12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

When I get home, there is a package waiting for me outside my door. Odd, since I didn't order anything. I tear it open right in the hallway and pull out a twelve pack of t-shirts in my size and the brand I use.

I huff out a laugh.

"Fucking psycho," I mutter, shoving it under my arm while I dig out my keys to open my door.

"Hi, excuse me, Mr. Lorenzetti?" I look over my shoulder to the sweet old lady who lives across the hall, hurrying toward me with a handful of bags.

"Mrs. Burnett. How are you?" I ask, moving toward her to help with her load. She lets me take them. Though she was struggling, they're pretty light.

"I'm all right, but I was hoping you could help me out with something."

"Sure. What can I do for you?"

She moves to her door, shoving the key inside. "Well, it's two things actually, if you don't mind." She gets her door unlocked and gestures for me to go inside. It smells like mothballs and sweet bread. "My shelf fell the other day, and I can't figure out how to get it back up. And this darn faucet is leaking again." She waves her arm in the direction of the kitchen.

"Didn't maintenance come by?" I ask as I put the bags on her kitchen island, and my package beside it. I crumble up the brown bag it was in and toss it in her trash.

She was complaining to me about the faucet at least a month ago, saying she'd already called maintenance, but they were taking forever to check it out. I was on my way to a meeting so couldn't stop but told her I'd look at it when I got back. Maintenance showed up while I was gone.

She opens the cabinet doors beneath the sink and gestures to it.

"Said he fixed it, but I think the guy has marbles for brains."

Mrs. Burnett can't be an inch taller than five feet. She's adorably plump, in that grandmotherly type of way. Her hair is all white and she wears too much makeup. There's always lipstick on her teeth. This bright pink shade that doesn't suit her at all yet is somehow endearing. I didn't have any sort of grandparents growing up, not even adopted ones.

I head over to check out this leaky faucet. Something that shouldn't be an issue considering the money we pay to be here. She turns on the faucet to let the water run. There's a bucket beneath the pipe, catching what drips out. It isn't a lot, but it's steady enough. I mess around with it for a minute and find a joint that's popped out, so I pop it back in. Her cat, a bright white, fat fluffy thing named Snowball, rubs against me as I work. I pet it before I get to my feet, and it runs off as if I offended it. Fucking cats.

"There you go. Should be all set now." I pull the bucket out and dump it in the sink, rinse it, then put it back. "Leave this here for now, just in case. If it's still leaking, let me know and I can seal it, but it should be okay."

"I can't thank you enough."

I wash my hands and note all the cleaning supplies on the floor in front of the kitchen island. "Do you keep all that under here?" I ask, gesturing to them. She nods. "Make sure you don't leave them near any of the pipes."

My guess is she's shoving things in there and hitting the pipes beneath, knocking them out of place. They're easily detached.

"Oh, all right. Sure thing." She nods.

"Show me where this shelf is."

She hurries out of the kitchen and down the hall. The lady moves like a race car, always so damn fast. I find her in the main bathroom. Our condos are set up the same, just mirror images, so I know where everything is.

"It's this one right here," she says, pointing to the shelf leaning against the wall. "Don't know how it happened, but it scared me half to death. I dropped the apple pie I was trying to put in the oven, but thankfully it fell right on top of the counter and wasn't ruined. I'll give you a slice for your trouble."

"You don't have to do that." I pick up the shelf to inspect it. Nothing seems broken. I check the nails on the wall. All seems well. I hang it back up, give it a little tug and it's sturdy. Probably wasn't put on properly in the first place.

"It's the least I can do. I'm glad I caught you."

"Maybe it just came loose, but it's on there good now." I turn to see her smiling at me. "What was up here? Let me help you put it back."

The last thing I need is this woman climbing on top of something to put things up here, falling, and breaking a damn hip.

"You're too kind."

She hands me a few knick-knacks that I put on the shelf. I'm surprised they didn't break when they fell. Also not sure why anyone needs this sort of thing in the bathroom, but whatever. When I'm done, she ushers me back to the kitchen and pulls a pie from the fridge. She cuts me a slice that is more like half the pie, puts it on a plate, and hands it over.

"Thank you, Mrs. Burnett. This looks delicious."

"Oh, it is. Award winning." She winks.

"Is that so?"

She nods. "Yes, sir. At the county fair a few towns over. Haven't been in quite some time now, but when my husband was around, we went every year. That there pie was always in the top three, and my William always won the hot dog eating contest. God rest his soul, the poor man."

"Sounds like it was a lot of fun," I say with a smile. Though imagining any man gulping down hot dogs isn't a pretty picture.

She sighs happily, a lost look in her eye. "It sure was. Maybe I'll get around to going this spring. God willing."

"Yes, ma'am." I grab my package and shove it under my arm. "If you ever need anything, just knock on my door. I'm not far."

"Thanks again!"

I head to my apartment and put the pie in the microwave. As I wait for it to heat, I pull out the vanilla ice cream and the ice cream scoop. There aren't many food items I keep in my place, but ice cream and cereal are staples.

The seconds count down on the microwave, and I stand there watching them until my phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket to see an alert for a new email. It's junk but reminds me of the email I have waiting from Banks. The microwave beeps, so I pull out the pie and add three giant scoops of ice cream before putting it away and taking the plate to the table to eat.

Getting to know my bio mom isn't an insult to the mother who raised me. I know that, but I can't help thinking it anyway. Our parents never hid our adoption and made sure we knew we were supported in anything we did, especially when it came to getting to know our biological parents. I never gave it much thought. Not until now. When all of them are dead. Which makes me feel terrible.

Opening this email from Banks isn't going to tell me who my parents were as people. Maybe I should have taken that opportunity when I had the chance, but there's nothing I can do about it now. All I can do now is listen to her warning. The Piano Man's warning too. There was someone watching Xan and I today. The Piano Man said it was people Xan knows nothing about. He didn't specifically say it had something to do with my parents, so it's possible he doesn't have that bit of information. How could he if it was written in a letter I only showed to one other person.

After eating half the pie and ice cream, mulling over what to do, I finally open the email and read the details on my parents.

Names. Birthdates. Birth locations. Their parents' names. It's all so clinical. There's a pang in my chest that I've never felt before.

This is all I get about the people who made me? It doesn't feel like enough. And I know getting this information had nothing to do with me wanting to know them, but now that I have it? I realize I want more.

So I email Banks back and ask him to dig, no matter the price. I need everything I can get.