Page 3 of Cut Off
“No, thank you.” The officers wave toward a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“Okay.” I can tell this is bad, but what can be worse than Rosie being dead?
Once I’ve sat, the senior officer says, “Did you ever hear from Ms. Anders, even once?”
“No. I tried for a while, sent texts, emails, smoke signals, but after no responses, I gave up.” I fold my arms, something twinging in my gut.
He continues, “Did you stay in contact with any of her family or friends?”
“Not really.” Where the hell are they going with this? “Why?”
“Did you know Ms. Anders had a child? A son?”
That twinge becomes a stab. I swallow hard, saying, “No. How old is he?”
“He’s nine,” the junior officer says.
Every muscle in my body goes tense.Nine!
The senior officer’s eyes meet mine. “According to a letter written by Ms. Anders, you’re the father of her son, Eli. He’s at the station here in Dickens.”
The world stops.
Everything—the patter of rain on the windows, the muffled sound of traffic on the street, my own heartbeat—suspends in time. It’s a good thing I’m seated because if I weren’t, my legs would give out. I grip the arm of the chair.
“What?” The word comes out as a whisper.
“You have a son, Mr. Holt. Eli Anders.”
A son?
“That’s impossible,” I say, but as the denial leaves my lips, I’ve already done the math. Ten years since Rosie left. Nine-year-old son.Jesus Christ.
“We’d like to collect a DNA sample to confirm,” the younger officer says.
“Right, of course.” My mind races through a fog of shock. For nine years, I’ve had a child I never knew existed. A boy with my blood—half me—who I’ve never met, who’s been without his father his entire life. I manage to say, “Where has he been for the last two months?”
“With a foster family.”
A foster family. While I’ve been living in two empty places, my son—myson—has been with strangers.
The officer continues, “But he ran away from the home and was located here in Dickens.”
I scrape my hand through my hair. “Why wouldn’t she have told me?” I mumble, numb. She left without a word. Never told me she was pregnant. Never tried to contact me. And now what? I’m supposed to just go pick him up and bring him home, like nothing?
“Sir,” the older officer interrupts. “I understand this is a shock. But right now, there’s a little boy at the police station who just lost his mother, and according to her documentation, you’re his father.”
The magnitude of this failure—worse than any on the ice—crushes me. A boy who just lost his mother is now stuck with a stranger—me. The most fucked-up person in town at the moment.
“This can’t be real,” I whisper, even as my heart knows the truth.
The officers wait silently as thoughts ricochet through my mind, one after the next. What night did it happen? Is that why she left? Did I wear a condom?
God dammit—it doesn’t matter. At that time, I was the only one Rosie was with. If this kid’s nine, he’s mine.
I jump up, heading toward the door, grabbing my keys from the foyer console table.
The officers follow me, and when I open the door, one says, “You’re going to need some shoes.”
