Monica’s paranoia grew. She searched for them constantly, not even knowing what they looked like. A glance too long in her direction could send her reeling. She fought to hide her fear.
Within a month she landed a clerical job, working for the City of Wilmore’s Utility Department. Kaycee attended preschool at a church when she was well enough. On sick days she stayed with Mrs. Wiscom. Monica worked hard and gained the favor of her boss. Soon she was taking on extra responsibilities.
To house supplies, the department used a locked storage room in the police station’s cave-like walkout basement. Looking at the white stone front of the station, a person wouldn’t even know the basement existed. The entrance around the back was fairly secluded, nothing nearby but the rear of other buildings fronting Main and the railroad tracks. The basement had a low-beamed ceiling, part stone walls and a concrete floor. Monica found the place eerie.
One day a pipe broke in the Utility Department’s storage room ceiling. Water doused everything and stood two inches on the floor before maintenance stopped the flow. Monica hustled down to the room to help move out supplies.
“Man,” her boss complained as they huffed boxes of who-knew-what out to the center area of the basement, which remained dry. His face was sweaty and gray. “Most of this stuff goes way back. Never even seen that rear wall, and I’ve worked here for twenty years.”
Monica surveyed him. “You don’t look so good.”
“Think I’m gettin’ sick.”
When they were done it was almost five o’clock. Monica stood staring at the big room as workers moved in to mop up the water.
“Looks different, doesn’t it.” Her boss sagged against the wall.
She’d found what she needed in the basement of a police station. The irony pierced.
“Get home and go to bed,” she said. “I’ll return tonight and move everything back in.”
“You can’t do that yourself.”
“Pay me double-time, and I’ll show you what I can do.”
He sighed. “At least wait until tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be better then.”
“No you won’t. Besides, I have that big project starting in the morning, and you know it. I won’t be able to leave my desk for days.”
Her boss gave in. He handed her his keys to the basement door and storage room.
That night in her house, Monica stood over two open boxes of the stolen money, biting her cheek. One box held twenties, the other held hundred-dollar bills.
Blood money.
This would be the last time.
She pulled out a total of fifty thousand in twenties and hundreds and hid it in her closet. Savings, for when she and Kaycee had to move on.
When that day came, Monica promised herself, she’d let her daughter’s beautiful red curls grow back. And she’d change their last name one more time, to cover their tracks here. Maybe to Raye. She liked the sound of that.
With the fifty thousand taken out, Monica was able to consolidate what was left in the two boxes into one. She resealed the box with packing tape. It would take two trips to drive all eleven boxes to the policestation basement. Kaycee would have to ride along.
First Monica took a black felt tip pen to the side of each box, writing in large capital letters: Bank Records. Keep.
On the concrete behind the police station, Monica left the Volvo idling as she unlocked the basement’s wide double doors. She pulled them back, drove her car inside, and shut them. One night-shift policeman would be on patrol in town. Not likely he’d find her down there, if he happened by the station at all. Even if he did, she had reason to be there.
She unlocked the windowless storage room and flipped on the light switch. Back in the Volvo she cut the headlights. The basement fell into darkness lit only by the light seeping from the empty storage area.
“Mommy, I’m scared.” Kaycee started to cry.
“Shh, you have to be quiet.”
“It’s scary!”
“I’ll turn the light on in the car. Stay here.”
Monica practically ran from car to storage room, moving the money, a horrific night from not so long ago playing in her head. Kaycee wouldn’t stop crying. Monica was afraid someone would hear her. One by one she heaved the first six boxes onto the deep rearmost shelves and shoved them to the wall, the writing face out. Her nerves sizzled for her daughter, for the incredible chance she was taking. Kaycee sobbed on.
When the car was emptied, Monica returned to the house for the final load. Kaycee quieted on the way home. But when they entered the basement for a second time, she wailed all over again.
Monica’s throat was dry by the time she pushed the last box of bills into place. She ran to the Volvo and her crying daughter. “It’s okay, Kaycee, it’s okay. Just a little while longer.”
Kaycee’s face was red and splotchy. What Monica had put the little girl through. She’d thought her soul would feel so much lighter without the money. But guilt over Kaycee replaced whatever weight she had lost.
For the next hour Monica hauled the now dry Utility Department supplies off the basement floor and into the room, pushing them in front of the eleven boxes. She didn’t bother to go through and throw anything away. No time, and besides, she wanted as many boxes as possible to hide the ones containing her sins.
Kaycee sobbed all the way home. Monica wanted to cry too. Tonight, finally, it was over. Except now they faced the rest of their lives.
When she got out of the car her legs shook.
“Mommy, hold me.” Kaycee reached out her sweet little arms. Monica picked her up and hugged her tightly. “Shh, it’s okay now. Mommy’s here, she’s always here.” She carried Kaycee into the house, sat down on the couch and rocked her.
“Tomorrow I’ll take you downtown for an ice cream soda.”
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader
Wilmore, Kentucky, is a real town. In fact, I grew up there. The streets in this story are real, the businesses are real. Even many of the houses. All characters are fictional.
When I began this book I promised little to my mother, who still lives in Wilmore, as to how I’d treat her beloved home. “I may or may not blow up the town,” I said.
Happy, Mom?
In Exposure I set out to write a suspenseful tale about fear and how it binds us. Along the way Kaycee’s story deepened to so much more. The consequences of our wrong choices, their fallout on subsequent generations. The irony of sin. The enigmatic workings of the mind. To further pursue thoughts on these underlying themes, please check the website address at the beginning of this book for discussion questions.
And now some serious thank-yous are in order. First, my thanks to Gary and Beth Hoenicke, the true owners of Tastebuds, for allowing me to feature their brick-oven pizzas and old-fashioned soda fountain. If you’re in the Wilmore area, you simply must stop by and order one of each. Tell them Kaycee sent you.
Thanks also to Wilmore Police Chief Steve Boven and Officer Mike Bandy for granting me interviews about how their department would handle some rather odd scenarios and for showing me around the station. Any deviation from their procedures was intentional fictionalizing on my part. My special gratitude to Officer Bandy, who enthusiastically told me not one but four possible scenarios for making the final pages of the epilogue work.
To sweet-faced little Merrick Kasper of Ohio, thanks for allowing me to keep your picture before me as inspiration for Hannah. And my gratitude to Merrick’s mom, Dana, who allowed this strange woman with an even stranger request to photograph her daughter. May you both be blessed.
Many thanks to Sue Brower, my Zondervan editor, and my agent, Lee Hough of Alive Communications, for all you did for this story. And I can’t leave out Bob Hudson, whose careful copy editing tightened details. Rachelle Gardner has freelanced with Zondervan to edit my last three novels, and she’s been fabulous to work with. Rachelle, thanks for your insights. Exposure is a better story because of you.