TONYA

The lawyer had called. Glen Kelner of Taft, Kelner, and Moore was perhaps the only person certain of Layla’s paternity—aside from her biological parents. It was Kelner who’d responded all those years ago after Tonya had formally requested child support. Kelner who’d worked out the DNA test. Kelner who’d determined the annual payment and how that money would be delivered in “the interest of discretion.”

Tonya kept the attorney’s card clipped to papers within a folder inside a Payless boot box beneath her bed. Unbeknownst to Layla, it had always held their family’s most important documents: social security cards, hospital files, and the birth certificate with the blank space after father’s name. Its bottom was lined with the folder containing Layla’s paternity test and Kelner’s number.

She withdrew the card and tapped the telephone number into her cell. As it rang, she moved to her bedroom window. Tonya was certain that Layla stood on the opposite side of the master bedroom wall with her ear pressed to the plaster, straining to hear some answer that Tonya had refused to provide.

Her daughter had wanted to know everything. Who was he? How many years had he been supporting her? And, above all, why was he paying their rent but refusing to meet her?

Tonya had deflected each question in hopes that her daughter would give up before posing the final one. She’d known every query was a segue to Layla asking why her biological father wanted to remain secret. As Layla had asked her questions, Tonya had felt like she was driving up a stretch of mountain road leading to a summit and inevitable drop-off. On the other side of that last question was nothing but an emotional free fall.

The phone continued to ring. Kelner’s secretary picked up, her voice all business and then faux concern. “Yes, I understand. Well, I’ll have to see if he’s in. You don’t have to hold.”

“Oh yes, I do.”

Every muscle in Tonya’s strained neck fought to constrain her vocal cords, to keep them from vibrating at a speed that would produce a harpy’s cry. The threat to board the next Midtown-bound train and barge through the law firm’s door lodged in the back of her throat.

As hold music played, Tonya paced the sliver of space between her bed and the wall. When she couldn’t stand doing that anymore, she opened her window and climbed out onto the fire escape. Her fury kept the cold from registering. This was not how things were supposed to go. The payments were automatically deposited and the bills withdrawn—no matter what. Even in the event of death, the money was supposed to come out of Layla’s father’s estate.