“We’ll take it from here. Thanks, officer,” said a woman’s voice.
“Honey, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Chelsea said, a tremor in her voice.
Emma slid out of her arms and took a seat beside her. “When I called you last night . . . do you remember that?”
Chelsea nodded, her eyes shiny with tears.
“That was around nine, nine thirty, and Annie was with you, right?”
Chelsea scraped her hair back. “I wasn’t sure what time you called, but I thought we talked on the phone. Yes, Annie was here. I . . . she was beside me on the couch or . . . maybe I was feeding her. Something like that.”
“So the baby was still here when you called around nine thirty,” the woman said. “That’s helpful for our timeline.”
When Emma looked over, the woman nodded. “I’m Grace Santos, a detective with the Missing Persons Squad. And you’re Emma Maynard?”
“Emma Wyatt.”
The detective had warm brown eyes and shiny black hair in a stylish cut that curled under her chin. Emma would not have pegged her as a cop; there was an easy, nurturing vibe about her. “Thank you for coming over. Your sister really needs your support right now.”
Emma nodded, wishing she could tell the woman that she needed support, too. She was so worried about her own tiny baby, but no one besides Jake seemed to understand what she was going through. “I want to help. I don’t think Chelsea should be alone right now, but I have to head off for an appointment soon. Is Leo coming home?”
“On his way,” Grace answered. “He was hoping to catch the next flight out of Boston.”
“That’s a relief. Leo will be able to help you more than I can.” Emma pressed her palms flat on the table, as if it could keep her upright. “But what happened to Annabelle?” She turned to Chelsea, who seemed lost inside herself. “Did someone snatch her from out in the driveway?”
“I don’t know.” Chelsea’s voice was quiet and dead. “I don’t remember.”
“But she does remember finding the side door unlocked,” Grace offered.
“Chelsea.” Emma put one hand on her sister’s arm. “Did you leave her out in the driveway again?”
Grace Santos was looking at her iPhone. “She’s done that before?”
“The other night . . . my husband and I found her out there,” Emma told Grace. “Chelsea walks her out there sometimes. The fresh air soothes her.”
“I know how it is with a colicky baby.” Grace nodded. “You have to go with the things that calm them down, even if they are a little unconventional.”
“Annabelle was crying when we found her, and soon after we got here the police arrived. They said there’d been a noise complaint. We figured it was from the obnoxious woman next door.”
“Louise Pickler,” Grace said. “I’ll check on that. But I’d love to know about last night . . . whether someone keyed their way in or was Annabelle out in her stroller. What do you think, Chelsea? Has your memory gelled at all? Do you remember taking Annabelle outside last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just try and remember, honey, because it’s so important.” Emma knew her frustration was coming through, but she wasn’t going to sit back and let Chelsea play dumb when Annabelle was in danger. Just yesterday, her niece had come down those stairs, bright-eyed and curious in her little snowsuit with the hood. She wanted that moment back. She wanted Annabelle back.
“It was a terrible night,” Chelsea said. “I couldn’t stay awake. When you called, I didn’t even think I’d make it up the stairs to bed. Everything just came down on me and . . . I couldn’t think clearly.”
“I have a question for you, Emma,” Grace said, shifting the focus. “Is there anyone you can think of who would have a reason to take Annabelle? Any relatives or friends? Caregivers?”
Emma shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone, but that doesn’t happen very often, does it? The random kidnapping of an infant?”
“It does not.” Grace’s eyes flickered over to Chelsea, as if testing the moment. “Infant kidnappings are rare, and when a baby is taken the odds are much better of finding that infant than of recovering an older child. Generally, pedophiles do not steal infants. They tend to take older children.”
A whimper escaped Chelsea’s throat, and Emma squeezed her hand.
“That’s the good news, I guess,” Grace said. “But when an infant disappears, the odds are that the baby has been killed by a caregiver, either accidentally or intentionally.”
Emma’s belly roiled as that fact sank in. Was Chelsea one of those statistics? Had she acted through one of the dark visions that had been playing out in her head these past weeks? She didn’t want to believe that was possible of her sister, but then the woman sitting beside her at the table barely resembled the little sister who had believed she could conquer the world.
Tension was thick in the air. Neither Emma nor her sister dared tread on that tender spot.
“Maybe you can answer a question for me.” Grace picked up a box on the counter and showed Emma. There were two muffins left. “Did you bake these for your sister?”
“No. They were from a neighbor. That’s what the note said.”
“But you brought them over yesterday,” Chelsea said sharply. “I’m not imagining that.”
“No, honey. I didn’t make them. I just brought them inside. They were sitting on your porch, with that note. I figured you would know who they were from.”
Chelsea raked her hair back. “You didn’t make them for me?”
Emma shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m . . . I told you. I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Okay, then.” Grace put the lid on the box. She picked up the note by the yellow ribbon and dropped it into a bag. “This might sound crazy, but I’m going to take these last two muffins and have our lab do some analysis. Chelsea, you said you ate three or four of them, and you weren’t feeling well. It’s worth checking to see if they’re laced with something.”
“Who would do that to my sister?” Emma asked.
“It might be unfounded.” Grace looked down at the box. “And in the end, maybe they’re just two carrot muffins from a kind neighbor, right?”
Emma couldn’t bear to look at her sister, thinking that she might have contributed to making Chelsea even more disoriented than she already was. But I told her they were from a neighbor. I know I said it. Why didn’t I just toss those damned muffins in the garbage?
Chapter 21
Shrugging on her jacket, Grace headed out to the cluster of cops in the front yard, where Balfour was coordinating the search. She was glad to have a veteran like Mike Balfour in charge. With eighteen years of experience, he knew the routine but was open to changing it up if they got a lead, and he was a good boss who got the most out of his squad because he treated them with respect and humor.
Over the radio, someone was calling in addresses that had been canvassed. A cop made a note on his clipboard while Balfour listened in.
“How’s it going, Mike?”
“I wish I had better news for you. Or any news.” At six feet, Mike was a head taller than Grace. His short-cropped hair glimmered with silver, and his blue eyes could be stern. “If the child was older, I’d send a helicopter up to do an air search, but Annabelle Green isn’t able to motor on her own yet.”
“Yeah, at three months, she’s not going anywhere on her own.” Grace pulled her jacket closed against the pelting snowflakes. “I saw the dog out here. Any luck?”
“He caught the scent, but the trail ended three doors down, southwest. It’s possible someone took the baby to a car that was parked there.”
Grace shielded her eyes against the snow to check out the houses in that direction. “How about the people who live there?”
“An older couple—retired.” He flipped open his notebook. “Tina and James Wilkinson. Tina Wilkinson let us search their yard, but honestly, the dog just sat down at the curb there. The trail ends in
the street.”
“But he did lead you somewhere.” Grace turned toward Chelsea’s Subaru, which sat gathering snow in the driveway. Had it been moved during the night? If Chelsea had loaded her daughter into the car, dead or alive, it didn’t seem likely that she would have parked three doors down and toted the child that far in the middle of the night.
Mike Balfour looked over at the car. “Yeah, I know. The first cops on the scene did a search. Miklowski says they didn’t disturb any evidence, but I hate to impound the car at this point.”
Grace nodded. She didn’t think it was time to turn all their focus on Chelsea Maynard as a suspect. At least, not yet.
She studied Pickler’s house, a cape similar to her neighbor’s, only more rundown. White dripped down the brickwork from the shutters. The porch awning listed drunkenly to one side, and the windows were a dingy gray.
“Have you talked to Louise Pickler yet?” she asked Mike. “She’s the neighbor on this side.”
“No one is answering, and we don’t see a car in the garage. But I can tell you, there’s been some conflict between Pickler and our family here. On Monday night two officers were here after a report that a child was abandoned in the street. The complaint came from Pickler. The officers responded at nineteen thirty-two and found the child inside with the mother, Chelsea Maynard. I e-mailed you a copy of the police report.”
“I’d like to talk with Louise Pickler,” Grace said. “I’m going to call her information in to Chris, see if he can run a check on her as soon as he gets to the office.” Chris Panteleoni was her partner on most cases.
“And I’ll let you know as soon as she comes home . . . if she comes home.” Mike’s eyes narrowed as he stared up at Pickler’s house. “The house has that abandoned look. You can’t tell from here, but there are a bunch of old flyers on the porch, and see how the walkway wasn’t shoveled or trampled all winter?” Mike Balfour knew his stuff.
“Yeah, I’d say that house has seen better days. Let me know if you see any sign of Pickler.”
“You’re sticking around, then?”
“At least until the husband gets here. I want to get a full profile of the family.”
Back inside the house, Grace was relieved to see Chelsea at the kitchen table eating eggs, toast, canned peaches, and cottage cheese. Emma had taken charge of the kitchen in that big-sister way, but the conversation between the two women was strained. Even after Grace stepped inside, they didn’t acknowledge her or miss a beat.
“How can you be mad at me when I don’t remember anything?” Chelsea stared at her plate, tracing invisible shapes with the tongs of her fork.
“I’m not mad. I’m worried about Annabelle, and you don’t seem to get that we’d be able to find her much more quickly if you could just remember what you did with her.”
“I told you, I don’t remember.” She dropped the fork and pressed her palms to her face. “But I do remember talking to you. Didn’t I ask you to take her?” Chelsea’s voice was dull and listless, almost disembodied. “I knew I couldn’t handle her. I begged you to take her.”
“I couldn’t. Dammit, Chelsea, I’m spotting and I might be miscarrying. Do you remember that?”
Chelsea looked up tentatively. “Sort of. I’m sorry. So . . . what’s going on?”
“I’ve got to get to the doctor this morning, and . . . You know what? Never mind about me. I wish I had helped you, okay? But I needed to rest and I thought you’d be okay. You’ve been feeling better. The Nebula has been working . . . at least until last night. You were joking around at the garden yesterday. I thought you’d be fine.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” Chelsea got up from the table and cradled her mug of herb tea in both hands. “It’s time for my happy pill. Ha, ha.”
Grace and Emma watched in silence as she went up the stairs, carefully holding on to the rail.
“Do you think she asked anyone else to take her baby?” Grace asked.
“She doesn’t mean it that way. I’ve helped her out a few times. Stayed overnight, gave the baby a bottle so that she could sleep. Leo does it for her on weekends. I would have done it last night, but . . .” Emma’s eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t blame yourself. You have your own life, your teaching job. Third grade, right?”
“That’s not it. I’m pregnant, after a hundred rounds of in vitro. I’m finally pregnant and . . . I’m afraid I’m miscarrying.” She gasped for air, then sobbed. “The bleeding started last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Grace had overheard as much. “Can I get you something?”
Emma shook her head, swallowing hard. “I just have to go. My doctor will do a sonogram, just to see . . . to see if . . .”
Grace put a hand on Emma’s arm. “I’ll say a prayer for you and we’ll hope for the best, right?”
Emma sniffed, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Thank you.” She slipped her jacket on and went to the side door. “Tell Chelsea I’ll call her later, okay? And you have my cell if you think of any other questions.”
“Right. Take care.”
So much pain in the world, Grace thought as the door closed behind Emma Wyatt. Sometimes it was a wonder that the human race kept on going.
Chapter 22
Worry was a ball of pain in her gut, a prickly pineapple that cut straight to the core when she pictured her baby’s innocent face, those trusting eyes watching her as she nursed. The pain filled the void that Annabelle had left, and Chelsea braced herself, bargaining with the sense of order in the universe. If she endured the pain, then Annabelle would make it home. A pineapple in the belly in exchange for the safe return of her baby; she could do that.
She had wanted to help with the search, but the detective had insisted that she was better off staying here, helping her fill in the details of Annabelle’s life. How many details could a person have after three months on this earth? Parents. Doctor. Sitters. Annie was too young for playmates in the sandbox at the park or creepy Scout leaders or boyfriends from the dark side. But Chelsea settled into her spot on the couch and answered every question she could find the answer to. She wanted to appear helpful. She wanted them to think she was a good mother. The big lie.
You’re not a bad person. You’re just tired. You’re suffering from depression, that postpartum monster. The kind voice inside her tried to be warm and reassuring.
The cruel voice dug under her skin with questions that chilled her to the bone. What did you do to your baby? Did you drop her down the stairs or push her out the window? Did you silence her cries with a pillow, or were you under the spell of one of those dark visions in which knives sail through the air and babies fly from their mothers’ arms like nightjars?
Two of the cops stood talking with Grace, their big, dark uniforms and guns and radios filling the kitchen with authority and a sense of safety. Cops from the crime scene unit had come and gone, leaving a fine black powder smeared here and there throughout the house. She couldn’t imagine what they’d done in Annie’s room, and she couldn’t bear to look.
She rubbed her fingertips, still tinged with ink that didn’t come clean. Grace had explained that they would rule out fingerprints of people who had reason to be here. Chelsea and Leo, Emma, too. She didn’t mind the stain of ink that remained in her cuticles—a reminder that something was being done to find Annie.
And Grace had told her that most infant abductors were women.
A woman!
On the one hand it was reassuring that Annie was probably not in the arms of some creepy man. But how could a woman take another woman’s child? And what woman would steal my baby?
Grace was talking with the cops about the media, how they could keep the reporters off the lawn, though the street was fair game. Chelsea wondered what kind of a world it was when a dozen people were paid to stand outside the home of someone going through the worst ordeal of her life. Paid to gather the scraps of sorrow and distress.
Their voices blurred to soothing white noise as
Chelsea stared at the fireplace, her gaze moving gently over the familiar tiles on the facade. Delft tiles, from Holland. The hand-painted white-and-blue tiles were installed years ago, then covered with fake brick, which Chelsea and Leo had removed themselves. What a kick it had been to find these beautiful tiles hidden away under the tacky brick facade. Chelsea and Leo had lovingly restored the mantel, replacing two broken tiles with originals shipped from the Netherlands.
The project had consumed them. They’d spent nights and weekends working on the project, chiseling away the soft mortar of the bogus brick, being careful not to damage the tiles underneath. Chelsea documented the project with photos and wrote an article for Home Handyman magazine. That was when Leo had dubbed her the DIY Girl, a nickname that had stuck at the office.
Through the long hours of tedious work, she and Leo talked about their growing family, their dreams, their baby girl. They had gotten the phone call that they were having a girl while working on the fireplace, and they had talked about the bobbing dresses and cute hats they’d dress her in. Birthday cakes with pink frosting and dance lessons. Girl Scouts and prom dresses. “What if she wants to be a cheerleader?” Leo asked. Chelsea responded that it wasn’t in their genetics, though she had been on a cheering squad for a year in high school. “You, a cheerleader? This could change the nature of our relationship. Would you put one of those little skirts on for me some night?” She had tossed a sponge at him, laughing. Then she shared the demise of her short career. One night, while she was cheering on the sidelines, a nice couple asked her to get out of the way so that they could see the game. After that, she’d switched to the tennis team. “Well, I bet you had some kick-ass pom-poms,” he teased, and they’d had a good laugh over it all.
Resting her chin on the armrest of the couch, she wondered if they would ever laugh again. Would they ever light another fire in their fireplace? She couldn’t see it in their future. No trace of their former life would survive without Annie.
“You’ve been staring at that fireplace an awful long time,” Grace said.
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