Page 92 of Release Me

“They’re looking for you.”

Her brows knit together, forming a long line of confusion. “They’re what?”

Slowly, with my eyes still on hers, I open the file Russ gave me and place it in her hands. Inside is a printed copy of Russ’ email correspondence with a private investigator from Los Angeles named Jeremiah Savage. Nadia scans the documents, reading the same words I read an hour ago in my office, learning that her grandfather Timothy Hawthorne, and her grandmother, Lucy, have been trying to track her down for six months.

“Jeremiah, the Hawthorne’s PI, told Russ that they want to know you. Apparently, your grandfather had a health scare at the beginning of the year that put some things in perspective for him.”

She closes the folder and tosses it on the coffee table beside me. “And I’m supposed to, what? Drop everything and go running into their arms? Forgive them for hating my mom just because she was poor? Act like they didn’t leave me on my own to grieve my parents when I was 16 fucking years old?”

I watch her bring her knees up to her chest and hug them. It’s such a protective position, one that comes from years of having to soothe herself, of having no one else to lean on when she was in pain. She doesn’t have to do that anymore though, and I remind her of that fact by moving to the couch and sitting beside her, by wrapping my arms around her shoulders and pulling her close.

“You don’t have to do any of those things.” My lips are at her temple, and I lay a kiss there. “I just wanted to bring this information to you in case you wanted to take advantage of the chance to have a family again.”

Nadia turns to me, her eyes rippling pools of genuine emotion. “You’re my family.”

32

NADIA

“Pecan pie cheesecake?” Des’ nose wrinkles in disgust as she sifts through the hangers on the clothing rack. We were supposed to be getting lunch and catching up before she leaves to see her family in North Carolina for Thanksgiving, but we got distracted by the opening of a new boutique and ended up shopping instead.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, babe.”

“Have you tried it? Because you know the rule of all Black households is that you don’t experiment on Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, Des, I made it a few weeks ago, and Sebastian loved it.”

“Sebastian loves you, that means his opinions on your cooking can’t be trusted.”

“Elle also loved it,” I toss back. “And she’s not in love with me.”

Instead of responding, she sticks her tongue out at me and saunters off toward the dressing room with several dresses looped over her arm, leaving me to ponder the wisdom of debuting a dessert at my first Thanksgiving with the Adlers. I’m trying to find jeans in my size that will also be long enough to reach my ankles when the hairs on the back of neck stand at attention and the unbidden sensation of eyes on me sends fear trickling down my spine.

Knowing my propensity for anxiety based overreactions, I push a calming breath out and turn my head slowly, glancing over my shoulder in the most casual way possible. Considering that my heart is currently slapping against my ribs, it’s not the most convincing act. The woman standing beside me with her newborn strapped to her chest gives me a wary look, and I almost laugh because everything in her eyes says that the last thing she needs right now is an encounter with a crazy woman. The smile I give her is brittle, so it doesn’t do much to calm her, and she tosses the shoes in her hand back on the shelf and walks away.

I’m too preoccupied with the lingering feeling of being watched to be offended, and when I swing my gaze in the other direction, I see the same shock of blonde hair from the gala heading towards the front door.

“Wait!” I shout, drawing the attention of every shopper in the boutique. They all watch as I rush through the maze of clothing racks and jewelry displays to follow the ghost from my past out the door. I catch up to her just as she’s about to cross the street, my hand wraps around her elbow, and I yank her back, forcing her to face me.

Green eyes that have watched me cry, studied my bruises, crinkled with humor in the wake of a rare display of my sense of humor, and narrowed with jealousy and contempt when she thought I was getting everything she deserved, meet mine, and we both stand there staring at each other, stunned into silence.

Bianca breaks first, breaking free from my hold and tucking blonde strands, that are shorter than they were the last time I saw her, behind her ear. “Nyla, hey.”

“Hey?” The step I take back is more of a stumble that suggests she’s struck me. I guess in a way she has because ‘hey’ is too casual a greeting coming from a woman whose presence on this sidewalk means trouble has come to New Haven, and it’s coming for me. “Is that all you have to say, Bianca?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Now I want to strike her, my hands ball into fists as if to signal the desire I’m suppressing. “I don’t know. Maybe you could start with telling me how you found me and where Beau is hiding?”

“Beau?” She repeats, confusion pulling her pouty lips down into a frown. “I’m not here with Beau, Nyla.”

“Don’t lie to me, Bianca. Why else would you be here, in New Haven of all places? Why else would you be stalking me?”

Her head falls back, and the throaty laughter that spills from her lips takes me back to the days when she was the only bright spot in my life. My heart is still pounding, my brain screaming at me to walk away from her because Beau could appear at any moment, so I don’t have time for her laughter.

“Bianca, I’m serious,” I say, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of him.

“I know.” She giggles, looking back at me. “That’s what makes it so funny. You still think the entire world revolves around you, Nyla.”

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