Page 10 of Offside Devil

“Goodnight, Zane,” she sing-songs cheerfully. “See you at brunch tomorrow.”

I hang up and pad barefoot and bare-chested to the door, then yank it open.

“Oh.” The adult woman on the other side is wearing a tweed pantsuit and a look of mild horror. No pizza or breadsticks in sight. “Are you Zane Whitaker?”

I’m about to answer when I notice the small, blonde head peeking out from behind her leg. The little kid jerks back behind the woman when he sees me looking at him.

He’s a little young to be a fan, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone made their way to my door for an autograph.

I sigh. “Unless you’re hiding breadsticks in your suit jacket, I’m not interested. Every other appointment goes through my agent or my personal assistant.”

“I know this is out of the blue…” the woman begins, untucking a folder from under her arm.

I wave her off before she can open it. “This is where I live, lady. If you want an autograph, show up at the games like everyone else.”

I start to close the door, but the woman shoves her sensible white sneaker into the gap. “Mr. Whitaker, do you know a Paige Foster?”

The blood in my veins turns to ice. Of all the sneaky, stalker-esque ways to get an autograph, that’s a new one.

“Who’s asking?” I croak.

“I’m Jodie Barnes, the social worker assigned to Aiden’s case.”

I frown down at the little blonde head that disappears behind the woman’s leg again. “Who is Aiden? What does this have to do with Paige?”

What does this have to do with me?

“Until I know your full relationship to my case?—”

“None,” I interrupt. “I don’t have a relationship to your case or anything at all to do with Paige anymore. That was a long time ago.”

“About four years ago?” she guesses.

If I was smart, I’d slam the door closed and call Hollis. As my agent and a former attorney, he’d want to know the second someone came knocking on my door talking about Paige and my past.

But curiosity gets the better of me.

“Give or take,” I confirm. “What’s this about?”

“I’m sorry to tell you like this,” the woman continues, “but Paige Foster recently passed.”

The edges of my vision go hazy. All day long, time has been stretching and condensing like a slinky going down the stairs. My past—a past full of Paige—has felt closer than it has in a long, long time.

Now, this.

“‘Passed’?” I breathe. “Like, she’s—Is she?—”

“She’s deceased, I’m afraid. And this is her four-year-old son.” The woman steps to the side, revealing for the first time the little boy standing behind her. He’s standing pigeon-toed in a pair of scuffed light-up sneakers. His blonde hair is too long, too shaggy, hanging down into his blue eyes.

Blue like mine.

I shake my head as the roar in my ears grows louder. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I didn’t want to do it like this, but I didn’t have a choice. According to the hospital records and everyone in Paige’s life, you were the person I needed to call.”

“Because I’m her emergency contact?” I guess. I might vaguely remember filling out some forms in an ER one drunken night. “That was years ago. I haven’t spoken to her in—It’s been years.”

“Four years,” the woman repeats slowly, like she’s handing me the pieces to a very easy puzzle.

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