Finding Love (Behind Blue Lines Book 3)

by Christine Zolendz

  “How about a yummy jelly sandwich?” I smiled, holding up the sticky jelly jar and suspiciously hard bag of bread.

  Her face fell. “Is that all that’s in there?”

  “Yeah, sweetie, I’m sorry.” I rummaged through the cabinets for more food. There were a few half-empty boxes of cereal, but no milk, and about a dozen packages of gummy bears. “Obviously, that’s important to someone,” I murmured under my breath. "Crusts or no crusts?" I asked, opening the loaf of bread and smelling it to see if it was okay for a human to consume. It smelled like the inside of a bakery, so I guessed it was okay.

  “No crusts. They taste like farty poops.”

  “Okay, then. Farty poop crusts are coming off.” I sliced off the crust and slathered the bread with jelly. “Here you go, Princess. A fart-free, poopless, jelly sandwich.” She took a huge bite, practically swallowing it without chewing. “Be careful, and eat slowly. I’m going to go change Ben.”

  Changing Ben's diaper was harder than I could have ever imagined. I couldn't hold my nose closed and do it at the same time, and then piss flew everywhere. A long arc of it splashed over the walls and floor. Meanwhile, Addison was watching in a fit of giggles as I jumped away from the little pisser’s target practice.

  We cleaned up as best we could. The house had no tissues or paper towels or cleaning fluid I could find. Then Addison carried in a worn out quilt from her bedroom and asked for me to tell her a story because she was tired.

  “Do you have any bedtime storybooks I could read to you?”

  “I don’t have any storybooks,” she said sleepily.

  My heart just broke. It made a cracking sound, and it burned inside my rib cage and spread out and up to my collarbone. Keeping a little girl away from storybooks was like starving her of imagination and creativity.

  "Oh, okay." My voice trembled with sympathy and despair. These children were forgotten here. Even if someone had been home, they’d forgotten about what a child needs to be a child.

  “Once upon a time, long ago there lived a little girl named…”

  Before I could even say any of the Disney princess’s names I could remember, Addison was out cold. Wish I could get to sleep that fast—I could bottle it up and sell it—it usually took me a few glasses of red wine to stop the insanity in my head when I tried to sleep.

  I slid off the couch and pulled out my phone. I’d waited long enough and given my neighbors way too much time without calling it in, but instead of calling 911, I called the only person I knew who would get why this situation would hurt me so much: Ryan Cage.

  "Get your ass over here, Pop Tart; there's no party unless you're here."

  That was how he greeted me on the phone. No hello. No hey, are you okay? The ass just called me Pop Tart, because that's what I ate for breakfast.

  “Cage.” My voice cracked. I had been trying to hold it together in front of Addison and Ben—not that Ben was old enough to understand—but I was beginning to feel the panic then. Panic and rage. “Cage. I have an abandoned baby here. And a four-year-old. Someone left them, and I don't know who to call to make this okay for them."

  “Where are you?”

  “Across the street from my house.”

  “We’re coming now.”

  The phone clicked off instantly. If he were already at the party, he'd be about twenty to thirty minutes out. I looked down at my watch. It was just past eight. The party had started at seven; he was definitely already there. I shoved my phone back into my purse and felt the weight of it dragging me down like stones in water. I rubbed my sweaty palms on the silky material of my dress and cursed myself for getting all dolled up and thinking getting laid was important tonight.

  I paced around the room, looking for anything that would tell me where the hell to find the mother to these kids.

  “Who the fuck are you?” The voice was deep and unsure.

  I whirled around, almost falling forward at the sight of the man hunkering like some brooding filthy monster in front of me. He was covered in black crud and smelled like gasoline. His arms were decorated with grease, smudges of oil and dirt, and a shining gold wedding band on his left ring finger. He had a pair of dark eyes that looked both angry and terrified. His body was thick and covered in tight muscles, his big, strong hands pulled into tight fists. I wanted to wrestle him to the carpet and cuff him to my bed. Under the grease and grime, his forearms were covered in tattoos. Words and pictures. I wanted to read his story.

  “I’m just going to ask one more time. Then I’m calling the cops. Who the fuck are you? Where’s my wife?”

  “I’m Detective Callie Ward. And I know just as much as you do on the whereabouts of your wife. What I do know is that these children were left alone since breakfast and got so hungry, they crossed a street by themselves to come and get help.”

  That’s when the big, hulking heap of a man collapsed to his knees in front of me.

  Chapter 4

  Dylan

  There was a beautiful stranger in my house. She had hate in her eyes I didn’t understand and words that didn’t quite register with my brain.

  “Who are you?” I kept asking the question, and I sure as shit didn’t understand her answer.

  “Sir, calm down.” Her hands were out, steady. “I’m a detective with the NYPD.”

  “Why are you here?” I heard my voice speak, but I couldn’t tell you if the words really came out. She was telling me my wife was gone and my children had to ask her for help. That was impossible.

  “Can I see your ID, sir?”

  She wasn’t dressed like any detective I’d ever seen. She looked like she was about to dance around a pole and try to lap dance her way into my bank account.

  “Can I see yours? You don’t look like much of a cop to me.”

  I didn't even see her hands move, they were so fast, and a gold badge was in my face instantly. “Let me see your ID, now sir.” A pair of handcuffs were in her hands next. Shit.

  Shit. There’s no way I wanted to end up in jail tonight. I didn’t even know what was going on.

  Addison was sleeping on the couch, snuggled under a blanket, oblivious to everything that was going on. Ben was safe in that crazy old pen Sheri got from her cousin.

  "Yeah, yeah. Okay. Okay." I went to reach into my pocket, and the detective made some weird sound in the back of her throat stopping me dead.

  “Do you have any weapons on you, sir?”

  “Of course not, no!” I shoved my hands high up in the air and snarled at her. “Go in my pocket and get out my ID. I swear, I live here. These are my kids. I don’t own any weapons.”

  “Do you have any needles or sharp objects—”

  “No, I swear. I’m telling you, I have nothing illegal on me."

  She nodded her chin toward my pocket, and I slowly reached back down and pulled out my wallet. I handed it to her and realized for the first time since I came inside the house, I was on my knees.

  “Shit, I’m…I’m going to get up slowly and sit on the couch, if that’s okay with you.”

  Her eyes were scanning my license—probably my shop ID, too. “You work at Vincent’s 24-Hour Garage?”

  “Yeah. I’m a mechanic there.”

  “I hate that place. They can’t even get an oil change right.”

  What? “I can change oil with my eyes closed, Detective. Now please explain to me what the hell is going on.” I slumped onto the couch cushions next to Addison. She didn’t even notice.

  The detective licked her lips and slipped her handcuffs back into her Batman utility belt handbag that slung over her chest. I hated to think about what the hell else she had stuffed in there dressed like that. Her attention quickly slid to Addison and Ben, flickering swiftly back to me.

  "I just called this in.”

  “What?” My voice cracked as I stood back up, sounding as weak and distraught as I felt. “You can’t. God, no. They’re going to call Social Services on us, and they’re going to take away my kids.”

/>   “You’d rather them alone here by themselves?”

  “I didn’t leave them alone. I left them with their mother!”

  I couldn’t hold back my anger. Who did she think she was? This was my house. These were my children. Did she really think I wanted them hurt or alone? I had gone to work to pay the damn bills.

  “You had no right coming inside this house!”

  “They came to me! Your daughter rolled her goddamn doll carriage, with your newborn son inside it, across that street by themselves and asked if I was a police officer and if I could help them!”

  I swallowed down the words. My head pounded and vision blurred.

  “My wife is missing. That’s what’s happening? That’s what you’re telling me, right?”

  Nothing made sense. The kids were safe; I saw them in front of me. I kept seeing them and looking at them, making sure they were really there. But Sheri was gone? She couldn’t have just gone. She wouldn’t have just left the kids alone. Something happened, right? I mean, she had to be hurt somewhere in the house. Maybe she fell down the basement steps, or she was putting out the garbage and fell and was hurt in the back yard. She never puts out the trash. She never goes in the basement either. I do all the damn laundry, don’t I?

  There had to be a reasonable explanation for all of it.

  I bolted through the house. Tore through all the kitchen cabinets, thinking it was a sick, twisted joke. She had to be hiding. She and this crazy pretend cop friend of hers had to be playing a fucking game with me. But the kitchen was empty.

  She had to be downstairs.

  She had to have fallen.

  I tore the basement door right out of its hinges, trying to get the stupid thing open. I flew down the steps, hissing her name. But that was empty, too.

  Every room. Every hiding place a grown woman could shove herself into, I tried to find her. I ripped the mattresses off the beds and yanked off the shower curtains. I scoured the back yard and garage.

  The detective was right.

  Sheri was gone.

  Chapter 5

  Callie

  I stepped back into the sidelines, watching the scene unfold. My entire detective squad had come—they all left the party and raced over to help me. Detectives Ryan Cage, Dean Fury, Jack Creed, and officer Brooke Fury—even our Sergeant, Max Kannon—they all showed up, dressed for a party—armed and ready to save a pair of abandoned children.

  I felt sorry for the father, though; it was quite obvious he had no idea what had happened that day. He didn't seem to understand what was going on right in front of him at all.

  Sergeant Kannon took absolute control of the room immediately. He gave the father—his identification said he was one Dylan Sanborn—a businesslike handshake. Two firm pumps and a squeeze to the arm. Kannon was also a father. He had two young daughters and was one of the most empathetic and compassionate men I knew.

  I watched them, quietly. The shock of finding a stranger in his house had worn off, and instead of the anger and confusion he showed me, he now looked thoroughly defeated and solemn.

  "My wife…she had a drug problem. Right after Addison was born." He slid himself over a kitchen chair and hung his face in his hands. "I put her in rehab. Twice. And she was all right. For a while."

  Sergeant Kannon shifted over and sat down across the table from him, listening. Next to me, Ryan reached out and squeezed my shoulder. "You okay?" he whispered.

  I shushed him. I wanted to hear Dylan’s story. I wanted to know what would happen to his children. What kind of a person he was married to—what sort of a woman could just leave two young innocent kids alone.

  “She’s been clean for two years. But lately…” He leaned back on the chair and squeezed his eyes shut. “The last few days…no more than a week…I've seen the signs again."

  “What signs were those?” Sergeant Kannon asked, clasping his fingers together patiently.

  "When she's home, she's a zombie. It's like she's my other child. When she's here, I have to make sure she eats, gets enough water." He shook his head, bitterness thick on his tongue. "The jewelry I gave her for Christmas is gone. I bet she fucking pawned it.” His words quivered with emotion.

  "What did she use? When she was using two years ago?" Ryan asked, stepping forward, as always inserting himself into every conversation.

  Dylan looked up, startled, as if he just realized we were all still in the room. His eyes darted to mine, and his skin tone whitened noticeably.

  “Uh...she was taking Oxycontin when it was prescribed to her, and then when it wasn’t, she went straight to heroin.”

  Damn. Those kids never had a chance to be loved—not when Mommy’s having that sort of an affair.

  Dylan’s eyes stayed on mine for a few moments, then shot back to Kannon’s. “Some nights, I used to find her passed out, and I would stay up to watch her—she's had seizures, or her breathing gets too slow. I was always constantly checking on her. First time I walked in on her in the bathroom shooting up—" He choked back a gasp and cleared his throat. "Addison was a baby, and she was crying in her swing. The front door was unlocked, and she was nodding out on the side of the toilet with a needle still in her arm."

  “I used to be a goddamn architectural engineer, and I had to leave my job because of her. Now I’m busting my fucking ass, making minimum wage just to pay for all the shit she’s done.” He rubbed his hand along his chest and the back of his neck, grimacing like he was in pain.

  I continued my silence, uncertain as to what to say. Emotionally, I felt drained. A heavy weight pushed down on my shoulders and chest, and all I kept thinking was how unfair life was. That bitch didn't deserve to be a parent, and she was one, twice over. Two beautiful, perfect children, and there will be some women who will never—never know what it’s like to hold their very own living, breathing child—I felt instantly sick.

  Heat spread over my body, my fingers and toes tingled with numbness. I had to stop this shit. My lungs squeezed tight, and whatever expression on my face made Ryan leap away from the table and stand directly in front of me.

  “Pop-Tart.” He clamped his hands around my upper arms and gave me a little shake. I stiffened but focused my eyes on his. “You’re not the victim here,” he whispered in my ear.

  I blinked back the fury. My stomach rolled with heat, and my fingers clenched into fists. God, I could just punch Ryan Cage in his stupid, stupid face.

  “Now you’re just having an internal boxing match with me in your head.” He ran his stupid hands up my arms and palmed my cheeks in his fingers. "You were thinking life was unfair. She can have kids and throw them away, and you can't. I can see it on your face, Callie."

  He leaned in closer. Behind us, Max and Dylan were still talking. Max was telling him his wife—the bitch—wasn’t an actual missing person yet, but the problem was child endangerment and negligence, that’s what she could be spending time in jail for. A judge would have to decide her fate.

  Ryan tightened his grip on my cheeks. "Pop-Tart, you still see red. Stop. Those kids and that man are the victims, not you."

  I could have ripped him a brand new asshole right then, but I took a deep breath and held it in. I knew he was right. But screw him for telling me. Screw him for not understanding with his perfect life.

  I tapped his hands off me. "I am perfectly fine, but if you keep touching me, you won't be." My eye sockets throbbed. Shifting my body away, I cleared my throat and continued to listen to Max and Dylan’s conversation.

  Dylan was standing next to Max then. His phone was in his hand, a perplexed look on his face. "But it looks like her phone is somewhere in the house. Look, this is our block, and the signal is beeping right there."

  "You're tracking her on your phone?" My voice sounded alien. It was high-pitched and squawky, and I really needed to learn to shut the hell up.

  Dylan’s eyes met mine again. They were stunningly red and horrified. “I used to need to, yeah.” The skin around his eyes tightened and crin
kled. “I guess I have to now, too.”

  “Dean, Brooke, Jack!” Max called for the others. Brooke had carried the kids into their rooms so they wouldn’t be woken up by the chaos we were causing. “Callie, Ryan.” He swooped his index finger in a circular motion. “We need the perimeter of the block covered. She’s possibly right outside the house or on the block somewhere.”

  There was no need to repeat the order; we were out of the house and on the street immediately, two by two. We took off in all directions, Sergeant Kannon paired up with me and running a step behind. We stopped at the corner, by the mailbox. I was winded from running in the stilettos. My feet ached from being in them for so long, and the back of the right one had dug a hole in my ankle. I leaned on him for support and kicked the stupid shoes off.

  Both of us stilled, eyes wide, searching in all directions.

  “What’s that?” he said, looking up the block opposite me.

  A car was parked with its two driver’s side tires up on the curb.

  “Did he say what the make of her car was?” I asked, walking closer toward the vehicle. I couldn’t tell from where we were if the car was occupied or not. “It doesn’t look like there’s anybody in—”

  A shadow moved in the front seat, blending itself with the darker shadows cast from the trees that blocked the streetlights.

  "No, no, I think we got someone inside."

  It wasn’t until I was face to face with her that I realized I had crossed the street and opened the driver’s side door, and my breath puffed out in a loud crackly gasp.

  Wide blue eyes stared vacantly up at the ceiling. Beneath them, dark bruised half-moons added a sense of harshness and despair to her features. Her skin was the color of milk, her hair long and blonde that curled into those perfect natural banana shapes. She was the most hauntingly beautiful thing I had ever seen. She could have been a model if she wasn't trying to kill herself with the poison-filled needle still stuck in the crook of her arm.