The Cop's Missing Child

by Karen Whiddon

  “So what you’re telling me is that you aren’t one hundred percent sure you have a legal right to your boy.”

  Just hearing the words made Emily feel as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She wanted to double over, and only a supreme act of willpower kept her standing upright.

  “I—” briefly she closed her eyes “—I don’t know.”

  Now Mac pushed back his chair and stood. As he moved closer, she figured he meant to shake hands and held hers out accordingly.

  Instead, to her complete and utter shock, he wrapped his muscular arms around her and gave her a quick hug.

  “I’ll keep this information between us for the time being. Right now, our focus is on finding whoever wrote you that letter and broke into your house.”

  Blinking back tears, she stepped out of his embrace and nodded. “Thank you.”

  Expression enigmatic, he simply watched her, as though waiting for her to say something else.

  Chapter 4

  Not reacting as Emily bared her soul to him was one of the most difficult things Mac had ever done. Only years of training and working on the streets enabled him to keep his face expressionless. When he’d impulsively hugged her, he half expected her to shove him away and order him to leave.

  Instead, she finally nodded and thanked him. He felt thankful that she had no idea of the emotions swirling inside him. He couldn’t stop marveling, amazed and humbled by the way he felt now that he’d finally gotten to see his son—after five years, three months and twenty days of missing him and wondering what had happened to him.

  One look and he’d known. Even though he hadn’t yet taken the DNA test, he knew Ryan was his. Gazing at the dark-headed boy, he saw his wife, Sarah, in the boy’s chin, the tilt of his head. And Ryan had Mac’s eyes and nose and the full head of dark hair, exactly as Mac had when he’d been a child.

  Maybe soon he could reclaim what he’d lost, and they could be a family together.

  Then he glanced at Emily, painfully aware of the way she and Ryan interacted. She clearly loved the child she considered her son, and the feeling was mutual. For the first time, Mac wondered what kind of damage he would cause if he tried to take Ryan away from the woman he called Mommy.

  Emily cleared her throat, bringing him out of his tangled thoughts. “Well, then. What’s your plan?” One brow raised, she waited, a study in contrasts. Her delicately carved facial structure seemed at odds with her lush, passionate mouth. Her short, spiky haircut didn’t go with her faded jeans and high-collared blouse.

  Eyeing her with as much professional dispassion as he could muster, he cleared his throat. “I have a few more questions about your life before you moved here.”

  “I see.” Appearing resolute, she indicated the kitchen table. Graceful and willowy, her exquisite beauty made her appear both fragile and wild. “Go ahead.”

  “I need to know...” He paused, searching for the right words. The question he wanted to ask her was one he’d wondered ever since he’d learned she’d adopted the infant he believed was his son. “I need to know if you knew there was something unusual about where your son came from.”

  Was that guilt that flashed across her mobile face or sorrow?

  “No,” she said.

  He decided to continue to press her. “You never questioned your husband?”

  “I never had a reason to, before all this started.” Her careful, measured movements spoke of the depths of her agitation. “You have to understand that being married to a man like Carlos Cavell came with some benefits. One of these seemed to be the ability to cut through a lot of red tape. When we originally applied to adopt an infant, we were told it could take up to three years.”

  Keeping his expression neutral, he nodded. “And how long in actuality before you were told about Ryan?”

  “Six months.” She looked down, as though her answer was somehow shameful. And maybe it was, he thought, because any sensible, rational woman should have suspected something was wrong. Or would they?

  “Did you go through the same agency that you initially applied to?”

  Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, she still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Honestly, at the time, I didn’t even question anything. I was just so overjoyed to be getting a baby of my own.”

  Waiting, he eyed her while she took a deep breath, then looked down. “Actually, I’ve been unable to make any of the records he had in Ryan’s file match up with anything even remotely concrete.”

  Squinting at her, watching for even the slightest sign that she was hiding something, he waited. He’d long ago learned in situations like this that silence seemed to generate more answers than questions.

  Finally, after appearing to be lost in thought, she raised her head and again met his gaze, her big brown eyes soft and defenseless and absolutely beautiful. He felt an unwilling jolt of attraction, which he quickly suppressed.

  “You must have your own thoughts about that,” he said, his even tone belying the importance of the question. “Where do you think Carlos got Ryan?” His heart pounded as he waited to hear what she would say.

  “As I mentioned, my, er, husband had a mistress. Actually, more than one.” She gave him a stiff smile, unable to disguise her worry and her hurt. “I’m thinking that Ryan is actually Carlos’s son with one of them. He must have forced her into signing the adoption papers. Now she wants her son back. Honestly, if that was the case, I can’t help but feel sorry for her.”

  Startled, he managed to keep his expression non-committal. “That’s one possibility,” he said, though in truth he knew it wasn’t. “We’ll definitely check into that.”

  She nodded. “Look, Mac—I mean, Deputy Riordan. I don’t understand any of this.” Though she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, the quiver in her voice, whether genuine or artificial, made him want to comfort her. No doubt, he thought cynically, that was what she’d hoped for.

  Chiding himself silently, he tried to remember he wanted to keep an open mind. There was a chance, no matter how small, that she might not have known that her baby had been stolen right out of the hospital nursery. Emily Gilley could be, as unlikely as it might seem, entirely blameless.

  Plus, there was one other thing he needed to consider. When Renee Beauchamp had sworn him in as a deputy, he’d taken an oath to protect and serve. No matter what crimes he suspected Emily Gilley of committing, he now had a sworn duty to help her with her current situation, which, he admitted to himself fiercely, he would have regardless. Because anyone threatening her also threatened Ryan.

  He needed to get to know her, try to figure out what kind of person she was and if she could have knowingly taken someone else’s child and claimed him as her own.

  Someone else’s child. He gave himself a mental shake. It was time to stop hiding from the painful truth.

  If what he suspected was factual and Emily Gilley had stolen his son from the hospital nursery, then Ryan Gilley was actually his son, the only family he had left in the world.

  Mac could only hope this was true. Otherwise, he had no lead to go on, no chance in hell of finding his boy.

  While he’d searched for his missing child for five years now without success, he’d begun to despair of ever actually finding him—especially as time went on.

  This, too, was his fault. He couldn’t help but blame himself. If he’d been more vigilant, he would have managed to keep his son safe. But everything had happened so damn fast. The car crash that had killed his wife, Sarah, had consumed him, and he’d barely acknowledged the baby they’d been able to save. Occupied with an awful grief, he’d buried Sarah, meanwhile trying to figure out how on earth he was going to manage a tiny infant. The day after the funeral, the hospital had called him with the news.

  His baby had gone missing right out of the nursery. His department, his own coworkers—people he’d worked with side by side, day in and day out—had handled the case for him since he’d been banned from working on it.

  As if that had
stopped him. But when lead after lead hadn’t panned out and years had gone by, he’d gradually begun to lose hope until his partner, Joe, had uncovered information leading to Emily Gilley and her adopted son, Ryan. Everything—from the adoption shrouded in secrecy, to the time frame and age of her child—pointed to her.

  All he needed was proof. And truthfully, he also wanted to know why. He couldn’t imagine what kind of twisted, desperate need would drive someone to steal another’s child.

  Looking at Emily Gilley with an instinct he’d honed after years of police work, he wouldn’t have thought she’d be capable of such a heinous act—her husband, maybe, but not her.

  The need for answers had been gnawing inside him for months now. If he could prove without a doubt that her son, Ryan, was actually his boy, the infant he and Sarah had decided to call Taylor, Mac intended to get him back in his life—no matter what.

  * * *

  The longer she sat across from Mac Riordan in her brightly painted kitchen, the more uncomfortable Emily became. This room, with its deep red walls and clean white cabinets, had been the only one she’d bothered to change in the rental house. She’d made the kitchen into her sanctuary, envisioning casual meals and noisy children’s birthday parties and early morning cups of coffee while the sun rose.

  Now, with the big man wearing the deputy sheriff’s badge pinned on his impossibly broad chest sitting across from her, the kitchen suddenly seemed too small, closed in, almost alien. She felt as if she were actually seated in a police interrogation room, being questioned about some crime that she hadn’t committed.

  Ridiculous. Her imagination, always exaggerated, wasn’t doing her any favors here. After all, she had done nothing wrong.

  But a certain cynical look in Mac’s bright blue eyes made her feel culpable somehow, which again, was absurd. She was the victim here, not the perpetrator.

  She didn’t know the man, so how could she even think she could decipher any expression in his vivid gaze?

  While he appeared lost in thought, she studied him. His prematurely gray hair, rather than aging him, gave his craggy face character. Just one look from his sapphire eyes brought a visceral shock that she felt deep within her belly.

  He unsettled her. It was strange and disconcerting, too, to say the least. These feelings were entirely unwelcome. She had no business being attracted to a man—any man—when her life was entirely in turmoil.

  “All right,” he finally said, appearing to reach some sort of decision. “Let’s talk about suspects. We’ve got potential mistresses. Earlier, you mentioned some guy you went on a blind date with. Tell me about him.”

  She sighed, thinking of her failed attempt to be normal. “I’m pretty sure Tim is harmless.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Instead of fixating on the way his mouth quirked appealingly at the corner, she swallowed. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, because she needed a distraction. “I’ve got iced tea, lemonade and water.”

  “Water would be great.”

  Glad she was able to occupy herself by filling two glasses with ice, then the cold water she kept in a pitcher in the fridge, she turned and placed their drinks on the kitchen table.

  He reached for the glass. “Thank you,” he said, drinking deeply. She found herself watching the strong lines of his throat as he drank. “About this Tim. What’s his last name?”

  “Keeslar. Tim Keeslar. My friend Tina set this up. You’ve met her. She’s a waitress at Sue’s Catfish Hut.”

  He nodded, writing down the last name. “Tell me everything you know about him.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Please.” He touched the back of her hand, his fingers both protective and soothing. “Humor me.”

  “He’s tall and slender, longish dark hair. Not bad looking.” She shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “He owns his own home and drives a big Ford pickup.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He owns the auto-parts store on Fifth Street.”

  After noting all this, Mac looked up, brow raised. “And he’s single? Has he ever been married?”

  “I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. We only went out twice.” She rubbed her suddenly aching temples, trying to remember. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s okay. I can easily find that out. Tell me why you thought he might be your stalker. You said he liked you way more than you liked him.”

  Feeling foolish, she relayed how, after declining a third date, Tim suddenly started popping up everywhere she went. “If I went to a movie with Jayne or Tina, Tim was there. I couldn’t go anywhere—the grocery store, the dry cleaners, downtown—without running into him.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that.”

  He asked a few more questions. He was very thorough, and she liked the way he carefully noted her responses.

  “Now do you take me seriously?” Emily asked him quietly, amazed at her sense of relief now that she’d gotten everything off her shoulders.

  He gave her a sharp look and a frown. “Emily, I’ve always taken you seriously. I’d be a fool to do anything else.”

  Then, while she was puzzling over his cryptic statement, he drained the last of his water, stood and dipped his chin. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and let himself out.

  * * *

  Driving back to his fledgling trucking company, Mac mulled over the dramatic change that had occurred in his life—almost overnight. Originally, he’d come to Anniversary with no plans to ever work again in law enforcement.

  Using his savings, he’d started up a trucking company, specializing in flatbed freight hauling. To his surprise, business had been good—so good, in fact, that earlier that week he’d decided he needed to hire his first nondriver employee. He needed someone to book loads both through trucking brokers and directly through shippers using not only the phone but personal contacts and the internet. This meant he had to find someone with trucking experience who didn’t want to be a truck driver.

  This was not a small order in a town the size of Anniversary.

  He had an interview scheduled that afternoon with the first person to respond to his ad, a young man named Chris Pitts. According to the résumé he’d emailed, his father and two brothers were all truckers, which of course made Mac wonder why Chris wasn’t.

  He had an immediate answer to that question when Chris rolled into his shop in a wheelchair.

  “Old football injury,” he said in response to Mac’s questioning look. “Can’t climb in and out of a truck. Also, my body can’t take the pounding of the road. But I can still work, just not as a truck driver.”

  “As long as you keep my trucks loaded, you can do laps around the yard in your wheelchair if you want,” Mac responded. When Chris grinned, Mac knew that, barring any real oddities in the interview, he’d found his dispatcher.

  Even better, Chris wanted to start work immediately.

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll be here.” The two men shook hands, and Chris wheeled himself out. Following, Mac watched as the younger man used a specially equipped van. He stepped forward, but Chris waved off his offer of assistance.

  “I’ve got it. I’ve been doing this on my own for a few years now.” Chris flashed another big grin, and after stowing his wheelchair via an electronic lift, waved and drove away.

  Watching him go, for the first time in far too long, Mac thought his life might finally be on the right track. He was once again doing the kind of work he’d been born to do and—even better—his job gave him up close and personal access to not only Emily Gilley but Ryan. He couldn’t have planned things better if he’d tried.

  * * *

  After Mac left, Emily tried to put her house back in some semblance of order. At odd intervals, tears threatened, which infuriated her as she angrily wiped them away. How long would she and Ryan have to pa
y for a greedy, unethical man’s misdeeds? She’d been naive and foolish when she’d married Carlos Cavell, looking past the gaping inconsistencies between what he told her and the reality of his actual life.

  In fact, she’d been so willingly blinded that it wasn’t until after Carlos’s death that she’d learned not only had he kept more than one longtime mistress but he’d been involved in some shady if not outright illegal deals and left her in debt up to her eyeballs.

  The chain of restaurants that she’d believed provided their income were barely functional, losing money and, if the NYPD were to be believed, operated as a front for Carlos’s money-laundering operations. There’d been debts and deals and a stack of unpaid bills.

  She’d been in the process of selling everything, including her lavish home, when the first threat had arrived. To her horror and shock, the double-paged rambling missive had hinted that she’d somehow stolen her son. This had so terrified her that she’d rushed to check the adoption records even before contacting the authorities.

  All the paperwork on Ryan’s adoption appeared to be in order, but appearances were deceiving. After making a few phone calls and doing some online research, she learned the adoption broker listed had never existed.

  In other words, the adoption papers were entirely fake—forged by Carlos or his associates. For what reason, she had no idea.

  Truth be told, she really didn’t want to know. Ryan had come to her an infant and, at the time of Carlos’s death, was still a tiny human being who was her son—body, heart and spirit. They were linked in deeper ways than mere flesh and blood.

  She couldn’t take a chance losing him.

  So she’d kept silent about the threats, continued liquidating her assets, paying off the debts and making plans.

  Then when she had nothing left to tie her to Manhattan, she and Ryan had gotten up one morning and quietly disappeared.

  Now that four and a half uneventful years had passed since she’d left, she’d begun to relax, to allow herself to feel safe.