Confused, Becky shook her head. Nothing made sense. It couldn’t be a hospital. Hospitals had tile floors. Curtains. Charts. They smelled different, like ammonia and bleach.
Crazy. This was crazy. Any minute she would wake up. At home. In her own bed. If only the alarm would stop buzzing.
The door opened and a nurse entered. Dressed in blue scrubs with a red ponytail swinging behind her, she looked familiar. Becky tried to think through the fog that clouded her brain.
“Where am I?” Becky asked. “The baby?”
The nurse smiled. Her vision blurred, and Becky thought she saw fangs protruding from the woman’s mouth. She shook her head.
“The baby’s fine, honey. You’re in the hospital,” the nurse said.
“A hospital? Am I hurt?”
She tried to sit up, but she was so tired. She didn’t get far before the nurse placed a firm hand on her shoulder and pressed her back.
“Lie still,” she said. “The baby’s okay, but you need to rest.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You slipped on the ice and hit your head.”
Becky’s brow furrowed. She didn’t remember falling. She remembered the stuffed white bunny and the fat falling snow then . . .
“I slipped?” That explained why she felt so woozy. The nurse patted her arm.
“Now don’t you worry about a thing. We called your mom. She’s on her way.”
“Mom?” Becky whispered. “Thank you.”
Everything would be all right once her mother got here.
“Just rest. You’re safe.”
Becky did as she was told. Her eyes drifted closed. Seconds later—or was it hours?—she heard the door open.
“Mom?”
It wasn’t her mother in the doorway. A man with curly hair and round glasses entered the room. He frowned down at her. Her vision blurred and she blinked. Pinpricks of light shimmered high above.
“How much did you give her?” His voice sounded far away, like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
“Enough to keep her quiet,” the nurse said. “She’s strong. That shot should have knocked her out, but . . .”
“Get ready to transport her. It’s time to take the baby,” he said.
Take the baby?
A bolt of fear jolted through her. Her stomach heaved like she might be sick. She tried to move, but it was no use. Her legs wouldn’t budge.
“She’s still a few weeks away from her due date. Should we check the baby’s lungs to be sure?”
Becky heard the dull metal clink of instruments. The nurse wheeled a cart to the side of the bed. All at once, it came back in bright flashes of memory. She’d seen the nurse before.
“Did I lose the rabbit?” she asked.
The nurse didn’t answer. Seeming satisfied, the man grunted and held out his hand.
“Ready?”
The nurse handed a bottle to the doctor. A cold, gooey gel spread across Becky’s stomach, raising goose bumps on her exposed skin. She flicked on a screen, and Becky caught sight of her baby’s tiny profile. He had his thumb in his mouth, and his feet kicked inside the womb like he was trying to make more space.
The redhead from the parking lot. The bunny. The van. The images flashed in front of her eyes. In that instant, she knew.
They had kidnapped her. They wanted her baby.
Silver light glinted off the long narrow shaft of the biggest needle Becky had ever seen.
Escape.
The thought burned like a beacon in her mind. She tried to struggle, but the grip of the drugs held her fast. She watched in helpless horror as the doctor poised the tip of the needle above her belly.
The nurse held the ultrasound wand in position. She saw her baby’s profile on the screen.
Please, god, save my baby.
The needle pierced her belly and slid into the womb, so close to the baby’s head.
Mom! Nathan!
She tried to call out, but the words caught in her throat.
Then something happened. A tremor rocked the doctor’s hand. The nurse gasped.
“You punctured the sac.”
“You bumped me,” he growled.
The nurse shot him a murderous glare but kept her mouth clamped shut. He extracted the needle and threw it to the floor.
“Scalpel,” he said.
A white-hot stab of pain slashed across Becky’s belly. She opened her eyes. She didn’t know what was happening. Tried to think through sheets of agony.
Was it supposed to hurt this much?
She tried to scream, but no sound emerged. She could hear them talking, but the voices came from far away, like she was trapped at the end of a long tunnel. The white lights blinded her.
“More. Suction. Damn it. Do I have to do it myself?”
“I’m doing it,” the woman snapped back.
“I can’t see a damned thing in here.”
Becky heard a sound like a dentist’s suction tube—a wet slurping sucking the saliva away. Only it wasn’t saliva. It was bright red. Blood.
The baby.
“Right there,” the nurse said, calmer now.
“I see it.”
A bolt of pain like nothing she ever thought possible struck like chain lightning through her body. A heavy thunk sounded close to her ear as he dropped the metal instruments down in the tray.
“Okay, you ready?” he asked.
Ready?
Deep inside her belly, Becky felt a tug. Two. Then she saw him. The baby. Her baby. Just a glimpse and then he was gone, stolen away by the redheaded nurse.
Becky reached for her son, but it was no use. She couldn’t move.
A wail filled the room. Healthy and strong.
Her boy.
He was crying for her. She wanted to hold him. Why weren’t they bringing him over? Where was her mom? She wanted her mom. And Nathan.
Sweat ran down her forehead. Becky stretched her trembling fingers.
Darkness crowded the edge of her fading vision. She caught a brief glimpse of the doctor—round glasses. Curly hair in a blue cap. Then the nurse. Amber eyes as cold as stone.
“We should close her up.”
The doctor stared down into Becky’s face. His blue eyes were so different than Nathan’s. Arctic blue and empty like a desolate frozen tundra. He stared down at her for a second or two then shrugged.
She heard the snap of latex gloves as he tore them off.
“Why bother?” he said.
Chapter 14
“Hey,” Seth said from the doorway. Marissa finished scribbling the conference call information on a sticky note and tore it off the pad. With his coat in one hand and cell phone in the other, it looked like he was on his way out of the office.
So was she.
“Hey.”
Rising from her chair, she slung her trench coat around her shoulders, and belted it tight around her narrow waist. She shut off her computer and grabbed her purse. Seth leaned against the doorframe like he was waiting for her to say something more, but she wasn’t in the mood to make things easy for him.
“How’s Brooke?”
Marissa clutched the notepaper in her hand and shrugged.
“The episode on the roof triggered Brooke’s night terrors. None of us got much sleep.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Seth frowned. “Isn’t she seeing her therapist today?”
“On my way home to pick her up,” Marissa answered, surprised he remembered it at all. “I’m already late. I’ve got to go.”
Marissa moved toward the door, and Seth fell back a step to let her pass. He caught her gaze.
“You’re mad. I’m sorry I didn’t text you back but . . .”
“But?”
Seth dropped his gaze, and she shook her head.
“We should talk things through.”
“Tonight?” she asked.
Seth gave her a look that she knew all too well. Having raised two daughters, she could spot a guilty expres
sion a mile off.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“Got plans?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
Dammit. Could he be any more vague? The answer was infuriating, wholly unsatisfying. He agreed they should talk, but he didn’t have time. He was holding something back. She didn’t know what. Why couldn’t he just talk to her? Why did everything have to be so hard?
“I don’t have time for this,” she snapped and brushed past.
#
Traffic was a mess, but then, traffic was always a mess. The rain wasn’t helping, and the torturous pace drove her stress level up in no time flat. To make matters worse, she had a two o’clock conference call with a woman who was the controller for a local nonprofit. She’d set up the meeting before Brooke’s meltdown, and now, she was going to have to juggle both. Evan expected her to compile a report on donation models, and she was struggling. Marissa hoped this woman could walk her through what their nonprofit was doing and help fill the gaps in her own understanding. If she canceled the meeting, she’d be late with the report, and Evan would blow a gasket.
She couldn’t afford to fail. Evan was counting on her. The foundation was counting on her. With any luck, she could make the conference call while Brooke was seeing the therapist.
By the time she finally arrived home, Brooke was still in the same yoga pants and sweatshirt she’d worn to bed the night before. Her long blonde hair looked like an untamed lion’s mane.
“You’re not ready? Brooke, we’ve got to go.”
“I’m not going.”
Brooke crossed her arms like a petulant toddler, and Marissa checked her watch. Even with the buffer she’d built into her schedule, they would probably be late.
She huffed out a sigh and grabbed a brush. Striding toward Brooke, she said, “You have to go. After what happened, you need to talk to someone.”
“I’m not crazy.”
Brooke ducked around Marissa, waving her hands to ward her off. Marissa flung the brush on the table.
“What are you? Three?” she yelled at her daughter, fear and frustration breaking through.
Brooke looked stricken, and Marissa shut her mouth and took a deep, calming breath. Yelling wasn’t a solution, and after everything that Brooke had been through, she needed help, not a lecture. Gathering her patience, Marissa continued in a softer tone.
“Please, honey. I left work so I could take you to your appointment.”
“Fine. Let’s go,” Brooke muttered. Even though she stopped arguing, her body language spoke volumes. With hunched shoulders, she shuffled through the living room and pulled on her boots and coat. Refusing to look at Marissa, she marched to the car and slumped into the passenger’s seat.
Northbound traffic was no faster than south. Past Boeing Field, traffic slowed to a crawl.
Brooke hunched in the passenger’s seat, silent and sullen. Marissa checked the time. It was two o’clock. Not only were they late for the appointment with Dr. Frank, she was going to miss her meeting too.
Lifting a hand from the steering wheel, she dialed the conference call number. Shifting her gaze from the phone to the traffic ahead, she slammed on the brakes. The car behind her blared its horn. Brooke dropped her face into her hands.
“Honey, are you okay?” Marissa asked.
Brooke didn’t answer. Marissa keyed in her ID code for the conference call and hoped the road noise wouldn’t be too bad.
“Monica Sellers.”
“Hi, Ms. Sellers. This is Marissa Rooney from the Holt Foundation. Thank you for taking my call. Can you hear me okay?”
“Not really, can you turn up the volume?”
Marissa jacked the volume on her phone wide open and leaned toward the windshield to get closer to the Bluetooth microphone.
“How’s this?”
“Better. How may I help you, Ms. Rooney?”
“The Holt Foundation is looking to setup a monthly donations program, similar to what your nonprofit has done, and I was hoping to get some insights from you on how you managed to do this. What were some of the pitfalls you encountered when—”
“Sorry, you’re breaking up.”
Another car horn blared. Brooke let out a panicked cry.
Marissa glanced over. Brooke doubled over in her seat, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Seeing Brooke in distress drove spikes of fear deep into Marissa’s chest.
“Brooke?” she said, but Brooke didn’t respond.
“Ms. Rooney?”
Marissa gripped Brooke’s shoulder. She could feel her daughter heaving with each labored breath. Oh God. She didn’t know what was happening. She had to get to Dr. Frank’s office, but at this glacial pace, it could be another twenty minutes, maybe more before they reached it.
“Ms. Rooney,” Monica Sellers said, louder this time, her voice hard, irritated.
With panic surging inside her, Marissa pressed a button and abruptly disconnected the conference call.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Brooke pressed both hands to her chest. Sweat was beaded on her face. “Come on, honey. Talk to me.”
“Pull over,” Brooke said.
“I can’t, we’re—”
“Pull over!”
Marissa checked her rearview mirror and made a kamikaze move, cutting through three lanes of traffic and jerked to a quick stop on the shoulder of the highway. Brooke bolted from the passenger’s door and dashed across the gravel shoulder to the concrete wall.
Horns blared as angry drivers sped by.
Marissa flicked the hazard lights on and raced after her daughter. Brooke was bent over, forehead pressed against the concrete wall of the overpass. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Shaking uncontrollably.
Twenty feet below, train tracks ran west toward the port. Marissa caught sight of the train rumbling toward them.
Fear closed like a fist around Marissa’s heart. She shielded Brooke from traffic with her body. She grabbed a fist full of jacket in a death grip, terrified to let go. Brooke could bolt into traffic. Or worse. She could scramble over the wall and plunge out into space.
No one would survive the fall. And with the train coming . . . Was that Brooke’s plan all along? Was that why she chose this spot?
Road noise drowned out the sound of Brooke’s keening. Cars thundered past, fast enough that Marissa could feel the rush of air as they sped by. Spray from the wet concrete hissed against her back.
She should call 911. The damned phone was in the car. There was no way she could risk leaving Brooke out here alone—even for a second.
She didn’t know what to do.
Marissa spoke softly into Brooke’s ear and told her everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t okay. She didn’t know if anything would ever be okay again.
Seconds crawled past like hours as Brooke remained locked in a world of pain all her own. The rain continued to beat down while Marissa waited.
Finally, Brooke moved, easing away from the wall. Her tear-stained face was red and blotchy. Soaked to the bone, they were both shuddering by the time Marissa coaxed Brooke inside the car.
Marissa checked her phone. There was no message from Ms. Sellers. The aborted conference call had been a disaster. She would have to call and apologize when she was back in the office. With Brooke belted in and the heater blasting on high, she carefully nudged back into traffic.
Brooke stood pale and shaken as they rode the elevator to her therapist’s office. By the time they arrived, they were a full hour and a half late to their appointment with Dr. Frank. Brooke took a chair in the corner while Marissa went to speak to the receptionist.
“I know we’re late, but is there any way we can see the doctor?”
Without an ounce of pity in her eyes, the woman looked up from her computer screen.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule.”
“You don’t understand. My daughter needs help—”
“Dr. Frank is unavailable.”
; Marissa bit back a retort. Her pulse roared in her ears, and she closed her eyes, trying to gather her composure.
“This is an emergency. We need to see the doctor. Now.”
“It’s all right,” Dr. Frank said, her voice as soothing as a gentle rain.
Marissa hadn’t heard the door open. She whirled and caught the doctor’s kind smile.
“Please cancel my last appointment, Karen,” she said to the receptionist. Dr. Frank squeezed Marissa’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s going to be all right. This way, Brooke.”
Marissa took a seat facing the door. Pale and shaken, she thought about calling Seth. She wanted him here, with her. Comforting her.
But that was selfish. He was at work, and really, what could he do anyway? With Brooke in the kind of state she was in, seeing Seth might trigger another episode.
Marissa picked at her cuticles until they bled. She pulled out her phone and typed an email, apologizing to Ms. Sellers for hanging up and asking if they could reschedule. Evan would be pissed when she told him she needed more time to complete her report.
By the time Brooke re-entered the waiting room, Marissa could see she’d been crying. The pain on her face was agonizing, almost more than she could bear. Why Brooke? She would give anything to trade places with her daughter, to take away Brooke’s pain. But she was useless. Worse than useless.
“Brooke, could you wait here for a few minutes while I talk to your mom? We’ll be right here if you need us,” Dr. Frank said.
Mute, Brooke nodded. Feeling a thousand years old, Marissa rose and followed Dr. Frank into the office. The doctor’s quick gaze took in Marissa’s bleeding cuticles. Marissa hid her hands and forged ahead.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She had an anxiety attack.”
“God.” Marissa closed her eyes and covered her mouth. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have made her come. She didn’t want to come, but I didn’t listen. After the episode, out on the roof, I wanted her to see you.”
“It’s not your fault, Marissa. You’re doing everything you can to help.”
“It’s not enough. She won’t leave the house. Every day she sinks deeper into depression, or whatever it is she’s going through. She won’t talk. She won’t see her friends. I don’t know what to do—how to stop her from hurting.”
Dark Harvest (A Holt Foundation Story Book 2) Page 9
