Page 128 of Necessary Cruelty

The driver raises an eyebrow in the rearview mirror as I wring out the bottom of my shirt with a curse.

“Bad night?”

“Year, maybe. Just drive.” I pretend to find something very interesting on the lock screen of my phone so he won’t speak to me again. “I’ll tip you the cost of the ride if you can beat the estimated arrival time by at least ten minutes.”

The driver peels out without another word.

I expected the neighborhood to be a shithole, but we drive onto a street that makes the crappier parts of the Gulch look palatial. Rows of boarded up houses, empty storefronts, and broke down vehicles line either side of the broken pavement. The driver slows down to maneuver around potholes deep enough to double as in-ground pools.

“You want me to wait?” the driver asks as I climb out of the car, sounding like he wants to do precisely the opposite.

I wave him away impatiently. Concerns for my own safety aren’t exactly at the forefront of my mind at the moment. Zaya might even be better off if I get shot by some random lowlife and left bleeding to death in the street. Our marriage is legal, and at this point she stands to inherit everything if I kick the bucket.

My destination is the only house on the block that still appears occupied. There is a rusted out tricycle on the front lawn next to a deflated kiddie pool. I have to bang on the door after it becomes obvious the bell is nonfunctional.

I hear noises on the other side, the scrabble of bare feet across hardwood and the shriek of a baby that is quickly hushed.

My heart sinks. If Zaya’s mother ran off to start a new family, it might be better not to have found her at all. The last thing I want to do is cause her even more pain on top of everything else.

Before I can decide whether to stay or to walk away and pretend that this impromptu trip never happened, the door swings open.

A woman stands in the doorway with a baby on her hip. Another child, slightly older, peers at me from between her legs.

Something is immediately off. It’s been almost a decade since I last saw her, but I still remember Zaya’s mother. This woman is about half a foot shorter. The blonde hair would be an easy thing to change, but not the color of her skin.

Zaya’s mother is white. This woman definitely is not. I’d say Phillippino if I had to take a wild guess.

“You’re not Julia Milbourne.”

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