Courtney's Secrets (The Clandestine Series)

Admit Twenty-Four

I was slumped down in the passenger seat of the Aurora Sheriff sport utility vehicle. The DNA had been verified. There was no doubt Chris was my father and Sheriff Young volunteered to return me to his custody at his house in Littleton. He wanted to walk me to the front doorstep to fulfill his promise to Chris that justice would be served. If I didn't feel comfortable there I could call my social worker and be placed somewhere else. I was hopeful, yet nervous about what living with my mystery father might be like. We had been driving for forty-five minutes, but it felt longer with the questions running through my mind. Did he give up on finding me after so many years? Did he move on with his life without me in it?

Sheriff Young distracted me with humor. I never guessed he was such a comedian, not the way I expected a sheriff to be at all. He cracked jokes and made animated faces as he spoke. He probably sensed my nervousness.

He leaned forward, holding the steering wheel and squinted at the car slowing down in front of us. "They're putting on their brakes again." He angled his head toward me with one eyebrow raised, accentuating the deep-set lines in his forehead. He glanced at the speedometer. "That's fifteen miles under the speed in the fast lane."

I laughed at his over-exaggerated expression. Almost the entire drive, he had attempted to go the speed limit, but as soon as people noticed a sheriff behind them, they slowed down.

"When you get your license, do an officer a favor, go the speed limit if they're behind you," he said.

I laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

We had taken the highway and then meandered onto a residential street. In my neighborhood the houses were brick, and they were built in the 1940's with cars lining the sidewalks, and rarely there was a one car garage here or there. The houses in this neighborhood were different than what I was used to. They were new cookie-cutter homes with four different types that alternated throughout the neighborhood. They had muted paint colors, wood siding, and three-car garages. 

We pulled down a nice quiet street called Berry Avenue which curved around, and a crowd of reporters beside news vans came into view.

"Oh, twat-waffles." He gently bumped his fist on the steering wheel, as his eyes darted over the crowd. "I should have known they might camp outside your dad's house. Unscrupulous cockroaches infesting themselves into any story they might make a dime off of."

I chuckled but the sight of the paparazzi clambering toward us made me clam up. Would they televise me reuniting with my father for the whole world to see? 

There were cameramen, along with news anchors holding microphones and wearing dress suits. As soon as we pulled up to the curb, the crowd turned to face us. We got out, and they swarmed toward us. Sheriff Young hurried to my side, took off his coat, and sheltered my head with it as we walked up the sidewalk to a grey house with white trim.

The press followed behind, firing questions and practically walking on our heels.

"Sheriff, can you confirm or deny that this is the victim of the Dollar Cinema's kidnapping?" a female reporter articulated over the other voices in the crowd.

"Miss," a man's voice cut in beside me, "what was it like being raised by the woman who murdered your mother?" A microphone was thrust under my nose. My cheeks burned, and I ignored it while I hurried to the front door where Sheriff Young gave a solid knock. He turned and said, "Stay back. Give us room. The girl is still a minor." But they didn't listen. They boxed us into a small square on the walkway, casting shadows over us. I closed my eyes trying to block out the voices as we waited for the door to open.

When the door opened, a man with dark brown, thinning hair, a straight nose, and amber eyes—like mine—answered the door. A smile split his face, and it was contagious. "Deja!"