“Times are changing, Cyril. Laws are changing, people are changing, the whole world is changing. Everything’s changing, except my mind. I don’t care who this baby looks like. I’m not raising her with Travis. You’re her father. I’m raising her with you.”
“If you’re sure about this—”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
“Then we’ll find a way. But we can’t go rushing into anything.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” She flashes a wry smile.
“I’ll save every cent I can, and I’ll figure out where we can go when the baby comes. My mother has family up north. Maybe we can stay with them awhile. I don’t even know them, really, but family’s family.”
Yes. How can she leave hers, after all her parents have been through?
Yet how can she stay? What will happen to her parents when people find out their daughter left her husband to have another man’s baby?
Not just any man. A Black man.
Either way, their hearts will be broken. Reverend King and the Supreme Court and civil rights activists are making progress, but true change will be a long time coming.
Cyril pulls a clean red bandana from his back pocket and hands it to her. “There now. Wipe your eyes. I have to get to work, and you best get on home.”
“What about Travis, though? Do you think I should write and tell him?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. I’ve got no say in this.”
“You have a right to an opinion, considering it’s your child.”
“You think that gives me rights? You think I got any rights at all in this world?” Catching sight of her expression, he softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I don’t know what to tell you, except what we already know. Travis Hunter is dangerous.”
“The baby’s not due for a few more months. I’ll wait a little longer, until we have a plan.”
He walks her out to her car and opens the driver’s side door for her.
“Listen now, just in case . . . if anything goes wrong, I want you to tell her about me. That I was a good man, in here.” He taps his chest, just left of the gold chain dangling with the baby ring and military tags.
“What are you talking about?”
“If it turns out we can’t be together, tell her that I loved her, and you, more than—”
“But she’ll know that. Because you’ll be there to tell her.”
“I hope so. I just hope and pray the world is different for her.”
“She’ll do whatever it takes to make it better, just like her daddy.” Sitting behind the wheel, she smiles up at him.
He leans in and kisses her forehead.
“And she’s going to grow up to be a brave, strong woman just like her mama.”
Part III
2017
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
New Haven, Connecticut
On this gray Tuesday morning, the seventy-five-mile drive from Upper Manhattan has taken nearly four hours in rush hour traffic on rain-slicked Interstate 95. Barnes is at the wheel, Amelia in the passenger’s seat. She clutches Lily Tucker’s case file and fields texts from Jessie, who’d reacted to today’s trip as if it were an abduction. Amelia had promised to keep in touch, though she hadn’t meant every minute. Thankfully, Jessie’s first therapy client arrives just as they exit the interstate, allowing Amelia to sign off for a while.
“All good?” Barnes asks. She’d told him she was dealing with a client.
“All good.”
“We’re almost there. I just hope . . .” He thrums the top of the steering wheel, shaking his head.
“I know.”
She can offer no reassurance that they’re about to find his daughter, or a clue to what’s become of her. Even if they do, it may not be positive news. But with luck, they’ll be closer to untangling the past—his, hers, and the mysterious ring that links them.
Noticing a street sign, she tells him that the Chapel Square Mall, where Charisse was found, was located nearby. “If she was Charisse,” she adds belatedly.
“She was. Those huge eyes . . . she looks so much like Delia. And maybe a little like me, too.”
Amelia doesn’t disagree. But when you’re looking for a lost biological relative, the mind’s eye sometimes sees what it wants to see.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “the mall closed years ago.”
“In 2002. I looked it up yesterday. Looks like every bus in New Haven stopped there back in the day. If someone came up from the city and was looking for a convenient, busy public place to dump an innocent kid, that was it.”
He’s right. She, too, had done her homework.
Built in 1967, the mall was intended to become an urban crown jewel, but it had deteriorated through the ’70s and ’80s. By the time the little girl was found, the place had a seedy and dangerous reputation.
She recognizes the broad, boxy structure, now an upscale apartment building. It’s located just across from the historic town green lined with local government and Yale University buildings. She sees Barnes watch it disappear in the rearview mirror as they drive on.
All these years, he thought he’d provided a better life for his daughter by giving Delia that money and walking away. Now he’s learned the little girl was endangered and abandoned soon afterward. He isn’t just curious, but furious.
She breaks the moody silence as they cruise on through the city, past stately brick university buildings. “Pretty fancy around here.”
“Welcome to the Ivy League.”
“Reminds me of Cornell.”
“You went to Cornell?”
“Ithaca College.”
“IC. The sweatshirt you were wearing at the diner the other night.”
“Good memory.”
“Yeah, well . . . I’m a detective. I pay attention to details . . .”
She senses an unspoken and.
Another silence follows, this one awkward, at least for her. He seems to be pondering something, but says nothing.
The Ivy League buildings give way to close-set wood-frame houses, crumbling pavement, and shuttered industrial properties. Pockets of redevelopment and rehabilitation bloom amid poverty and blight. Church steeples poke the stormy sky above revitalized storefronts and seedy bars. Abandoned slums and vacant lots share blocks with renovated Victorians. Some residents push strollers or stride with backpacks; others loiter on corners, looking for trouble.
Barnes slows in front of a two-story house that looks freshly painted in a creamy green with maroon trim. There’s a fat wreath on the front door, and the windows twinkle Christmas lights in January morning gloom.
He squeezes the car into the lineup parked at the curb. “Looks like they’ve got company. Not surprising at a time like this.”
They get out of the car and Amelia follows him up the walk to the doorstep. “Wait, are we going to say we’re . . . you know, on official business?”
“Just follow my lead.” He rings the bell, jaw clenched.
A portly bald Black man opens the door. Neatly dressed in a blue cardigan and tan corduroys, he has a trimmed gray mustache and wary gaze.