sure?” he pressed, obviously disappointed. “You’re listed as a reference on a credit card application from years back, in New Mexico. She claimed you were her daughter.”
She’d only been sixteen when they were in New Mexico. How had he been able to trace her from there?
“I’ve never lived in New Mexico.” Presley felt no remorse for lying, just an odd sense of panic that this might spill over onto her. Right or wrong, she’d done what her mother had taught her to do.
“Christensen might not be an unusual name, but Presley is,” he persisted. “As a first name, I mean.”
“Maybe this Anita person liked Elvis as much as my own mother did.”
Presley considered herself a pro when it came to misinformation, but he seemed stubbornly unconvinced. “She may have assumed yet another identity,” he said. “Would you mind taking a look at her picture?”
“Sorry.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “My break’s over. I’ve got to get to work.”
Except she didn’t dare open the door with him standing there, and he wasn’t backing off. She hesitated with her hand on the latch, and that was all the opportunity he needed.
“It’ll only take a second.” He pulled out an old mug shot, which he illuminated with the penlight like he had his ID. “She’s the one on the right.”
Presley was too nervous to really look. She knew who she’d see, but with her mother sick and about to die she figured it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever Anita had done wrong, cancer was punishment enough. “Never seen her before in my life,” she said as her eyes flicked over it.
He held up another picture. “Do you recognize either of these two?”
She nearly told him he had to leave or she was going to call the police on her cell phone, but clamped her lips shut. She did recognize one of the two subjects of that photograph. Chey was in it as a very young girl. And something about her struck Presley as odd. Although Anita had looked as Presley would’ve expected—significantly younger but still unkempt—Chey didn’t. Her hair was curled into pretty ringlets tied with a ribbon, and she was wearing a fancy dress with black patent leather shoes.
When had this picture been taken? And why wasn’t she in it? She couldn’t remember a single time their mother had bothered to curl their hair. They’d been lucky to have a comb to straighten out the snarls after several days without a bath.
Not only that, but…who was the third person—the pretty blonde woman?
“Ms. Christensen?” the man prompted.
What did this picture mean?
The possibilities terrified Presley. Anita was about to die. She couldn’t lose Chey, too. “I don’t recognize them, either.”
* * *
Cheyenne woke to the sound of voices. Her sister was home and, apparently, her mother had survived the night. Chey couldn’t say she was glad; she couldn’t in all conscience say she wasn’t, either. It was just another day.
A glance at the digital alarm clock told her she didn’t have to be up for another hour. She rolled over to go back to sleep, but the wary tone of her mother’s voice aroused her curiosity.
“Did he say what his name was?”
“One sec.” Presley. “I got his card.” There was a brief pause. “Eugene Crouch.”
“He’s a private investigator?”
“That’s what he told me, and that’s what’s written here. Do you have any idea what he wanted?”
“None.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“I guess he could, but I don’t know why he pestered you in the first place.”
Although Presley lowered her voice, Cheyenne could still hear. “He’s been searching for you a long time, Mom. You have to have some idea.”
“I don’t, unless it’s an unpaid speeding ticket.”
“Do they go to such great lengths to track people down for that?”
“They put out arrest warrants, don’t they? Anyway, whatever he wants, it’s too late. Feel free to invite him to my funeral.”
“Don’t talk like that! You know it upsets me.”
Chey tightened her grip on the blankets. That was precisely why Anita did it. To get a reaction. To be reassured.
“You and Chey are the only family I have,” Presley said.
“You need to prepare yourself, honey. I won’t last much longer.”
“I can’t go on without you. I can’t cope as it is.” Presley sounded as if she might be crying. Cheyenne felt bad for her, but she felt even worse about the fact that she experienced no grief—that she was merely waiting for release from the responsibilities that imprisoned her.
Was there something wrong with her? Was she as bad, as ungrateful, as her mother claimed?
“Come here,” Anita cooed.
As she pictured Presley falling into their mother’s arms, Chey covered her eyes with her hand. She was glad her mother and sister had each other. Maybe Anita deserved more love than Cheyenne could give her. Despite all the differences between her and Presley, Cheyenne cared deeply for her older sibling. Growing up, Presley had been her only friend, her only ally, especially when Anita went on one of her frightening tirades. For whatever reason, their mother’s anger had always been more focused on Chey. Once or twice, Anita had become so violent that Presley had been forced to step in.
“So…what should I tell that P.I. if he comes back?” Presley asked.
“What you told him already.”
“I don’t know if he’ll buy it a second time. He knows we’re related or he wouldn’t have approached me. He said you used my name as a reference on a credit card application in New Mexico.” Cheyenne heard Presley go on to say that she’d been working at the Sunny Day Convenience store back then and had used that as a reference for her next job. She thought that was how this Crouch had been able to trace her. But then she must’ve turned in a different direction or buried her face in the blankets because Cheyenne could no longer decipher her words.
Hoping to catch the last of the conversation, she sat up, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Presley?” she called out. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” her sister responded. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Who’s Eugene Crouch?”
“None of your damn business, little Miss Know-It-All,” her mother snapped. “I’m still kickin’. Until I’m six feet under, I’ll handle my own affairs!”
Dropping onto her pillow, Cheyenne counted to ten instead of thinking
