The Enemy (Blitzed Book 2) Page 5

  My shoes are silent on the wood floor as I cross the office. The muffled sound of the organ assures me that the service is underway. This should go just fine.

  I head straight for the closet at the back of the room where I know the private forms are kept. When I tug on the handle, it doesn’t budge. Of course. It’s locked. I knew that.

  I hurry to Irma’s desk and open the drawer where she keeps the keys. They are there, as always. The ring jingles as I lift it out and hurry back to the door.

  I’m familiar with the keys and pull out the correct one on the first try. The closet swings open. There is a tall file cabinet and I try to remember which drawer has the adoption files. It was low, not high. I remember that.

  I try the second from the bottom. It’s filled with tax forms and payment slips for the employees of the church for the past couple of decades. No adoption records.

  I slam it closed and open the bottom one. Here are dozens of individual folders. This is it. I finger through them. They are arranged by year. I choose 2012 and tug it out.

  The file is thin but there are still unrelated papers in it. Some funeral records. A couple wills that bequeath things to the church.

  Then I see it. Gabriella’s adoption contract.

  I sit on the floor and tug out my phone. I snap a shot of the top page and open it to the second. There are many pages to this document, and I’m on page four when I hear a quiet “Livia?”

  My heart slams as I look up.

  It’s Irma, the church secretary.

  She’s holding a little device and I recognize it as one that lets her know when someone comes in the side door. I’ve forgotten it exists.

  “Hey,” I say. I don’t try to cover up the papers or hide my phone. She’s already seen it.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I decide the best thing to do is just keep working, get as far as I can. I flip to the back page, the birth certificate, and snap a shot. “This is my paperwork,” I say, working backwards now, snapping the next-to-last page. “I need to be able to read it.”

  “You can’t do that,” Irma says, bending down for the papers. “These are private church documents.”

  I get one more shot done before she picks them up. I want to snatch them from her, but I don’t. She looks so shocked, her face red beneath her chestnut hair, piled on her head with bits sticking out.

  “I need those,” I say. “They are about my daughter. And I have a legal situation.”

  Irma glances down at the pages. “This is about an adoption. It can’t be yours…” Her voice falters, probably as she reads the name on the front page. Her hand presses against the front of her pale blue paisley dress. “Oh my word.”

  “It was my baby,” I say. “I was forced to give her up for adoption and this church was part of it, before my parents let me attend services. Before you and I met.” I hold out my hand. “Please give me those back.”

  “You’re so young,” she says, but she passes me the pages. “I had no idea.”

  “I was very young then,” I say. “And so was her father.”

  I drop the packet on the desk and find a page I haven’t photographed. I’ve done two more pages, when I hear Irma gasp and a large man’s hand covers the words.

  I know that hand. I look up.

  It’s my father.

  “It won’t do you any good to fight this,” he says. “Your baby is a long way from here now.”

  I jerk the packet from beneath his hand and flip to another page. “I have a lawyer who will advise me on that.”

  “Is it that rich man? That dancer?” he asks, his voice harsh. “Did you spread your legs for him too?

  “Mr. Mason!” Irma gasps. “We are in the house of the Lord!”

  “Ray!” My mom is behind him, and behind her, my eight-year-old brother Andy.

  “The Lord does not object to the truth!” my father says. “Are you lying with that man?”

  I move away from him and calmly flip the page to photograph it. I only have a couple more, I think. Inside I want to cry out at what my father is saying, but I have to focus. I need the document.

  Still, my hand shakes as I hold the phone over the page, trying to get a clean shot where the words are clear.

  “It doesn’t matter if you get that document,” my dad says. “Your baby is in a good home far from here.”

  I don’t know why he keeps saying that. I know exactly where my daughter is. But I’m not going to tell him.

  I get the last page photographed, and I pick up the packet. “Thank you,” I say to Irma, and pass her the pages. “I’m sorry I snuck in for it.” I cut my eyes at my father. “I’m sure you see why.”

  Irma takes the pages, her eyes full of tears. “I’m so sorry, Livia. I had no idea.”

  I look behind my mother at Andy. “I miss you, Buddy,” I tell him.

  He tries to come around her to get to me, but Mom grabs him and holds him back.

  “I’ll try to find a way to see you,” I tell him.

  “Like hell you will,” my father says. “I won’t have you corrupting him too.”

  I turn to my father. When I lived with him, I always bent to his will, thinking I had so much penance to pay, I would never be free of my guilt. But now I know better.

  “Denham isn’t my brother,” I tell him. “He was DNA-tested. And now he knows about the baby and wants her.”

  My mother gasps. “How do you know that?”

  I turn to her. “He found me. And he’s looking for the baby. I’m getting these to protect her.” I point to the paper Irma holds. “And to clean up the mess you all made.”

  “Didi told me he was my son,” my father says, his voice less threatening now.

  “Well, she lied,” I say. “And you fell for it. For someone who wants to talk about my relationships, you sure have a dirty history yourself. How long had you been seeing Mom when you were with that woman?”

  My father’s hand comes up as if he would slap me, but Irma steps between us. “You will not lay a hand on this child in God’s house,” she says. Her voice quivers. “Livia, do you need me to walk you to your car?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’m no longer afraid of him.” I head for the door. “I’ve grown up, Father,” I say. “And you don’t control me.”

  Despite my confident words, I feel like I might throw up as I cross the parking lot again. For a moment, I’m confused, as I don’t see Blitz’s red Ferrari. The I remember the silver car on the curb, and head toward it.

  “How did it go?” Blitz asks as I get in.

  “I got the pictures,” I say. “Now step on it.”

  Blitz doesn’t ask anything else, just punches the gas and we speed away.

  Chapter 10

  On Tuesday, we take the silver car and head to Dreamcatcher. Blitz has had mustaches delivered and wears one stuck to his face as we pull into the parking lot. I’m wearing a big hat and sunglasses.

  “I don’t think the mustache is necessary,” I tell him as we approach the academy.

  “I just wanted to look dashing for your ex,” he says.

  “Oh, Blitz.” Despite my anxiety, I have to laugh.

  Denham’s green truck is still parked on the curb.

  “I wonder what he does in there all day,” I say.

  “Watches Dance Blitz with his hand down his pants,” Blitz says. “I’ve heard I’m pretty handsome.”

  “Blitz!”

  We pull into the lot and drive through to the side of the building. I don’t know if the back entrance will be unlocked, but I can call Danika if I need to and ask her to let us in.

  Of course, then we’ll have to explain why. But it’s worth a shot.

  Blitz looks at himself in the rearview mirror and smooths his mustache. “I just might grow one myself,” he says.

  We get out of the car. There’s no one near us, and the green truck isn’t visible from this far back. We hurry to the metal door near the delivery platform.

&nbs
p; Blitz tugs on the handle, and thankfully, it opens. We step into the backstage area still crowded with Christmas recital props.

  “I have you in the dark again,” Blitz says, pulling me against him. “Will you fall for the exotic mustachioed man?” He turns my face to his and kisses me.

  “Ick!” I say, pulling away. “Your fake mustache is prickly!”

  Blitz runs his fingers along it. “It’s soft as a baby’s butt!”

  “A baby porcupine, maybe!”

  Blitz laughs and pulls it off. “I guess if it’s going to get in the way, I don’t want it.” He tosses it toward an open trash can near the door.

  “We need to get to class,” I say.

  “Slave driver!” Blitz says, but takes my hand and leads me through a side door to the storage room.

  I squeeze his fingers as we pass through the racks of costumes. Blitz kissed me for the first time here, and we have a lot of fond memories in this space. I spot the top hat he wore once and smile. Blitz has always made my life easier and more fun. If the public really knew him, they would never have tried to burn him at the stake for one terrible Tweet.

  Even though it had been a bad one, an image of a naked show contestant in his bed and a very disparaging message. But Blitz has worked hard to apologize and get his public image repaired. With Dance Blitz behind us, we could fade into obscurity if we wanted.

  The exit of the storage room comes out at the end of the hall where all the dance studios hold classes. The corridor is bustling with young dancers, mostly preschool children since it’s a Tuesday morning.

  We head into Studio 3, where Janel teaches the wheelchair ballerinas. I’ve assisted this class for over a year and lobbied for its existence shortly after Gabriella’s accident. It’s the first place I got to know my daughter.

  And I will not let Denham know about her if I can help it.

  Two of the girls have already arrived and are warming up with arm lifts.

  Another comes in right after us. Janel asks Blitz to grab the sparkle batons. She’s looking for new ideas for the girls to dance with.

  I love how he instantly goes to the corner to grab them. He’s no diva, despite his incredible popularity and fame from his show. Once again, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

  Gabriella rolls in, and Gwen waves at us. I wonder if I should warn her about Denham. What if he sees Gabriella in the parking lot and thinks she looks like me? Would he go up to them and ask about her?

  But he can’t know she’s here. He’s stalking me, not her. Nobody knows. What is he doing, exactly? Intimidating us, I guess. He thinks we will snap. Maybe once I would have. But with Blitz, I feel strong. I won’t give in.

  Despite our anxiety and the green truck outside, class goes on as usual. We work on the girls’ turns and arm positions. As much as I loved dancing with the Nutcracker music, it’s nice to move on to other things now that the recital is past.

  Blitz’s phone buzzes nonstop during class and he finally shuts it off. I look at him quizzically from the other side of the room where I’m working with one of the girls. He shrugs and shakes his head like it’s nothing.

  When we’ve finally escorted all the girls out, including Gabriella, Blitz takes my arm and leads me to a bench in the hall. “I got a bunch of info from the lawyer,” he says.

  His finger swipes through message after message. “Your sweet boyfriend has built up quite the rap sheet in his meager twenty-one years.” He pauses at one of the miniaturized document scans and zooms in. “Three counts of assault, two burglaries, three check frauds. Done some time, about eighteen months. Just dumb luck he saw the show between stints in the slammer.”

  He scrolls some more. “And this is all just since he started getting tried as an adult. Sounds like he had more as a juvenile that’s probably still sealed.”

  “He was always pretty troubled,” I say. “But he didn’t do any of that stuff when I knew him.”

  “Tough life, looks like,” Blitz says. “But the lawyer says even if he does find a way to challenge the adoption, which would be a significant expense just in getting a judge to order the DNA test, lover boy would have to do all sorts of service plans to convince anybody he could be a fit father.”

  “I don’t want them to take Gabriella from Gwen.” I realize I’ve said her name out loud and glance around us in a panic. Fortunately, only Aurora’s toddler class is running, and the parents tend to sit inside the studio for that. The hall is quiet.

  “We will do everything we can to prevent that,” Blitz says. “Jeff says we can do all sorts of delays and changes of venue to make hiring a lawyer too expensive for him.”

  “Did you send him my shots of the adoption papers?” I ask.

  “Yes, he’s got them.”

  One of the jazz instructors, Jacob, pops out of Studio 2. “Hey, Blitz, I’ve got a kid here who’s showing some serious potential in contemporary. Can you take a look at his moves and give us some pointers?”

  “Sure,” Blitz says. “You okay, Livia? You want to come in with us?”

  “No,” I say. I really want to just sit and think. Dreamcatcher is my happy place. “Maybe I’ll dance a bit in an empty room.”

  “Sounds good.” Blitz pops up and heads into the studio.

  But I don’t go into a room to practice, even though I should. I’ve only had my pointe shoes for a month, and I really need to work.

  Instead, I think about Denham. I knew he had a criminal history, but I told Blitz the truth. He was fine when he was with us. But he did tell me about his life before us and the things he’d had to do.

  When we had that conversation, nothing had happened between us yet. He’d ogled me in a bathing suit, and I’d obsessed over sweat trickling down his back. We’d had a lot of meals together and recently Mom had taken us both shopping for school supplies.

  I found myself wanting to be around Denham all the time. So when Mom took Andy to the park for a playdate, I stayed home in hopes of talking to him.

  He stayed put in his room, though, and didn’t answer when I knocked.

  I gave up. None of my friends were available to come over, so to pass the time, I put on my bathing suit to get some sun.

  But looking at myself in the mirror, thinking of Denham watching me, gave me a hot feeling that made me feel more alive than I had ever been. I experimented with the tankini, rolling the top up until it exposed my pale belly. It could use a little color, I reasoned, even though I could picture Denham staring. Another thrill zipped through me.

  I picked up a beach towel and a pair of sunglasses and opened the door to my bedroom with as much noise as I could, hoping Denham would come out of his room.

  Except he was already out. He was in the kitchen, pouring water in a glass. He wore shorts, and had been doing so more and more since the day he worked in the yard. He was facing away, so I passed behind him silently and reached for the back doorknob.

  When he turned and saw me, his eyes locked on my body. I froze, my hand on the cool metal, trying to stay nonchalant as his gaze traveled along my legs, belly, and rested on the top of my suit. Something happened and I glanced down, seeing my nipples puckered like it was cold, even though it wasn’t at all. Without thinking, I pressed my hand to one, and Denham let out a little strangled sound.

  When I looked up at him, he had forgotten the glass, and water was overflowing into the sink from the faucet.

  “Your glass is full,” I said, and he didn’t respond for a moment. Then he realized his hand was wet and he reached to shut off the flow.

  I managed to open the door. “I’m going outside,” I said.

  He nodded and brought the glass to his lips. But he forgot how full it was and splashed water on his chin. I laughed a little and headed to the yard.

  When I glanced back at the house, I saw he was standing by the window over the sink. My body felt on fire. There was this drumbeat inside me now and I needed him to look at me. I felt desperate for it.

  Even as I sat in
the chair and adjusted the back so I was angled to the sun, I imagined him sitting next to me, his eyes devouring my skin. Then he wouldn’t be able to resist and would lean over, his lips gently kissing mine. It would be the most incredible thing in the world.

  Every kiss I’d ever seen in any movie had looked fantastic. There was more, but the steps to sliding into a bed together were fuzzy to me. That didn’t matter. If Denham kissing me felt as incredible as I knew it would, that would be enough.

  I arranged myself in the sun, leaning back, dropping the sunglasses over my eyes. I couldn’t tell anymore if he was watching me, but I imagined that he was, leaning against the kitchen counter, desperately wishing to kiss me.

  Then the back door slammed.

  He was here.

  I kept my eyes closed, as if his arrival wasn’t anything I should pay attention to. But as the moments unfolded, I got curious. I opened one eye, and inhaled sharply to see him sitting in the grass near my feet, just inches away.

  “Anybody told you how beautiful you are?” Denham said.

  “No,” I said. “I’m actually sort of awkward. My knees are weird and my hip bones stick out and —”

  “Stop it,” he said. “You’re perfect.” He shifted closer, so he was next to my knees. “I can’t stop looking at you. Does it bother you?”

  My throat got all tight, so I just shook my head no.

  “Good,” he said. “I won’t lay a hand on you. That wouldn’t be right, living here and all, but I’m glad you’re all right with me looking.”

  My belly sank. Did this mean he wouldn’t kiss me either? I had already imagined us walking down the halls of my new high school, holding hands. The other girls would be all jealous, this cool, confident boy in his jeans and black jacket and chains belonging to me.

  But he was right. We lived together. Something about our closeness made the whole thing feel wrong, although I wasn’t sure how.

  I shut my eyes again, my skin prickly with him so near. I heard him shift on the ground next to me but forced myself not to look.

  After a while, the sun got to me, sweat trickling in uncomfortable places. When I turned to look, Denham was still there, his gaze fixed on my legs. He sensed me watching, and his eyes met mine.