Chapter 1 Claire #2
"Hi, Millie. I'm Claire." I helped her sit on the sagging cushions. "We're going to get you out of these wet things, and then we're going to figure everything out."
Her fingers were too cold to work the zipper, so I did it, peeling off the sodden jacket, then her shoes and socks. Her little feet were like ice.
"Can you wiggle your toes for me?" I asked.
She wiggled them, watching me with those serious eyes.
"Perfect. Good circulation." I ran to my bedroom and grabbed the only decent blanket I owned, a thick fleece throw that had been a Christmas gift from Eleanor two years ago. I wrapped it around her like a cocoon. "Better?"
She nodded, still shivering, but now her teeth weren’t clattering anymore.
"Okay." I crouched to meet her eyes. "Millie, I need to ask you something important. Have you eaten anything today?"
She shook her head; she was still too exhausted, barely moving to express herself. “Only breakfast.” She murmured. "Aunt Victoria said I had to stay in my room." Her voice was tiny. "She said I was being dramatic."
I was going to find this Aunt Victoria and educate her. Mostly with a brick.
"Alright," I said, keeping my voice calm. "I'm going to fix that right now."
The backpack she'd refused to release sat beside her on the couch. I peeked inside while she watched: a stuffed rabbit with floppy ears, a water bottle, and a pair of pink pajamas with stars on them. No note. No phone. No money. Just a child's desperate, packed bid for freedom.
In the kitchen, I opened my cupboard and stared at the contents. Two cans of store-brand tomato soup. My entire food supply. Tomorrow's problem, or rather, tomorrow's additional problem on my growing list of problems.
"Do you like Danny’s tomato soup?" I called out.
"Yes!" Her voice brightened for the first time. "It's my favorite!"
"Then tomato soup it is."
I heated both cans and poured them into my two most mismatched bowls, one was chipped, and the other had a faded cartoon cat on it.
"Here you go," I said, settling beside her on the couch and handing her the cartoon cat bowl. "Careful, it's hot."
She accepted it with both hands, small fingers wrapping around the ceramic. "Thank you, Miss Claire."
My heart squeezed. "You're very welcome, sweetheart. Just blow on it first, okay?"
She blew on a spoonful with exaggerated care, then tasted it. Her whole face transformed, some of the fear melted away, replaced by a soft, warm smile.
"This is the best," she said quietly. "My mommy used to make this kind. She used Danny’s, too."
Used to. She didn’t really think much of her words. To children, they don’t have that much depth. But they say the truth, and I figured out quickly why Aunt Victoria was in this poor girl’s life.
"Yeah?" I managed around the sudden tightness in my throat. "She had good taste."
I could see part of myself in her. Where was her real mother? Who’d abandon such a kind kid?
Millie nodded earnestly. "She said fancy soup is paying extra for a pretty can."
I laughed, surprising myself. "Your mama sounds like she was very smart."
"She was." Millie took another careful spoonful. "She's in heaven now. She went there when I was little."
Ah. A familiar feeling of grief visited my consciousness again. It was that foolish part of me that hoped for something better, aching for her.
"I'm so sorry, Millie."
"It's okay." But her voice wobbled on the words. "Daddy says she's watching me all the time.” I watched with warmth in my chest as she shoved another spoonful of the soup into her mouth. “But Aunt Victoria says that's silly and dead people can't watch anything."
I wanted to find this woman and have words. Lengthy, detailed words about what happens to adults who emotionally abuse grieving children.
"Well," I said carefully, "I think your daddy is right. I think the people we love always stay with us, even when we can't see them."
Millie looked at me with those huge gray-blue eyes. "Do you have someone in heaven, too?"
"I do." I touched the locket at my throat. "My mom."
"Does she watch you?"
"I hope so." I smiled, though it hurt. "I like to think she does."
We finished our soup in comfortable silence after that. Millie scraped her bowl clean, and when I offered her the last bit from the pot, she shook her head solemnly.
"You should have it, Miss Claire. You need to eat, too."
This child. "I'm okay, sweetheart. You finish it."
"We can share?"
So we shared the last few spoonfuls, passing the pot between us, and something about the simple act made my eyes sting.
"Okay," I said, setting the empty dishes aside. "What do you say we find something to watch on TV while we figure out our next steps?"
"Can we watch cartoons?"
"We can try." I reached for the remote. "Fair warning, my TV is pretty old, and I can only get one channel right now. So we'll have to see what's on."
The ancient television fizzed to life with static before resolving into a fuzzy picture. Some home renovation show was playing, a woman literally weeping with joy over granite countertops and a kitchen island the size of my entire apartment.
"Must be nice," I muttered.
"What's nice?" Millie asked.
"Having a kitchen island." I clicked through, but there was nothing else. "And, you know. Being able to cry happy tears over home improvements instead of... other kinds of tears."
Millie tilted her head. "Are you sad, Miss Claire?"
"Little bit," I admitted. "But I’ll be okay.”
She smiled and snuggled deeper into the blanket, leaning against my side like we'd known each other for years instead of hours. On screen, the renovation show hosts were now arguing about whether to knock down a wall.
"Knock it down," Millie said decisively.
"You think?"
"Open is better. My daddy says so."
I bit back a smile. "Your daddy sounds like he knows a lot about home design."
"He knows a lot about everything." Pride crept into her voice. "He's really smart. He works all the time, but that's because he's important."
I was trying to formulate how to ask about calling him, about phone numbers and addresses, when the renovation show cut abruptly to a blue "brEAKING NEWS" graphic. The screen switched to a live press conference.
A man stood at a podium flanked by police officers, his face etched with raw, terrible anguish that made my stomach clench. Dark hair, immaculately cut. Sharp jaw tight with strain. Eyes the color of a storm-churned sea, gray-blue, I realized. Millie's eyes.
"...my daughter, Millie Sterling, is seven years old," he said, his voice deep and frayed at the edge of every word, the sound of a man holding himself together by his fingernails.
"She was last seen at our residence this afternoon.
We are pursuing all leads, and I am personally offering a ten-million-dollar reward for any information leading directly to her safe return. "
Ten million dollars.
The number was so absurd, so incomprehensible, that I almost laughed. Yesterday, I couldn't afford dinner while someone else had ten million dollars to give.
Millie sat bolt upright beside me, the blanket falling from her shoulders.
"That's my daddy!" She pointed at the screen, her face transformed with hope so fierce it hurt to witness. "Miss Claire, look! That's my daddy!"
I looked at her face for any signs that she was joking, but it was all seriousness. And it finally dawned on me: A billionaire on TV had just offered ten million dollars to anyone with information on his missing daughter. And she was sitting next to me on my couch.
Yesterday, I barely had enough money for food, and I had just been fired from my job. I have only thirty-three dollars to my name.
A phone number flashed on the screen, and my hands were already shaking as I grabbed my phone and started dialing.
The rain was still tapping against the windows while she leaned her head on my arm and smiled at the screen.
The operator picked up, a deep male voice came through the line, low and strained.
"This is the emergency line for Mr. Sterling. Who am I speaking with?"
I froze, my throat tight, then said, "Umm... hi... I'm Claire. I think I have your daughter."
The silence on the other end lasted exactly two heartbeats. I could hear him breathing; it was sharp and ragged.
Then Nathaniel Sterling said, "Where are you? Is she hurt? Is she—"
“She’s safe.” I interrupted before he could say any more. “She’s warm and dry. She’s had something to eat. She’s okay, Mr. Sterling.”
Millie smiled and kept a curious look on her face. I reached out and held her hand as she maintained a keen ear, trying to listen in to our conversation.
“Where?” His voice came out almost hurried, and without any other noise, not even his breathing.
I told him where I lived. I could tell he was hurrying; the sound of keys rattling and doors opening while he struggled to speak was all I heard.
“Don’t let anyone in. Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll be there in… Twenty minutes.”
“We’ll be here,” I wasn’t gonna let her disappear, but it didn’t feel like she’d go away either. “Mr. Sterling? She’s really okay. She’s a brave kid.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my trembling hand.
"Is Daddy coming?" Millie looked up at me, gray-blue eyes full of a trust I hadn't earned but desperately wanted to deserve.
"Yes, sweetheart." I pulled her closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Your daddy's coming."
She let out a breath and relaxed against me, clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest. On the TV, Nathaniel Sterling was still at the podium, still pleading for information about a daughter who was currently dripping soup on my secondhand couch.
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the windows like a warning.
Somewhere across the city, a father was racing toward my crumbling apartment building in a neighborhood I was pretty sure he'd never set foot in.
And I sat here with his daughter curled against my side, wondering what kind of woman tells a seven-year-old that her father doesn't love her.
Wondering what I'd just stumbled into.
And wondering—stupidly, impossibly—if maybe, just maybe, rock bottom had a door I hadn't noticed before.
One that had just been kicked open by a shivering child with her father's eyes and a heart full of lies she didn't deserve.