Stone In Love

Chapter 12

"It was all pretty blurry, and I closed my eyes when the fighting got too intense. I thought about calling 911, but I didn't think they would get there before the fight broke up. By the time I grabbed my phone, the alley was empty. That's why I went down to the dumpster this morning. I wanted to make sure no one was dying behind it."

Vincent held his face in that rigid pose he used a lot, so I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Was he trying to decide what to do with me?

"Do you know who was fighting in the alley?" I asked timidly.

"Yes. My brother, Jonathan. He was fighting someone who had been tracking you." Vincent delivered his alarming news like a weather man reporting the day would be sunny and pleasant. 

"Tracking me? As in, stalking me? But who would have been..."

Oh, shit. Heath.

I caught myself before blurting out Heath's name, while Vincent adjusted himself on the couch, looking uncomfortable. "Let's circle back to that. I think you'll understand more if we talk about your childhood. How much do you remember prior to the age of four?"

What was this, the Dr. Phil Show? He sounded like Colin, or some detective from the FBI. Maybe they were both with the FBI, or the mob. The tactics Jonathan used to take care of that guy in the alley didn't look ethical. I knew almost nothing about Vincent and his brothers. I hadn't even looked Vincent up on Wikipedia.

"I don't see how quizzing me about my childhood is going to help us figure out why someone was stalking me."

"You don't know that. You were adopted."

"So? Lots of people are adopted. Do you think someone from my birth family has been tracking me?" This thought was depressing, since whoever Jonathan tackled last night might not be among the living.

"Doubtful, but if you can remember anything before you were adopted, it might give us a clue."

He was a persistent son-of-a-bitch, and the fact that I hadn't jumped him as he sat there looking sexy in his black Calvin Klein V-neck and tight jeans spoke volumes about the interrogator vibe he was giving off.

"Not many people can remember much before the age of four," I said. "And I didn't start speaking until I was almost six. The only thing I have to go on are the stories my parents told me."

"And...? What were the circumstances surrounding your abandonment?"

I hated the word abandoned. It was a trigger for me, and my body responded by abandoning its position on the couch. I fisted my hands as I walked around the coffee table, giving my nervous energy something to do. "I was found in a neglected detergent factory in Buffalo. The police were investigating a fire and a death in the building next door."

"A death? Did you know the victim? Was it male or female?" Vincent's eyes widened with interest, as if I had revealed some critical component to his investigation.

"Male, but the body was scorched beyond recognition, along with identification. They decided I was probably not related to the man, but sometimes I think he might have been someone I knew. My therapist helped me recreate a loving birth family, so I try not to revisit that." 

I continued circling the coffee table, avoiding Vincent's serious gaze so I wouldn't get derailed, although why I'd let him talk me into spilling my guts was beyond me. "I was handed over to child protective services, but they couldn't get anything out of me except my name, and even that was up for debate since I couldn't pronounce it clearly. After they concluded I wasn't on the missing or exploited children's list, I was dubbed Reese, and that was the name I kept when I was adopted by the Kentwells. I started psychotherapy shortly after that, and it was another year before I started talking."