No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  “Jess froze when Kate was brought in,” I said, remembering the shouts. The blood. The tiny bear-shaped charms. “I thought it was nerves, but it wasn’t. She recognized Kate.”

  “Guilty conscience.”

  “Broken heart,” I countered. “You don’t know for sure that Jess hated Kate. Isn’t it possible she was grateful, instead?”

  “She stole Kate’s child!” Noah said, slamming his fist against the table so hard the silverware jumped. “You said yourself it was dangerous for him to be out of the hospital. If she was grateful, why would she put Trey at risk?”

  “I don’t know,” I said miserably. “Has there been any sign of them?”

  He dragged a hand over his face. “We’ve searched her apartment, her locker at work, every place we could think of. We found her car abandoned at a rest stop, but no sign of her or the baby. The state police have been canvassing baby stores in the area, the big ones, closer to Springfield.”

  “And?”

  “And they remember her. She came in a few days before the funeral and bought a bunch of supplies: diapers, bottles, some cans of formula, and a travel crib. Some of those outfits with the feet attached too. It’s not much to go on, but at least it’s a sign that she wants to take care of him. She wouldn’t buy all that if she was planning to do him harm.”

  “What’s next?”

  “We keep going. Try to find a connection between Jess and Josh, hope that one of them screws up and uses a credit card or shops somewhere with an observant clerk.”

  “You think they’re together?” I still couldn’t picture it: seedy, strung out Josh and delicate, tenderhearted Jess.

  “It’s a possibility. I don’t know if I like it better or worse. Harder to hide three people than two, but Josh is getting twitchy, showing up at funerals and pulling knives on people. I’m not crazy about him having access to Trey.” He paused. “I’d appreciate it if your mom and her friends didn’t find out about Jess’s background, at least not yet.”

  “Not a word. I promise.”

  Noah looked haggard—hollowed cheeks, shadowed eyes, three days’ stubble on his jaw. The jaw was actually quite nice, stubble and all, but my heart twisted to see the toll this investigation was taking on him. “You’re not sleeping.”

  “Can’t,” he said shortly. “A catnap here and there, but I can’t sleep while Trey’s out there.”

  “Have you told Steven?” I asked and began clearing away the breakfast dishes.

  “That I can’t find his son?” Noah asked bitterly. “He’s aware.”

  No one had ever held Noah to a higher standard than himself. The temptation was to step back, to leave him alone. That’s what he wanted, no doubt. Instead, some impulse had me leaning forward, brushing a hand along his arm in sympathy.

  “You’ll find him,” I said.

  He froze for an instant, then covered my fingers with his own, holding me in place. “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “Because it’s you. I’ve never seen you give up on anything in your life.”

  “You’re missing a whole chunk of my life,” he reminded me. “Same as I’m missing yours.”

  “You’re you,” I said firmly. His radio squawked at the same time my mom’s police scanner—the one she swore she didn’t use—beeped. I pulled away to switch it off, adding, “You’ll find that baby or die trying.”

  Nineteen

  When I woke later that afternoon, the house smelled like heaven. I splashed cold water on my face and made my way downstairs, where Riley was slumped at the table, scowling at her homework, and my mother was pulling pans out of the oven.

  “Dinner smells great,” I said, peering over Mom’s shoulder and reaching for a Tater Tot.

  She smacked my hand. “Not for you.”

  “What?” I looked closer. Two pans of Tater Tot casserole—my childhood favorite—stood on the counter, steaming gently. “Mom. Who are these for?”

  She turned and beamed. “Steven, of course. I made cookies too.”

  “Snickerdoodles,” Riley grumbled and stomped into the other room, saying, “We can’t have any.”

  I watched her go, startled by the return of Riley’s dour doppelgänger. “I know your inclination is to stress-bake anytime someone hits a rough patch, but this is a little excessive, don’t you think?”

  “He’s one of us,” she replied, “and he could use a homemade meal.”

  “Are you doing this to get the scoop?”

  “Of course not,” she replied, hand over her heart, the very picture of wounded outrage. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I’ve seen you in action. This casserole comes with questions.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Francesca.”

  “Really?” I pinned her with the same look she’d used every time I’d told her I was going to hang out with friends when, in fact, I was sneaking off with Noah. “You’re telling me you’re not planning to take this dish to Steven’s, wait on the stoop until he invites you in, and then pump him for details so you can tell all your friends what you’ve witnessed firsthand?”

  “Absolutely not. It’s hardly my place to do something like that.” She sounded utterly sincere.

  “Good.”

  “It’s yours.” When I started to protest, she cut me off. “You’re Steven’s classmate. You had a connection to his wife, you’ve seen his baby in the NICU, and you attended the funeral. You can be a pillar of strength for him, Francesca. A shoulder to lean on.”

  A familiar warning began to sound in the recesses of my mind. “I don’t think …”

  Deftly, she wrapped the snickerdoodles in aluminum foil. “If that support evolves into a friendship, so much the better. You could use more friends here. And oftentimes, a friendship can evolve into more.”

  “Mother.”

  “What’s the harm in reaching out?”

  “His wife was murdered a week ago. He’s not back on the market, and even if he was, I’m not interested.”

  “Oh? Is there someone else?” she asked, beaming at me.

  “No!”

  “Well, then, you should keep an open mind,” she chided. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty to see over there, regardless.”

  “Mom, I’m not going on a reconnaissance mission for you and your cronies.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to build community,” she said with a sniff. “It seems like the least you could do is offer him some support, especially with the election so close. Bring Charlotte with you too. She can talk to him about the fundraiser for Trey. We’re going to have it Friday evening.”

  “You know Charlie’s married, right? She’s off the market.”

  She smiled serenely. “I know that Steven was up twelve points in the latest poll. And I know it’s good business to make sure your local politicians can count on you. Take Charlotte. Take the casserole. Be a good neighbor.”

  “Fine,” I muttered. “We’ll go before work tonight.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Make sure to tell me all about it when you get back.”

  *

  “I can’t believe she bamboozled you into this,” Charlie said as we walked up the flagstone path to Steven Tibbs’s house. He lived on the outskirts of town, one of the few subdivisions that had sprung up over the years. A pleasant-yet-staid colonial. Not a McMansion, but certainly more modern and spacious than most of the houses in the downtown area. “You’re losing your touch.”

  “I’d just woken up,” I said. “My defenses were down. Besides, she wasn’t going to let it go. She’s got some crazy idea that Steven and I could pair up. After an appropriate mourning period, naturally.”

  Charlie grimaced. “Ew. That’s a little much, even for Mom.”

  “Right?” I’d thought the same thing. I rang the bell, balancing the plate of cookies in one hand. “We’ll drop these off, mention the fundraiser, and go.”

  Ted Sullivan opened the door, frowning. I bobbled the cookies and stammered a hello whil
e Charlie held out the casserole dish invitingly.

  “What?” he asked in the same tone people used with telemarketers and solicitors and other uninvited guests. Which, technically, we were—but his displeasure startled me so much that I spoke without thinking.

  “Food. For Steven. What are you doing here?”

  Next to me, Charlie sighed.

  “Running a congressional campaign,” Ted said coolly, scrutinizing us. “You’re that nurse. From the ER. The funeral too.”

  He didn’t say it like a compliment.

  “Frankie Stapleton,” I said. “This is my sister, Charlie.”

  I nudged Charlie forward, letting her take over. She continued the introduction, hitting just the right note of sympathy and goodwill. I’d give her this: Charlie knew how to handle people.

  Once Ted was convinced we were harmless well-wishers and not members of the press or spies sent from Mackie’s campaign, he led us into the kitchen.

  It was an airy, spacious room with a round pine table tucked into a bay window, vintage French posters on the wall, and an island with a built-in wine rack. It looked comfortable and cozy, with pictures of happier times displayed everywhere—Steven and Kate on vacation, at their wedding, on the campaign trail. Ultrasound pictures of Trey were posted on the refrigerator, along with an invitation for a baby shower, and I was struck again at how very unfair life could be, that so much joy and anticipation could be stolen in a single moment.

  Steven looked up from the dining room table, where he was surrounded by file folders and stacks of paperwork. Three laptops sat open, one of them streaming the news, and he shut it with a snap as he greeted us.

  He’d lost weight since I’d first seen him in the NICU. I could see him struggling to focus on us, his gaze drifting to the file-covered table in the next room.

  “We brought you something to eat,” Charlie said with a winning smile. “I’m sure you’re overrun with food right now, but it’ll freeze. We figured it might be good to have a lot of meals stocked up, once the baby …”

  She trailed off.

  He grimaced. “Once the baby comes home? If the baby comes home?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, setting the food on the counter. “For everything you’ve been through. It must be a nightmare.”

  He turned up his hands as if he couldn’t find the words. “I never … this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. We were supposed to stand up on the podium together. I can still picture it, you know? On the day of my swearing in, the three of us together on the steps of the Capitol.”

  Charlie reached out. “They’ll find him. I’m sure they will.”

  Ted’s phone rang, shrill in the suddenly silent room. He excused himself and took the call out on the back deck.

  “Steven,” I said, “I know you’ve already talked to the police about this, but do you have any idea—any idea at all—where Kate was going the night of the accident?”

  The noise Charlie made was something between a squeak and a wheeze.

  “She didn’t tell me,” he said after a long moment. “I wish she had. I wish I’d made her go to that stupid fundraiser, or stayed home with her, or gone out on whatever errand she needed.” His voice wavered, then strengthened again. “But I didn’t, did I?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, both apology and condolence in the words. Next to me, Charlie was scarlet with embarrassment.

  “Me too, more than you’ll ever know.” He spread his hands wide, a gesture of helplessness. “But I can’t change the past. All I can do is protect my son—assuming we can find him.”

  “They will,” Charlie assured him.

  He turned to her. “You should bring your daughter home, Charlie. She’s beautiful. She deserves the best, and that hospital isn’t remotely capable of keeping our children safe.” His gaze flickered to me. “I know you work there, Frankie, but you have to admit it’s a travesty. That woman walked right in and stole my son.”

  “It’s appalling,” I said, not wanting to disagree but certain the hospital wasn’t to blame. “The police are working nonstop, Steven. They’re doing everything they can to find Trey.”

  “You always had a soft spot for Noah MacLean.” It was desperation that lent a jeering note to his words, I told myself, and tried not to react. “I’m not willing to leave it to the police. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours, and they’ve got nothing to show for it. I want my son back, and I don’t care how I get him.”

  “Do you have the nursery ready?” Charlie asked, breaking the tension. “It might help if you could focus on that, on making sure it’s perfect for when he comes home. I could help, if you wanted. Tell you if you’re missing anything vital.”

  Steven nodded slowly. “Kate was working on that,” he said. “I haven’t been in there since …” He straightened his shoulders. “Would you like to see it now? You could tell me if we’re—if I’m—missing anything.”

  Charlie glanced at me, and I nodded. “You two go ahead,” I said. “I’ll put the food away.”

  She followed Steven through to the front of the house, their footsteps nearly inaudible on the carpeted stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ted pacing the length of the back deck, listening intently and responding, his features animated. The sliding door was ajar, and now that Steven was upstairs, I could hear Ted’s conversation.

  “Nobody knows,” he said into the phone. “It’s a bunch of Podunk deputies spinning their wheels, but what did you expect?”

  I bristled at hearing Noah’s hard work dismissed so easily. I circled the kitchen island, keeping my back to the door so my eavesdropping wasn’t so obvious. If Ted looked in, he’d assume I was bustling around the kitchen. “Exactly,” he said with a laugh. “Did you see the latest numbers from CNN? We keep spinning this, keep it in the news cycle, and one more ought to do it.”

  One more what? One more poll? One more press conference? Ted’s voice dropped, like he was trying not to be overheard. I busied myself with the food, smoothing down the foil, stacking and restacking the dishes, trying to look like my attention was on casseroles and not his creepy conversation. Listening to Ted capitalize on Steven’s grief was nauseating.

  “The money’s not a problem,” he said, voice dropping as he moved farther away. “Handle it however you want, as long as it’s handled, and let me worry about the optics.”

  Not about the money, Josh Miller had said. But for Ted, perhaps it was. Had he done more than capitalize on Kate’s death? Had he caused the accident, even arranged Trey’s abduction, all in the hopes Steven would get a bump in the polls? What were the optics he wanted here: the image of Trey coming home or the one where a devastated Steven, having lost everything else, dedicated himself to public service? Which one furthered Ted’s agenda?

  Ted’s footsteps grew louder as he continued pacing, his side of the conversation punctuated by the occasional “uh-huh” and “yeah, yeah” as he approached the sliding glass door. I yanked open the freezer door, only to find it was already full; at least six other pans were neatly stacked inside. The gossips of Stillwater had been busy, but considering what I’d just heard, they’d missed out on the biggest scoop.

  From this distance, Ted’s voice was an indistinct rise and fall, and I took advantage of it to look around the dining room, wondering if there was anything I could bring to Noah. A half-heard conversation wouldn’t be enough. After a cursory sweep of the room, my gaze fell on the folders stacked haphazardly on the dining room table.

  The cream-colored file folders had yellowed with age, their corners bent, their edges rubbed soft, and their seams split from overstuffing. Some were held shut with industrial-sized rubber bands. I moved close enough to read their labels, each written in a messy script—last name, first name, and a pair of dates.

  Election files, presumably, were about issues, donors, or pending legislation. They would have held opposition research or talking points. They would have been crisp and new, or at least newish. These looked more like old medical
records.

  With a quick check over my shoulder to make sure Ted was still outside, I flipped open the nearest folder, and my suspicion was confirmed. These were DCFS files. Kate’s files. How had Steven gotten them?

  I backed away and gazed around the room. In the corner, perched atop a dining room chair, was a box full of desktop odds and ends—framed pictures, including one of an ultrasound; a coffee cup full of pencils; a variety of handheld puzzles and games; even a few worn-out stuffed animals.

  Kate’s desk, Kate’s files. Steven must have taken them when he cleaned out her office. He was conducting his own investigation, and I wondered if Noah was aware of it. Considering Steven’s earlier comment, it seemed unlikely. What if Steven’s investigation pointed back to Ted?

  Ted, whose conversation was no longer audible.

  I dashed into the kitchen and whipped the foil off a platter just as the back door slid open.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Thought I’d put out some cookies,” I said cheerfully. “My mom makes amazing snickerdoodles, and I figured you guys could use a snack while you worked.”

  He didn’t reply, and I held up the ball of aluminum foil and smiled as if I were Charlie. “Do you know where the recycling is?”

  “Just throw it out,” he said and strode into the dining room as if checking to make sure I hadn’t touched anything.

  I trailed after him, crinkling the foil. “So how’d you end up in Stillwater, of all places? I would have thought someone like you would have your pick of candidates.”

  He crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a tumbler of good bourbon, not bothering to offer me any, and then faced me with a smooth, campaign-ready smile. “I believe in Steven. He’s a good man with a clear vision for the country, and—”

  I held up my hand. “Come on. Steven’s nice, but really? You came to a tiny little river town in the middle of the country because you believe in his vision?”

  His eyes were dark and cold as river water as he scrutinized me, and fear skittered along my nerves. Maybe I’d miscalculated, challenging him here. Charlie and Steven were upstairs, but whoever had killed Kate was a master of timing. If Ted came after me, he’d pick a moment I wasn’t expecting.