Loree Lough - Saving Alyssa

Reaching across the space between them, Max gave his hand a gentle pat. “There’s a 99 percent chance that what your dad heard is a rumor. The mad rantings of a foolish old convict, shooting off his mouth and thumping his chest to prove he’s still a big shot.” She held up a finger to silence Noah’s protest. “But I’ll look into it. You have my word on it.”

The clock struck the half hour.

“Nine-thirty? How can that be?” Grunting and groaning, Max tugged her boots back on, then shrugged into her jacket. Almost as an afterthought, she gave Noah a hug.

“Relax,” she said, patting the envelope in her pocket, “and let me take care of this. If there’s anything to it, I’ll let you know.”

He locked up, then sat on the edge of his recliner and stared at the scuffed hardwood beneath his bare feet. He was tired. So tired of worrying that every stranger had been sent by O’Malley, to finish what he’d started. Tired of pretending this life they were living was normal.

Alyssa would be disappointed to learn they hadn’t sent anything for her, so Noah stuffed the letters back into the manila envelope, sealed it and placed it in the lockbox hidden behind a row of ancient Reader’s Digest books on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Noah held his head in his hands and tried to think of something about their world that wasn’t a lie. When nothing came to mind, he slumped onto his chair and drove his fingers through his hair. Maybe when he answered the family’s letters, he’d ask them not to write, at least not for a while. It was hard enough holding things together without their black-and-white reminders of what life was like compared to what it could have been: Alyssa sleeping in a tiny apartment above a bicycle shop, instead of her big sunny room in Chicago. A dad who sold bike chains and air pumps instead of putting bad guys into prison. A dad who had become one himself.

If she hadn’t already lost so much, he might be tempted—

“Aw, don’t cry, Daddy,” his daughter said, climbing into his lap. Holding his face in her hands, she said, “I cry, too, when I miss Mommy. But everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Word for word what he’d said to her dozens of times over the years. But until she’d echoed the phrase, Noah hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

He hugged her tight. Kissed her cheek. Buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. She deserved better than this. Better than the self-pitying, self-centered coward he’d allowed himself to become.

“I’m okay,” he lied. “Got something in my eye, is all.”

She studied his face and, satisfied with his response, frowned slightly. “I just hate it when that happens. Do you want me to get the eyedrops?”

Standing, he hoisted her onto one hip and carried her back to her room.

“No, that’s okay. But if whatever it is hasn’t worked itself out soon, you can get the eyedrops, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, as he tucked her in. “I like taking care of you.”

Noah pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he said again, heading for the hallway.

She rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow tight as he turned out the light. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, listening, wanting nothing more than to be the father she deserved.

“Love you, Daddy,”

He could barely speak. “Love you, too, cupcake.”

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