18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Kayla

For the first time in ages, I wake up feeling warm. Not just warm. Toasty.

With a satisfied groan, I stretch out my arms and legs, then reach for my phone to kill the alarm. I'm so comfortable I don't want to get out of bed, but I don't think Director Smith would classify that as a valid reason for taking a day off. Not to mention that I've only worked here for a week, and I've already taken two days off and had a case taken from me. My performance is less than stellar, and being late would likely get me fired on the spot despite the department's urgent need for social workers.

I roll over to the other side of the bed, expecting it to be cold, but it's not. Did I sleep on this side? I rarely do, but how else would it be warm?

With my eyes closed, I take in a deep breath, noting the amazing smell surrounding me. Must be the new fabric softener I bought, although I don't remember it smelling this…musky. I have to look at the brand later and order a few more bottles, because it smells amazing.

My smile falters as I get into the kitchen and see the slightly wilted bluebell flower. It reminds me of my utterly ridiculous theories from last night. Did I seriously think someone was coming to my house to do my dishes? Damn, maybe I should become a fiction author.

"Don't be silly, Kayla," I mumble as I make myself a cup of black tea. "No one has been here."

My little pep talk doesn't stop the chills from creeping up my spine, but I do my best to ignore them. Nothing is happening. The stalker most likely found someone else to shower with his attention, and I'm fine. Perfectly fine.

After eating my usual yogurt, I throw the cup into the trash and wash the spoon to make sure there is no confusion as to who did it when I come back from work. I take great care to check that the back door and all the windows are locked, then lock the front door behind me, giving the doorknob a few test twists just to be sure it's really locked.

It is. Everything is locked. I have great new locks, and no one is coming to my home. No one.

"No one," I repeat to myself as I get into the car. I give the silent, definitely locked house one last frown before heading to work.

Once in the office, I make myself a huge cup of coffee and pull out my case files, determined to focus on my work and nothing else. Nothing. Else.

To my relief, it works. When Michelle arrives, I'm deeply submerged in a case I've inherited from my coworkers. Little Saskia Orson was removed from her home when she was just five years old due to her mother's drug problem. Paula Orson has been a meth addict since she was seventeen. Nothing made her stop, not even her pregnancy.

Paula Orson moved around a lot, so Saskia slipped through the gaps in the system until her mother took permanent residence in Bluebell Springs. Here, someone finally noticed the malnourished girl who barely knew how to speak, and the CPS department wasted no time removing Saskia from the toxic influence of her mother.

Now, two years later, Paula Orson claims she's clean and wants her daughter back. The daughter who, in the meantime, has grown into a well-adjusted seven-year-old and is thriving in an excellent foster family.

Although the therapist claims she wasn't being very honest during the sessions, Paula Orson successfully passed the court-ordered rehab. Michelle, who worked the case before, swore that Paula seemed high every time she came to check on her household, but all of Paula's drug tests in the past several months have been clean. Including the court-mandated test she took just three days ago in preparation for today's hearing.

I let out a quiet growl. I've only met Paula Orson once when I came to introduce myself as her new case worker last week—and also to check if she wasn't using—and she looked off. Her pupils were blown, her motions slow, reactions sluggish. She was definitely on something.

"Is there something wrong?" Michelle asks as she sets her own coffee on her desk.

"Paula Orson's hearing is today. She passed the drug test again."

Michelle huffs in frustration. "How? How the hell is that possible? Did they test her on prescription drugs, too, like I asked?"

Consulting the report, I nod. "Yes. They tested her for pretty much everything known to humankind, and she came out clean. I don't get it. She definitely wasn't clean last Friday. Damn it. She's going to get Saskia back."

Normally, I'm all for keeping families together, as long as children are in a loving environment. But Paula doesn't love her daughter. In the two years since Saskia was removed from her care, Paula only came to see her five times, and that was only when court dates were coming.

My guess is that Paula wants the child support payments from Saskia's father. He's not interested in his daughter at all but always pays on time. Mostly because not doing so would violate his parole conditions, and his sorry ass would end up in jail. Poor Saskia really didn't win in the parent lottery.

I open the folder with printed case files and my own notes. I've had it at home since last Friday, but with everything that's happened, I've barely had time to work on it. Now, I can't help but feel guilty for not trying harder to find something, anything that would prevent Paula from getting Saskia back into her care.

A photo slides out of the folder—a photo I most definitely didn't put there.

A strangled sound escapes me as the realization that I haven't been making things up hits me like a truck. Someone really has been to my house. Someone who isn't deterred by my new locks. Someone who came to…do my dishes and help me with my case?

"Kayla? Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah." Faking a cough, I point at my coffee. "It just went down the wrong pipe. I'm fine."

I'm not fine.

I'm so much not fine I think I might be having a heart attack.

I should call the police. I really fucking should. Yet, I already know I won't. Because once again, the photo isn't a threat or some creepy "I'm watching you" message. Once again, it's not a photo of me at all. It's a photo of Paula Orson in a quaint coffee shop on Main Street, having a coffee with…herself?

The absurdity of the picture pulls me out of my panic-riddled thoughts. I study the two identical women, my brain taking much too long to identify what I'm looking at. When it finally dawns on me, it's like in the cartoons, a lightbulb popping up above my head.

"Michelle?" I clear my dry throat, which suddenly feels dry. "Does Paula Orson have a twin sister?"

"Hmm. She does have a sister. We contacted her while searching for next of kin for Saskia, but she wasn't interested in taking care of her niece. In fact, it sounded like she wasn't interested in her family at all. We haven't even run a background check on her. You think…" Michelle gives me a quizzical look. "You think Paula's sister is a twin, and she's taking all those drug tests for Paula? I don't know, Kayla. It sounds like a stretch."

"It does," I agree. "But what if it's not?"

As I show the photo to Michelle, her eyes widen in shock. "Motherfucking bitch! Kayla, how did you get this?"

From my guardian stalker/housekeeper, I want to say, but that would be crazy, right? "It just showed up," I reply instead. Not a lie. "Anonymously." Not a lie either. "I have no idea why." Now, that's a lie. I know why. For some reason, my stalker wants to help me. But why?

"Well, that changes things. The hearing's today, right?" Michelle asks, eyeing my fancy pantsuit, one of my go-to court outfits. As I nod, she rubs her chin. "We don't have much time, but it's manageable. Come on, girl. I'll show you who to talk to in the sheriff's office to get a background check done pronto."