Josh noticed. "You know that girl?"
Grace shook her head. "No. But Neema and I were parked in that same area just a few minutes earlier. Thank god we were gone before this happened."
Brittany looked like a lunatic on the ten o'clock news, with hair sticking out everywhere and her face blotchy with tears. But wouldn't any mother whose baby had just vanished look a little psycho?
Then, after watching her interview in the grocery store parking lot, Brittany stared at the image of their neighbor, nosey Mrs. Kay, talking to a reporter in their own neighborhood.
"Well, I don't like to speak ill of the poor girl. Brittany's only a child herself. But once I walked into the house and the baby was lying on the carpet in the middle of the living room. Anything could have happened." Mrs. Kay pursed her lips like she was proud of all those old-lady cracks around her mouth.
Brittany threw her pillow at her tiny bedroom television set. "You damned old crone! Ivy was sound asleep. It's not like she can fall off the floor!" And she'd been just on the other side of the wall, getting a soda. This was just like the car thing. It was unbelievable how everyone kept harping on that. Some maniac had kidnapped Ivy and people were talking about her like she was a criminal.
Ivy's photo and statistics filled the TV screen. At least that was something; everyone would be watching for her baby. Her friends already knew; Cynda and Joy and Karleen had called to tell her the cops had visited them. All her friends had promised to get the word out about Ivy's kidnapping on Twitter, too.
She muted the sound on the television and walked to the window. So dark. She should be out there, searching for Ivy. But where? How could you know where to start looking? In her mind, she could hear a faint wailing. Was Ivy crying in hunger? Was she all alone in the dark? Brittany's stomach clenched again as horrible images raced through her head, but she'd already thrown up everything, there wasn't anything left down there but acid. Her breasts were another story. They hurt, so full that she should go use the pump but that would mean that she believed that Ivy wasn't going to be home any time soon.
Brittany couldn't think of anyone who hated her so much they'd take Ivy. Nobody could hate a little baby, could they? Okay, maybe Charlie was a little cold right now, but that was because he was away at school. He hadn't even seen Ivy yet, and guys weren't that much into babies anyway. No matter what Joy said, Charlie didn't hate her and he didn't hate Ivy. Nobody hated their own flesh and blood.
"Such a beautiful baby," people said, every time they saw Ivy. The kidnapper had to be some deranged woman who was walking by and saw this beautiful baby and wanted Ivy for her own. Probably one of those poor women who couldn't make their own babies. Like all the other pregnant girls, Brittany had gotten the lecture about the "selfless gift of adoption" from the school nurse. How could any mother do that? Her daughter could never be anyone else's daughter.
Brittany pressed her hand to the window pane. The glass was so warm that her fingers didn't even leave an impression. Like she really didn't exist. Maybe this wasn't really happening. Maybe Joy's brother Clay had slipped her some acid like he had at Joy's party a couple years ago. Then she'd seen butterflies everywhere. Everyone still laughed about it. She closed her eyes; opened them again. No butterflies. And her mind seemed to be working fine, because now she remembered that Clay had been sent off to juvie jail a year ago for peddling X at parties.
There was a soft knock at her bedroom door. The door opened before she could ask who it was, and Detective Finn walked in. Her dad stopped in the doorway behind him.
Finn's clothes were wrinkled and his graying brown hair was messed up. He made it worse by running his fingers through it. "Okay if I look around your room a little?"
He walked around the changing table and pulled open the louvered closet doors. He studied the folded stacks of baby clothes in the cubbies and glanced back at her, probably surprised that she was so neat with Ivy's clothes. Hers were another story—she'd tossed a pair of stretched out jeans, a stained T-shirt, and yesterday's bra and panties in the far corner. Her peasant blouse had slipped off the hanger again and now lay on top of her running shoes.
The police officer downstairs had taken photos of the whole house and told Brittany not to move anything in her room, like she was a criminal. She found the remote on her bed and clicked off the television. Did Detective Finn have the right to paw through her underwear and criticize how she didn't hang up her clothes? "What if I said it wasn't okay?" she asked.
"Britt." Her father filled the doorway like he was blocking her escape to the hallway.
Finn shut the closet doors and turned to smile at her. "It's just routine; we always do this. Your parents already gave us permission." He stared at her sewing machine in the corner, closed up in its cover. Next, he studied the Diaper Genie for a minute as if trying to figure out what it was. Wrinkling his nose, he moved on to her bulletin board, where he looked over her colored pencil sketches of baby dresses and rompers. "What are these?"
"Designs by Brittany." She was especially proud of the yellow and black numbers—they made the girl babies look like butterflies and the boys like sweet bumblebees. "I design 'em and sew 'em. I design matching outfits for us moms, too."
"You're good," Finn said.
Like a police detective would know anything about fashion. But it was nice to hear anyway. "I'm going to go to design school after I graduate." She felt her father's glare land on her when she said that, so she added, "At night, probably, because I'll be working during the day."
"I see." The detective focused on her desk and then her laptop. "We'll have to take your computer." He walked toward it.
"What?!" She could understand the car because of fingerprints and all that, but why take her computer? "I need it to tell everyone about Ivy. I need it to print flyers."
"Looks like you already did that." Finn tapped a finger on top of the stack on her desk. "How'd you do it so quickly?"
She barely kept herself from saying duh. It had been hours. "It only takes a minute—just paste in the picture and type."
"I see." He snapped her laptop closed and jerked the cord out of the surge protector. "We'll need it just for a little while. It's all routine. We'll need your cell phone, too."
"I don't have one." Turning, she frowned at her father. She'd had one for six months, but he refused to replace it when it disappeared.
"No cell phone?" Finn asked. "Droid? Blackberry? I-Pad?"
She rolled her eyes at him. "I wish. I can't even text, if you can believe that. This isn't one of those rich houses, in case you haven't noticed. The computer's all I've got; I really need it for school." Not to mention it was her only lifeline to keep up with what was going on. "Why isn't everyone out looking for Ivy? Why are you treating me like I'm a criminal? Why do you need my computer?"
"We're all working to find Ivy." Finn stopped coiling the computer cord long enough to meet her eyes. "Brittany, someone might have been spying on you through the computer."
No way. "I hardly ever use the camera thing."
"You don't have to," he said.
Now there was a creepy thought. She'd heard about moles and spyware that could record your keystrokes and find your passwords and credit card numbers. Could someone out there read all her email?
"It might help us get Ivy back, Brittany. You want us to check, don't you?"
He made it sound like she was being selfish or something. Her cheeks were hot. "Yeah," she said. "Check."
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. A minute later, footsteps climbed the stairs. Could it be Charlie? Or maybe Joy? She could really use a friend right now.
"I know it's late, but I've asked someone to come along, someone I think you'd like to talk to." Finn gave her another smile.
And then in walked her mother with the very last person on earth she needed to see right then—Micaela d'Allessandro. Wearing a cop uniform, no less. Brittany stared at the tall black-haired girl and clutched Ivy's plush pig more tightly to her boobs, wh
ich were starting to feel like petrified wood and were probably already leaking through the pads.
"Brittany! You poor thing." Micaela plopped down on the twin bed next to her, throwing an arm around her like they were best friends.
"Is this her?" Micaela picked up the photo of Ivy that Brittany had taken off the wall. "You were lucky to have such a sweet baby."
She made it sound like her baby was in the past. "I am lucky. Ivy is sweet," Brittany hissed.
Finn squirmed like his jockeys were too tight. "I understand you two went to high school together," he said.
Like that meant they had to be friends? Brittany dropped her gaze to the floor. Had Micaela told him that they were exact opposites? Micaela d'Allessandro had been a big star on the soccer team when she was a senior and Brittany was a sophomore who practically flunked out of phys ed. Worse, Micaela was the originator of Virtue Inc., the holier-than-thou club where everyone promised to abstain from sex until they got married. Virgins on Ice, everyone else called it. Brittany checked Micaela's left hand—yeah, that stupid silver promise ring was still there.
While Micaela ran around being Miss Perfect Virgin, Brittany's growing belly proved that she was headed for the blistering tropics below instead of the cool fluff of heaven. Mrs. Taylor, who ran the program for unwed mothers, insisted on calling the program for pregnant girls by the ridiculous name of Sister-Mothers Trust, which Brittany and her friends quickly changed to Sluts on Toast before anyone else could come up with something more awful.
And now here they sat, Slut on Toast next to Virgin on Ice. As opposite as hot fudge on ice cream. Ivy'd be the cherry on top. Brittany raised her hand and bit down on her knuckle. She'd bite off her finger before she'd cry in front of Micaela d'Allessandro.
"I'm here for you, Britt." Micaela gave her a one-armed squeeze. "Whatever you want to tell me."
Brittany shrugged off the arm around her shoulders and slid away. "How'd you get to be a cop so fast?"
Micaela stiffened. "I'm a police tech right now. I work at the station and answer phones and log in evidence and do research. Next year, after I finish my associate degree, I'll go to the academy."
"So I don't have to talk to you." Brittany looked at Finn when she said it, but his eyes were elsewhere. He was still studying everything, pacing in the small space. It was a teensy bedroom with all her and Ivy's furniture and there were way too many people in it right now.
"Britt," her father hissed again from the doorway. "We need their help, don't we?" He held a piece of paper in his hand. A search warrant? On television, that was always the key to the kingdom. But there wasn't anything to find here; this wasn't the house they should be searching. Another house out there somewhere had her beautiful baby girl in it.
Finn stopped in front of the bassinet next to her bed. "The baby slept here?"
She could tell what he was thinking, that the white wicker basket was a shoebox, that maybe she didn't plan on her daughter ever getting to be a big girl. She lifted her chin. "Ivy's only two months old; it's not like she needs a lot of space. My friend Jenn is giving me her crib in a few months when she gets a regular bed for her little boy."
Micaela scooted close again. "What happened with Ivy, Britt? Was Charlie involved?"
Brittany rolled her eyes. "Of course Charlie was not involved." Shit, that sounded lame. "He wants to be, of course, but he's at college," she said. Who the hell did Micaela—Miki—think she was, snooping into her personal life? "Why would you think Charlie had anything to do with this? God!"
Micaela pursed her lips. "You shouldn't—"
"—take the Lord's name in vain," Brittany said in perfect unison with her. Micaela might wear a uniform now, but she was obviously the same God-is-Great-and-So-Am-I bitch she'd been in high school.
They locked eyes with each other. Over by the closet, Detective Finn nervously cleared his throat. Micaela shot a glance his way, and then she twitched and forced a fake smile onto her face. She stretched out a hand like she was thinking about placing it on Brittany's thigh, but left it hovering a few inches above as she said in a sickly sweet voice, "Have any of your little Sister-Mother friends ever talked about wanting to hurt their babies?"
"I'm not a rat." It just came out.
She didn't mean that they'd done anything. It was just that they'd made a pact to keep their bitching inside their group. What happens in Sluts stays in Sluts. Even Mrs. Taylor said that—except for the sluts part—because, like she said, all young moms need to be able to talk openly in the SMT class. Being discrete, Mrs. Taylor called it. Bottom line, it meant you didn't rat on the other girls. But judging by the way both Micaela and Detective Finn perked up like they smelled something good to eat, Brittany knew it was probably the worst thing she could have said right then.
Chapter 6
Fourteen hours after Ivy disappears
"Out." Finn gestured at the yard.
The orange cat—Lok?—stood halfway in, halfway out the door, regarding the grass and trees uncertainly. His braver twin, Kee, sat on the porch a few feet away, switching his striped tail.
"You're always begging to go out," Finn told the cat, giving his fuzzy backside a nudge with the side of his shoe. "So go."
He'd been too busy to scoop the litter box poop for a couple of days. He'd stumbled home at three in the morning, after making sure all relevant information about Ivy's disappearance was entered into the Washington State Patrol system and the National Crime Information Center database. When he pushed open the front door, he discovered that the damn tabbies had used the rug in the foyer for their bathroom. After he tossed the whole thing out and put new litter in their toilet box, he collapsed on his bed. The cats insisted on sleeping next to him, pinning his legs in place like small superheated sandbags. Every time he turned over, they'd complain and jump off. Then they would slowly sneak back, all the while purring loudly for some inexplicable reason. He'd tried locking them out of the bedroom, but then they scratched on the door and yowled all night.
Cargo slept on the rug next to the bed, snoring, but somehow managing to wake up and lick Finn's hand every time he let a finger droop over the mattress edge. Now the giant mutt was doing his usual patrol of the yard, smelling every overgrown inch and watering the irises and roses and the half-finished fence with his own brand of liquid fertilizer.
With all the animal interaction, he hadn't gotten more than three hours of sleep. It was a damn good thing Wendy never bought that parrot she'd wanted, or he'd have to listen to a mouthy bird, too. As he locked the deadbolt, he wondered if she had a bird these days. Probably not. He'd checked out her lover; business professor Gordon Black didn't look the parrot type. Maybe she didn't want a menagerie anymore; maybe the right man was enough for her now.
When he let the screen door slam, the cats rocketed into the bushes as if he'd fired a shot at them. Then they turned and regarded him with wary green eyes. "Oh, for godssake, you'll be fine," he grumbled. "Go kill some mice. Eat a bird. Shit outside for a change."
His cell phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He half expected the FBI, but the readout said Scott Mankin. His soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law. He didn't want to talk to Scott; they never had more than two words to say to each other now. But if he didn't answer, the dang thing would ring again in ten minutes.
"I'm getting into the car, Scott," he said into the phone.
"It's Dolores, dear. How are you? You're working on that Morgan baby case? You must be exhausted."
At least his mother-in-law had given him an exit line. "Yeah, Dolores, I'm hanging in there, but not getting much sleep. I'm leaving the house now."
"You know what you need?"
A transfer back to Chicago? A good lay? Some peace and quiet so he could finish his painting?
"A home-cooked meal. We haven't seen you in weeks. Why don't you come over tonight? We're having lasagna."
Lasagna sounded good. Having to sit at a table with his in-laws didn't. Soon to be ex-in-laws. "Thanks for th
e offer, Dolores. But I have no idea when I'll be able to get away."
"Your father says he and your mother are worried about you."
Startled, he said, "My father?"
"We email, dear, remember?"
After retiring from managing a golf course, his father had developed a passion for building miniature landscapes. He volunteered at several museums, building dioramas, and was transforming his basement into a wonderland of hills and valleys and small villages through which a miniature train ran at his command. Finn was still not used to this newfound enthusiasm for all things tiny. But now he remembered that Dolores had instantly hit it off with Michael Finn when they'd come to Chicago for the wedding. Dolores built elaborate dollhouses. She and his father no doubt compared scales and plans and materials over the internet.
"Oh yeah," he finally mumbled. "Tell him I'm fine and I'll call when I can. I really don't have time for anything right now except this case."
"Just come when you can, then, Matt. I can always warm some up for you."
"We'll see. Gotta go now."
"God bless."
"Right. Thanks." He stuck the phone into his pocket and opened the car door. Cargo nearly knocked him over as the big mutt lunged, getting his front feet and head into the driver's seat before Finn could grab his collar.
"No, no, and hell no!" He hauled back on the collar. The dog yelped. His front legs scrabbled against the seat. How could a dog weigh so darn much? A massive paw landed on the driver's wheel and a loud bleat startled them both. Cargo shot backwards into Finn, fell onto the ground and then galloped back to the front porch.
"For godssake, dog." Finn flicked dirt clods from the seat and then folded himself into the car. Sweat already slimed his back under his belt holster; he dreaded putting on his linen jacket in this heat.
The Only Witness Page 4
