On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Thirteen - "Searching For Yesterday"

Sarah

I was parked across from Benny’s Auto Shop. I’d been there for about six hours – in a more inconspicuous car – but it was still a little creepy nonetheless.

Since the first time I’d met Fitch, before I’d run off on my travels, I’d only been back once, and on that day, the house was dark and it looked empty.

I’d given up, a little relieved.

There were a lot of people I had to face. I still hadn’t seen Jake since the Addison debacle, and I had to go home and get ready for a trip to Senator Wallis’s house in Texas. But I knew that if I didn’t see her, I’d constantly be wondering.

So I sat for the entire six hours in wait. Lights were on and I could see shadows. Every time someone moved, I thought, ‘is that her?’

To my complete surprise, I saw Alexandra Worthington walk out of the house. I sunk lower in my seat. Was the world that small?

I almost didn’t see Chloe, because of how low I was sitting. But even then, I don’t think I’d have missed her. She was with Fitch – who I’d figured was her boyfriend. If only because of the way he’d paled when I’d asked if he knew who she was.

I couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but I didn’t need to. The way that Fitch wrapped his arm around her, and she grinned so brightly – she looked happy. She looked much happier than I felt.

Suddenly, I wanted to be part of the reason why she was that way. I was so jealous, and suddenly so remorseful.

What had I done?

From September 2005 to March 2006, she lived in a group home with thirty-one other kids. The house was dilapidated and worn, the walls climbing with ivy and the hedges overgrown. How did a kid go from her godparents’ home in Canada to a group home in Washington State?

The woman with the tortoise shell glasses – I’d barely heard her name – came back into the front office with a folder in her hand.

“Chloe Lane. She was at our home seven times until three years ago,” she said and handed the folder over.

“Can I have a copy of the records?” I asked with a beam.

The woman smiled back, “Of course!” and she proceeded to the noisy copy machine in the corner. With each buzz, I thought it might suddenly give up. I’d thrown in my father’s name before I’d even said my name, and before I knew it, this woman was spilling her guts.

“I don’t understand, though. She was in Canada. How did she end up here?” I asked.

“No idea. She was found under a bridge in the city; paramedics found her there and took her to a hospital; she was hypothermic and unconscious. She didn’t know how she’d gotten there, and we never found out. It took about a month before she even remembered her name.”

If there was any justice in the world, I should have been locked up for every bad thing that had ever happened to her.

I took my copies, said my thanks and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Just seeing one of the children would send me into a spiral.

September 2006

Sacramento, California. Susannah and Gregory McAllen were looking into adopting a little girl of their own. They consulted an adoption agency affiliated with the group home, and requested a young girl about the age of eight or younger. The group home ignored these requests and gave them Chloe, who was ten at the time.