by Rita Herron
“Honestly, Nina, you’ve hired another private investigator?” Dr. Emery asked, his tone reeking of exasperation.
“Yes, she has,” Slade said. “And I’d like to hear your version of what happened to Peyton.”
The doctor fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck, then sank into his office chair as if weary of her. “Nina knows exactly what happened, Mr. Blackburn, but she refuses to accept the truth, that her baby was lost in that fire.” His frown accentuated the deep grooves carved by age bracketing his mouth. “It was sad, horrific, tragic,” he continued. “But it happened.”
Slade simply stared at the man. “According to Nina, nurses rescued three other infants. Why not her baby?”
“That I don’t know,” the doctor said. “I spoke with the nurses later, and they all agreed that the baby wasn’t in the nursery when the fire broke out, that they thought she had been taken to another area for tests.”
“They told me they didn’t know where she was,” Nina said, contradicting him.
A spark of temper darkened Dr. Emery’s eyes. He shuffled a stack of papers on his desk, restacking them in an attempt at stalling. “I didn’t want to add to your distress at the time, Nina, but I had ordered heart tests for your infant. I suspected your baby had a hole in her heart as well as underdeveloped lungs, and that she wasn’t going to make it.”
Nina’s breath caught in her throat. “So she might have been somewhere else in the hospital, not in the unit when it burned down.”
“We’ve been over this,” Dr. Emery said as if talking to a child. “She did not survive.”
“How can you be so sure?” Slade asked. “Did forensics ever prove the infant was in the fire?”
Dr. Emery glared at Slade. “No, but the place, the ashes…it was impossible to identify all the bodies.”
“How about security tapes?” Slade asked.
“The explosion knocked them all out.” He sighed. “Mr. Blackburn, you’re doing Miss Nash an injustice by dredging up the past and raising her hopes. She needs to let her daughter’s death go so she can heal.”
Slade’s jaw clenched. “You tried to persuade Nina to give up her baby for adoption, didn’t you?”
The man curled his hand around a stress ball on his desk and squeezed it. “Yes. She was young, unemployed and single.”
“But she wanted to keep the baby,” Slade said.
“She was immature. And her father didn’t intend to support her or the child. I was trying to think of the baby. If she made it,” he continued, “there would be medical bills, therapy.” He shot a condescending look at Nina. “Miss Nash was not equipped to handle those expenses, much less raise a handicapped child.”
“That was my problem, not yours,” Nina said bitterly.
Dr. Emery pushed away from his desk. “I was, as always, looking out for my patients.”
Slade slapped a fist on the desk. “Well, someone didn’t look out for Peyton Nash that night, did they?”
Dr. Emery paced to the window, agitated. “You have no idea how traumatic it was. The hospital staff did everything possible to save the patients.”
Slade folded his arms. “And maybe you saw that chaos as an opportunity to take Peyton, to give her to someone else you deemed as a more appropriate parent. Or hell, maybe you sold her for the money.”
Hot fury heated the doctor’s cheeks. “How dare you imply such slander. I have an impeccable reputation. And I’ve lived and worked here in Sanctuary all my life.”
Slade stood, towering over him. “I don’t like the fact that you’ve stonewalled my client and dismissed her questions without adequately responding.”
“I have answered them, but Nina is obsessive and delusional,” Emery argued.
Nina flinched, but Slade continued, his voice cold and harsh, “I don’t think so. And I don’t intend to accept anything you say at face value or leave this case alone, not until all of our questions are answered to my satisfaction.” He gestured to Nina. “And if I find out that you withheld information or that you’ve been lying, I’ll be back, and I will hold you responsible.”
Fear flashed in the doctor’s eyes for the first time since Nina had known him. Was he afraid because Slade was right—did he know something that he wasn’t telling them?
SLADE GROUND HIS TEETH as he and Nina left Dr. Emery’s office. “Let’s see if any of the nurses you mentioned are here.”
Nina nodded, and they walked to the nurses’ station. “Excuse me,” Slade said. “Do you have a nurse named Carrie or Jane working here?”
A middle-aged dirty blonde with green eyes glanced up from the desk. “Yes, Carrie Poole, but she won’t be in until tomorrow. And Jane is on vacation and won’t be back until next week.”
“All right,” Slade said. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What do you think?” Nina asked as they exited the building and walked to his car.
“I don’t know yet, Nina,” Slade said. “I don’t like Emery, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s lying.”
Nina’s shoulders sagged, and he pressed a hand to her waist to help her in the car.
“But I meant what I said. I will find the answers.” He offered her a sad smile. “I just hope the answers are what you want to hear. But I won’t lie to you or B.S. you either.”
“Thank you,” Nina said, her eyes sincere. “I know some people think I’m unstable, but I’m not. I just have to know the truth.”
He stared at her for a long moment, grateful to hear the strength beneath the fragile-looking exterior. He had a feeling Nina Nash was a lot tougher than anyone had given her credit for.
Moonlight flickered off her creamy skin and highlighted her golden hair, and a surge of sexual attraction shot through him.
Damn. Not good.
Determined to avoid personal involvement, he jerked his eyes away from her, started the engine and drove back to GAI headquarters.
He parked and told Nina he’d call her in the morning. A storm cloud rumbled, threatening rain, and she thanked him again and climbed from the car.
“Get some sleep,” he called just before she turned away.
But her distressed look indicated that she didn’t expect to rest, that dreams of her daughter haunted her nights.
Slade had his own share of nightmares, and as much as he’d like to comfort her, he wasn’t a hero. The men he’d lost were.
But he would investigate.
Tomorrow he’d ask Gage and Amanda to pull all the police and medical reports from the hospital. Maybe Amanda could use her expertise to determine if Peyton Nash’s body had been among those in the fire.
NINA’S PHONE WAS RINGING as she let herself into her house. Thinking it might be Slade, she hurried to answer it.
But the voice on the other end of the line startled her. William.
“Nina, what the hell are you doing hiring a private investigator?”
Nina tensed at the rage in his tone. “How do you know I hired a P.I.?”
“Dr. Emery called. He’s worried that you’re having another breakdown.”
Nina gripped the phone tighter. “Well, I’m not. And what I do is none of your business, William. You gave up that right the day you walked out on me and our baby.”
“Listen to me, Nina. I don’t need some nosy P.I. in my business, especially asking questions about something that happened years ago.”
“Something that happened?” Nina said, her own fury mounting. “What happened was that your daughter went missing. That I was told she died, but that no one ever proved it or even bothered to look for her.”
“For God’s sake, you need psychiatric help,” William bellowed. “My mother tried to warn me, but I thought eventually you’d come to your senses.”
“Maybe you don’t want me asking questions because you have something to hide,” Nina said between clenched teeth.
William’s breath wheezed with anger. “If you make trouble for me, Nina, I’ll make sure everyone at the school where
you teach knows just what a basket case you are. Do you think the people of Sanctuary will want an obsessive nutcase teaching their precious children?”
Adrenaline sizzled through Nina’s blood. “Are you threatening me, William?”
“Take it however you want, Nina, just leave me alone and tell that P.I. to do the same.”
Nina started to shout at him, but he slammed down the phone, cutting her off.
She stared at the dead phone in her hand, then dropped it into its cradle, paced to the mantel and picked up Peyton’s photo. “I won’t give up,” she whispered. “Not even if William did threaten me.”
In spite of her resolve not to do it, she walked into the bedroom, dragged on her nightshirt then slipped open the drawer where she’d stowed the tiny pink dress with the butterflies on it that she’d bought years ago. The outfit she’d planned for Peyton to wear home. She knew it was crazy to have kept it. Pathetic.
But she crawled in bed, pressed it to her chest and inhaled the sweet scent of fabric softener.
Then she closed her eyes and imagined her daughter coming home.
EIGHT-YEAR-OLD REBECCA Davis fumbled for her glasses, sweeping her hand across the desk in the bedroom at her foster parents’ house. Without the glasses, she was nearly blind. But at least the social worker had gotten her a computer with big print.
She hated the clunky glasses though. They were too big for her face, and some of the kids teased her and called her Four Eyes.
Other kids looked at her with pity just because she was handicapped, and she didn’t have a mommy.
She didn’t want them to feel sorry for her. She did want a mommy though.
She clicked on the keyboard, brought up her journal and began to type.
Mommy, I know you’re out there somewhere. I prayed that you would find me on Mother’s Day but that’s passed, so maybe you will on my birthday.
I don’t like it here. The house is dark and dusty. And Mama Reese says her knees hurt too much to play with me outside. Papa Reese’s cigarettes make my eyes itchy and watery and then I cough, and then he tells me to shut up. They don’t like my singing either.
I have to sing though. I dream sometimes that you’re looking for me. That you didn’t just leave me. That we just got losted from each other, and that you can hear me. That one day you’ll follow my voice and come and get me.
She swiped at a tear running down her cheek. Crying was for babies but sometimes she couldn’t help it. Sniffling and swallowing to hold back more tears, she finished the journal entry.
I know I look kind of dorky, and I’m little for my age, and I can’t run like the other kids. And one of my eyes looks funny because I can’t see out of it, but I take my medicine every day so I don’t have the seizures anymore.
I’m getting better in school, too. I’m only a year behind. I’ve been practicing my writing, and I can almost make the letters right now. I can pour my own cereal and make my own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And I don’t mind wearing hand-me-downs if you don’t have much money.
Please come and get me, Mommy. I promise not to be any trouble.
She saved her entry, then pulled on her pj’s and crawled in bed. Then she closed her eyes and prayed her mommy would hear her this time and come to get her as she began to sing….
Chapter Four
Slade let himself into the fixer-upper house he’d purchased on the side of the mountain. The wooden two-story needed painting, a new roof, the wood floors needed to be stripped and restained and boards needed replacing on the wraparound porch.
He’d thought doing the work himself would be cathartic, but he’d yet to change a thing. Still, the place had character and at one time was probably a cozy home for some family.
He scoffed. As a kid, he’d dreamed about having a home like this. Now it didn’t seem to matter.
But the place was isolated and offered him privacy, as well as an abundance of wide-open mountain air. Something he’d desperately needed after Iraq and the place he’d been kept when he’d been taken prisoner. Cramped, dark, filthy, bug-infested, the stench, the human wastes…
And the blood from the soldiers who’d died trying to save him.
He inhaled a deep, calming breath, the summer air filling his nostrils with the scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers, chasing away the demons from his past. He had a job to do now, and he’d focus on that. Get through the day.
One hour at a time.
He spotted the bottle of whiskey on the counter, and the temptation to reach for it, to pour himself a mind-numbing shot seized him. Just one drink to erase the images in his head.
No… He was done burying his pain. He’d have to learn to live with it or it would destroy him. Then he couldn’t atone for his sins.
Instead, he strode to the workout room he’d created off the garage, yanked on boxing gloves and began to pound his punching bag. The faces of his bleeding and dying men haunted him, and he hit the bag harder, the rage eating his soul, chipping away at his sanity.
He had to learn to control it. Focus. Forget.
No, he couldn’t forget. Forgetting would mean dishonoring the sacrifices they’d made.
He wished to hell they’d just left him to die and saved themselves.
And their wives and families…three wives left alone now because of him.
His sister dead.
His mother gone.
He’d failed them all.
He would not fail Nina Nash.
Her story echoed in his head as he punched and slammed his fists into the bag, over and over, venting his anger over his own past and the anguish he’d heard in her voice.
But you might fail her, a voice taunted. You might because she wants you to find her daughter alive.
And you might discover she really is dead.
He slammed the bag so hard it swung back wildly, then came toward him and he punched it again. Again and again and again until sweat poured down his back and face, until his body ached and blood oozed from beneath the gloves.
Finally, when he’d purged his anger, he ripped off the gloves, went to the bathroom, showered then booted up his computer. He nuked a slice of leftover pizza and wolfed it down with a bottle of vitamin water while he searched news reports regarding infants’ and children’s deaths reported during the past eight years.
He specifically searched for any cases regarding premature births or babies found dead following the hospital fire.
Three different cases caught his eye, one baby who’d been found in a Dumpster two weeks to the day after Peyton had gone missing.
NINA JERKED AWAKE, the sound of the little girl’s singing echoing in her head.
The angelic voice… A song from Mary Poppins…
It had to belong to her daughter.
Or was she imagining it as the therapist had said? Creating a voice that she thought her daughter might sound like and playing it in her head because she couldn’t bear to let her go?
She closed her eyes and burrowed beneath the quilt, willing herself to fall back asleep so she could hear the voice again. Sometimes, the little voice sounded so close that it seemed the child was in the room with her. Sometimes, she knew that if she slept long enough, she would see her face in her dreams, that maybe Peyton could tell her where she was so she could find her.
Instead of the beautiful little girl’s song though, William’s threat reverberated in her head. Dr. Emery had wasted no time in calling him. He’d probably phoned her father, as well.
They’d probably all sighed and made sympathetic noises and lamented over her mental state. For all she knew, they were planning another intervention to convince her to check herself back into the loony bin.
She would not go back there. She wasn’t crazy or demented.
She was simply a mother who needed to find her child.
A noise startled her, and she clenched the covers, certain she’d heard someone outside. The wind whistled, a tree limb scraped her window and an animal howled somew
here in the distance.
She sighed, willing herself to calm down.
She couldn’t lapse into paranoia again, not the way she had after she’d lost Peyton.
But another noise, a creaking sound on the front porch, sent her vaulting up from bed. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the trees shook violently, the sound of rain splattering the windowpanes, making a staticky sound like drums beating in the night.
She grabbed her robe, tied it around her waist and tiptoed to the den, shivering as the air conditioner kicked on. Darkness bathed the room, but a streak of lightning flashed in a jagged line and she froze, her heart pounding.
Had she seen someone on her porch? The silhouette of a shadow?
Fear surged through her, and she reached for the phone.
But the times when she’d called the sheriff flashed back. The way he’d dismissed her fears and ordered her to get some help, then claimed she was inventing shadows in the night.
His calls to her father…the never-ending cycle of his disdainful looks…
She dropped the phone in its cradle, grabbed the umbrella from the stand by the door then slipped the edge of the curtain sheer aside and searched the darkness.
Rain pounded the roof and porch, running in rivulets down the sides of the awning, and down the street a car’s lights floated through the fog, disappearing into the blur.
The streetlight in the cul-de-sac on the other end of the street illuminated wet pavement and another house but its lights were off.
Holding her breath, she listened for signs of someone outside, but the storm raged on, the sound of a cat screeching echoing above the rain. Her heart squeezed, and she slowly unlocked the door.
Keeping the umbrella poised in case someone had been on the porch, she pulled the door ajar and the dripping cat darted down the steps.
Then her eyes widened and a sob gurgled in her throat.
God, no…
A small rag doll lay on the porch in front of the door, a knife sticking through its heart.
A doll just like the one she’d found right before she’d had her breakdown, a doll her father and the psychiatrist had insisted she’d put there as some sort of manifestation of her grief and guilt.
