Page 22 of Punked By the Playmaker
In the back of my brain, alarm bells rang, but I ignored them.
I knew I’d regret asking this, but I did it anyway. “Where’s home?”
“Kansas,” she replied.
My knees nearly buckled in relief. “Never in my life have I been to Kansas.”
“I was born in Indiana.”
Well, fuck. I’d been there plenty of times, at least twice a year, sometimes more if we ended up playing the Speed in the playoffs.
Heart rate kicking into high gear, I began to sweat. “There has to be someone responsible for you that I can call.”
“My grandparents passed away when I was little, and both my parents were only children. Their deaths left me as a ward of the state.”
“In Kansas,” I said in a daze.
“In Kansas,” she confirmed.
“How did you even get here?”
“A bus.”
“Abus?” I choked out. “You took a bus all the way from Kansas?”
“Yeah.” Maisie lifted one shoulder as if it were no big deal that she’d traveled halfway across the country by herself.
While I was processing the mess that had somehow landed in my lap, a thought struck. “Are there people looking for you?”
“Probably.”
I dragged a hand down my face. So much for my lazy Sunday. At this rate, I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up on the news for harboring a runaway orphan who’d crossed state lines.
“Might as well come in while I sort all this out.” I stepped back from the door to permit the girl entry.
She remained firmly rooted on the porch. “No. Not if it means you’re going to send me back.”
My frustration reached a boiling point, and I flung my arms wide. “What else do you expect me to do?”
Pinning me with that dark brown stare, Maisie challenged. “Is this how you treat family?”
I let out a beleaguering sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know who told you that you’re my kid, but they were mistaken.”
“I have proof.”
My eyes popped open. “Proof? What kind of proof? Because I’ve never consented to a DNA test.”
A corner of her lips twitched. “Ever heard of a service called Find Your Family Tree?”
My audible swallow probably could have been heard from two streets away. Three—or maybe four—Christmases ago, my sister convinced me that those genetic kits were a great gift idea for our mother. Mom had gone on a kick, tracing our ancestry to the 1500s, so Jenn thought it would be cool if we did the testing that could potentially link us to additional family she hadn’t yet uncovered.
Suddenly, I saw Maisie through new eyes. And I realized she was a carbon copy of my sister at that age. The resemblance was so uncanny I wondered how I hadn’t noticed it before.
Oh my God.
As the truth sank in, I heard hysterical laughter, high-pitched and strained, coming from somewhere in the distance, though it was muted by the roar of blood in my ears. I flushed hot, my heart thrashing against my ribcage, and I couldn’t make my chest expand. Black spots danced in my vision, and I swayed on my feet, gripping the doorframe to remain upright.
I had a daughter. How was this even possible?
