Carlotta’s momentary confusion gave way to a logical explanation—the man was probably an employee of Randolph’s, hired to do errands, and this was the man’s home and family.
“Hi,” Carlotta said. But her next words were cut off by the appearance of the man they’d been following.
“Come away from the door,” the man said to the girl. Then he looked at Carlotta with a guarded look. “Who are you and why have you been following me?” The girl hovered behind him.
Carlotta chose her words carefully. “Randolph sent me to find you. But I only had the P.O. box number.”
“So you sent the package?”
She nodded. “I need to talk to you.” She hoped the words didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.
“I think you should go,” the man said, starting to close the door.
“Carlotta?” called a woman’s voice inside. “I need you.”
As soon as she heard it, Carlotta recognized her mother’s voice. The sound was a shock to her system. She opened her mouth, but no words came out of her constricted throat.
“I’m coming, Mommy,” the little girl said, then disappeared.
Even as her mind reeled, Carlotta realized the door was closing and along with it, the chance to find the answers to questions that haunted her every step for the past decade. She put her hand in the opening and grunted in pain when the door mashed her fingers. When the door opened a few inches and the man’s face reappeared, she maintained her hold on the door frame, despite the throbbing.
“I’m not leaving,” she said evenly.
They remained locked in combative eye contact for a few seconds, then the man conceded with a nod and opened the door.
She stepped inside a cramped foyer, gulping air to supply her trembling body. As Carlotta fought to stay upright, she vaguely registered muted lighting and neutral wall colors. Waist-high wood paneling throughout dated the house, but added a quality feel. The floors were wood, too, although she caught a glimpse of terra cotta tile in what she presumed was the kitchen.
“This way,” the man said.
She followed him toward the sound of a television into a small but comfortable room where a woman sat in a club chair, going through the box of books Carlotta had sent and talking low with the little girl. At their approach, the woman swung her head toward them, and Carlotta stumbled. It could have been her and her mother when she was that age.
Valerie Randolph was still beautiful, but her once-dark chic hair was overgrown and generously streaked with silver. Her cheekbones were still high and sharp, and her skin was smooth. Her trim form, clad in slacks and one of her signature turtlenecks, was the figure of a much younger woman.
The smile she gave them framed her brown eyes with fine lines. “We have a visitor?”
With a start, Carlotta remembered she was wearing a blond wig—of course her mother wouldn’t recognize her at first glance.
“Yes, Melanie,” the man said. “Mr. Randolph sent her to check on you.”
The expression of confusion and panic on her mother’s face set off warning bells in Carlotta’s mind.
“Where is Randolph?” her mother asked, looking all around the room, as if he might be hiding behind a lamp.
“He’s away for a while, remember?” the man said gently.
“My daddy is gone a lot,” the little girl said matter-of-factly to Carlotta.
When she spoke, a gap between her front teeth was noticeable—and familiar. Carlotta saw it every time she looked in the mirror.
She swallowed hard as the realization hit her. She and Wesley had a little sister. She looked to be about nine—the same age as Wes when their parents had disappeared. Which meant her mother had been pregnant when they left, or had become pregnant soon after.
“I like your dress,” Carlotta said to the little girl.
The girl eyed her suspiciously.
“Say thank you, Carlotta,” the woman admonished.
“Thank you,” the little girl said, then she leaned closer. “My real name is Priscilla, but Mom calls me Carlotta sometimes. I think it’s someone she used to know.”
Carlotta nodded, unable to speak.
“I want Randolph to come back,” her mother said in a childlike voice.
The little girl walked back to the chair. “He will, Mom. As soon as he can.”
Her mother nodded and held up one of the books Carlotta had sent. “Randolph bought this for me today. He always buys me books.” She smiled, opened the book and sat back in the chair, already preoccupied.
Carlotta turned to the man. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Mr. Randolph didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head, filled with dread.