Page 10 of The Price of Protection

The girls appeared in the living room, Minnie with a stack of books against her chest. She contorted her face, making Maxine cackle. Hannah and Rose stood and looked at them. The magic around Maxine and Minnie seemed like something Hannah and Rose could never emulate, let alone crack.

“Hey, honey,” Hannah said.

“Hi!” Minnie smiled. “Are you having fun?”

Rose’s stomach curdled at the idea that their daughters had arranged a playdate. How pathetic did Maxine think she was?

“We are, but it’s time to head home,” Hannah said.

“We’re in no rush,” Minnie said.

“We sort of are,” Hannah said, though Rose suspected it was a lie. “Maybe we can do this again sometime?”

“I’d like that,” Rose said, although after she and Maxine had walked Hannah and Minnie out and closed the door behind them, Rose’s head screamed with panic. It said not to open herself up to anyone, and not to let herself fall into the comforts of friendship. She couldn’t trust anyone.

She wasn’t sure she could rely on her inner voice, but in a world as lonely as hers, it was all she had.

5

Boston, Massachusetts

Willow found herself at one of Nathaniel Hawkins’s mayoral candidate speeches in mid-September. She was enmeshed in a crowd, her arms folded, her ears alert. Around her, everyone held posters that said “HAWKINS 4 MAYOR” and “TAKE BACK BOSTON.” They wore pins and T-shirts and smiled at one another excitedly, as though being here to see Nathaniel in the flesh meant they were one step closer to having him for mayor. As she hadn’t been able to sleep—not last night at her mother’s, nor the night before at her own place—Willow’s chest ached with anxiety. She hadn’t eaten much, either. What on earth was she doing here? And what was she trying to prove?

Suddenly, Nathaniel’s campaign manager stepped up to the microphone to announce Nathaniel. “He’s the only hope the city of Boston has! Give it up for Nathaniel Hawkins!” The crowd grew hushed and expectant as the forty-eight-year-old man sauntered onto the stage, both hands in the air, then stepped behind the mic and smiled out at them. Aaron Darwin, the third candidate, had dropped out of the race the previous week, citing a lack of funding. It was down to Nathaniel and Peter Miller now. Willow guessed anywhere between three hundred and six hundred people were here. She’d never been great at estimating crowd sizes, especially when they overwhelmed her.

“I can’t thank you all enough for being here!” Nathaniel said. “You are the heartbeat of this city. You are the reason I believe in what I want to do.”

Willow scoffed quietly. Although she really liked a lot of what Nathaniel stood for, hearing a speech like this did little to rev her up, as it sounded like every other political speech in history. But what had she expected? She’d wanted to stand here, in thrall of him, and feel something. She’d wanted to feel in her bones what she’d come to know.

Two weeks ago, on that fateful night when she’d told her mother’s ex-husband Ralph that she was going to find out the identity of her father one way or another, Ralph had broken down in tears and told her that he didn’t know. But that wasn’t all. “Donna’s not your mother, either,” he’d explained. “You’re adopted, honey. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. She’d kill me if she knew.” He’d gazed up the stairs at where Donna slept now, as though he’d betrayed her.

Obviously, Willow hadn’t known what to do with this at first. Reeling, she’d gone through all the details of her early life, searching for clues that Donna wasn’t her biological mother. There was the issue of Donna’s age, of course. Donna was seventy-two, and Willow was twenty-five. Willow had always assumed Donna had a miracle pregnancy, but now she realized that wasn’t so. She’d wanted a baby desperately, and one had come to her via adoption. For some reason, she hadn’t thought that Willow had a right to know.

After learning this, Willow decided to unseal her adoption documents. This meant requesting them from the local court clerk, which led to three days of anxious waiting. When she was finally allowed to see the documents—documents meant to list the names of her biological parents—she sat in an empty room with the envelope before her. She told herself that this didn’t really matter, that it was just information and didn’t change how she felt about her mother, Donna.

But when she opened the envelope, yet another mystery had spilled forth.

Under mother, it was written “REDACTED.”

Under father, it read “NATHANIEL HAWKINS.”

Midway through Nathaniel’s campaign speech, Willow cut through the crowd and exited the conference hall. Outside on the street, she pulled her hood over her head to protect it from the rain and tried not to think about what had just occurred to her. Nathaniel and Willow had the same chin and the same ears.

Unable to calm down, she stomped through the streets of Boston, watching puddles splash beneath her thick boots. Ever since she’d opened the adoption documents, her life hadn’t felt like it belonged to her anymore. Forces beyond her had decided her fate. More than that, those same forces had decided that no one was allowed to know her mother's name. Why would something like that happen? It was especially nonsensical when you thought about the birth itself. Presumably, the mother had to have been there. She had a hunch that Nathaniel hadn’t been present, although maybe that was unfair.

Willow had arranged to meet an old friend and ex-music student, Jeff Bailey, at a little dive bar not far from where Nathaniel was giving his speech. She got there ten minutes early and sat watching the corners, nervous and jittery. For some reason, she felt as though someone would start following her, if only because she had information that could jeopardize Nathaniel’s campaign. But Willow had no interest in messing up his campaign. She still thought he was the strongest and most compassionate candidate. She just couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him.

Jeff came in a few minutes later. He looked different than he had in college, more put together. He’d cut that long, gorgeous, orange-yellow hair and now slicked it back, and he wore slacks and a suit jacket that fit his career as a political analyst better. She stood and gave him a stiff hug, then searched her gut for any feelings for him.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the stool beside her. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah! Too long.” Willow smiled nervously. “How have you been?”

“Not bad,” he said. “Busy. This mayoral campaign is taking a lot out of me. And we’re gearing up for another presidential race soon, you know.”

“Time flies,” she said. “But you’ve done well for yourself.”

“And you?” Jeff asked. “Are you still doing music?”