rushing at her at once. Matt’s frantic banter when she’d initially approached him about the Chance case. His utter certainty when he’d finally said, “Sorry, DiLi, never seen either one of these ugly hopheads.” Fourteen pops, no convictions. No convictions meant no blood sample for the DNA data bank, which turned up no match for the bodily fluid—still unidentified—on that little dress in the laundry room that had triggered the entire investigation.

  She tasted bile and chocolate at the back of her throat. What else had she been wrong about?

  She pictured Trevor Williams on the stand, promising to tell the whole truth. Rachel Chance’s insistence of full responsibility: I’m so ashamed, but I can’t blame this on Kyle. I fell apart when he left me. Kyle Chance hugging his lawyer when Stone allowed him back in Kylie’s life. The lawyer for once appearing pleased to have helped a client.

  As if Chance were standing before her, Diane remembered the clarity on his face when he’d opened the apartment door that night. She saw her daughter on that worn kitchen floor, gazing up with sleepy eyes, oblivious to her father’s blood beginning to soak into the bottom of her flowered flannel pajamas.