Free Chloe by Cleveland McLeish Page A

comes too naturally and looks too akin to her precious pictures
to be a mere replica.
    It’s him.
    It has to be!
    Patrick turns on his heel and leaves the church as quickly
as he came. Chloe reels. James, who has released her, notices her blindsided
expression. He follows her stare to the empty doorway.
    His eyes volley back and forth between the doorway and
Chloe’s colorless face. “What is it?” he wants to know.
    Chloe does not answer him, because she does not know
herself. Instead, she dashes headlong towards the doors, bursting forth into
the light of the outside. James stands in her wake, rooted in place by his own
confusion.
    Patrick runs up the street, away from the chapel. Chloe
races after him. He rounds a corner, passing a bookstore and bakery. The scent
of fresh pastries wafts through the air just outside of the entrance. She
follows at his heels. Patrick crosses the street and careens into an
alleyway—something that draws strange feelings of apprehension from Chloe.
    Why does it feel as though she has been here before? Done
this before?
    Chloe darts up to the entrance where she hesitates. She
stops and looks around. Patrick is nowhere in sight. Her anxiety heightens. She
rubs her head in frustration. Patrick suddenly grabs her and yanks her into the
darkness.
    Patrick releases a breathless Chloe. She stares at him,
unsure how to respond to this. She feels as though her knees could buckle at
any second. Her body is suddenly unreliable—a fragile shell that cannot
possibly contain her anymore. She inhales greedily, gulping air into her
burning lungs.
    Chloe regards him skeptically, her body tense as if to ward
away the illusion. She guards her heart and steels herself. Today is bursting
with bizarre happenings. “You’re dead,” she whispers hoarsely.
    Patrick manages to smile sympathetically. “If that were
true, then you would be dead too.” His eyebrows jump up dubiously.
    “You can’t be him,” she refutes, knee deep in denial.
No matter how desperately she wants this man to be her long-lost father, the
implications of that will raze her entire world and obliterate her definition
of reality.
    Patrick ventures a step closer so that she cannot ignore his
resemblance. “Your name is Chloe Cleopatra Taylor,” he announces. “You were
born in New Orleans hospital on November 10, 1976. You have a birth mark on the
side of your stomach. A mole—“ She cannot hear anymore.
    Chloe shakes her head vigorously, staggering backwards.
While her clothing is not preppy, it is not scant either. There is no way this
man could know those intimate, personal things unless he is indeed her father…
or he is a stalker. And neither one is totally comforting at the moment. Were
she forced to choose between the two, Chloe would be dangerously tempted to
select the later. Her father is dead.
    Her own mother told her so!
    “Stop,” she commands.
    Patrick adopts a frown. Sincerely, “Somebody lied to you
Chloe. You need to know the truth.”
    “Why now?” she chokes out. Chloe finds herself on the brink
of screaming at him. Should this ludicrous fantasy be real, it also means that
the man purposely kept himself out of Chloe’s life, which is an entirely
different ball of wax than being removed by forces outside of his control.
“After all these years…” Her voice trails off.
    Patrick’s face grows sad, his eyes pregnant with conviction.
“I’m sorry. I had to make sure you were ready.” He reaches out as if he means
to hold her hand.
    Ready? she wonders. Ready for what? Ready to
face the fact that her own father wanted nothing to do with her? Or that her
mother lied to her? The gesture startles her. Chloe jerks away. “No! This is
nuts. You’re dead.” Chloe tries to leave. Patrick seizes her by the arm and
holds her fast.
    “I don’t blame you Chloe,” he assures her, a picture of
genuine understanding. “But you need to know the truth. The truth will set you
free.” Free. Freedom. The word