Page 35 of A Lie so Dangerous and Fragile

Kayden? Kayden!

“Wait, my baby,” I said to the officer, but he dragged me to the car.

I saw two officers wheel a body bag out of the house to the ambulance, and my heart sank. I felt the tears stinging my eyes. This has got to be a dream. This wasn’t real.

Wake up, Chloe! Wake up!

“Wait, please, listen to me. I need to be sure my baby is okay.”

“What baby, miss?” the other officer I hadn’t noticed asked.

“A two-year-old, brown hair, blue eyes, and this height,” I used my arms to show Kayden’s height to the cops. “He’s been living with Mrs. Porter,” I explained with a shaky voice, my heart racing uncontrollably.

“Hey, Shawn,” one of the officers called.

A tall guy came out of the house. His bronze hair was brushed back, and he removed the plastic gloves he was wearing. The bloodstain on the gloves brought horrifying images to my head.

“Yeah?”

“Did you find any child or another body?”

“No. We’ve checked the whole house.”

“No!” I tried to run to the house, but two big hands held me back.

“Sorry, miss, but there was no baby in the house. You can’t go in there either. It’s a crime scene.”

“No, no, no.” I shook my head in tears, struggling in their arms. “My baby,” I sobbed. “Please, my baby.” I broke down.

12

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Blending

THREE YEARS AGO

The room was far from what I’d expected. Sure, it was small, but it looked perfect. A twin-size bed, neatly made, lay at the corner against the wall, the pink sheets contrasting with the blue walls. An old chair stood in front of a dresser next to the bed. Fresh flowers and plants stood on the windowsill, adding natural imagery to the room.

“Do you like it? I decorated it myself,” Mrs. Rodriguez’s daughter asked behind me.

“Really? Wow. It’s perfect. I love it.” I smiled.

I stepped in with my suitcase and walked to the window. I looked at the view of the houses ahead with their bright colors and the locals walking down the streets. It seemed it would be noisy here, but I didn’t mind. I had been living in silence, and it was time for a change.

“It used to be my brother’s room,” Mrs. Rodriguez’s daughter said, walking in. She looked pretty in her flowy skirt and cropped top, her long curls draping down her back, and the freckles on her cheeks matched her soft features.

“Where is he?”

“America. He was born there. He was eighteen when my parents got deported and always used to visit, but he is in his forties now. He visits every year with his wife and kids, but they stay in a hotel because we don’t have enough room for them,” she said, the bangles on her wrist dangling as she moves.

“You were born here?”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking,” I asked.

“Sixteen,” she replied.

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