by M. S. Parker
They hung right in the front of the tree, all three of them. Mom, Dad, and me.
The presents were piled under the tree: Dad’s gifts were wrapped in red, Mom’s in green, and mine in purple. Mine were always in purple. It was hard to find purple holiday wrapping paper, but Mom always managed to do it.
They weren’t up yet, but that was part of the tradition. I’d wake up and tiptoe downstairs, trying not to wake them up. Not until I made them breakfast. Every year, I got a little more ambitious. Last year, I made toast and cut up some grapefruit. This year, I was going to make cinnamon rolls. Mom had bought frozen ones for me to put in the oven. This was the first year I’d been allowed to use the oven by myself, but I still wasn’t ready to make the rolls on my own.
Maybe next year.
It was the smell that pulled me out of my dream and into reality. Or maybe it had been the smell that had made the dream. It was true either way. That Christmas had been one of the best I’d ever had.
The cinnamon rolls had been perfect, and the pride on my mom’s face when I’d taken them into the bedroom had made me happier than any of the gifts under the tree. They’d been great gifts too. A new softball glove to replace the one I’d outgrown with my last growth spurt. Tickets to a Pacers game for Dad and me. A few DVDs I’d wanted.
The scent of cinnamon rolls brought it all back.
I rolled over, letting sleep slough away naturally instead of forcing myself awake. It was Christmas morning, and I wasn’t sure if today would be able to top yesterday. It had been the best Christmas Eve I’d experienced since before my mom died. Uncle Anton had done his best to keep the holidays from being awful, and he’d done a great job, but the shadow of what happened had always been there. Last night, however, it had faded behind everything else.
“Good morning.” Jalen smiled at me as he brought in a tray of cinnamon rolls. “I figured we could have breakfast in bed.”
“If those are any good, we’ll make a mess of these thousand-thread-count sheets,” I warned him. “Sticky is what makes them good.”
His eyes darkened from their normal turquoise to a color halfway between sapphire and emerald. An exquisite shade that turned my insides to mush.
“I think that’s a good rule of thumb about anything,” he said, his lips curving into a wicked smile.
I laughed as I pushed myself up into a sitting position. He came toward me, and I wasn’t sure what made my mouth water more, the food or the sight of him wearing only a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms. I’d taken the matching shirt last night after we’d cleaned up, but he apparently hadn’t grabbed another one before heading to the kitchen.
“I’m serious about the sheets,” I said as he set down the tray and climbed onto the bed next to me.
He shrugged. “I think I can afford a new set if these are ruined.” He cut off a bite of the roll and held the fork out to me. “I can’t take credit for making these, but the bakery I got them from is amazing.”
I opened my mouth and let him feed me. He was right. They tasted amazing. Ten times better than the frozen ones I’d baked all those years ago, but the taste still made me remember. Except this time, I was able to remember without the grief, and even without the emptiness that sometimes took the place of the sadness. The nostalgia was bittersweet, but I could feel the difference. I wasn’t moving on, but I was ready to build a life, and this was one of the steps to doing that.
“What’s the schedule for today?” I asked as we shared our breakfast.
“Nothing specific,” he said. “My mom and I talked yesterday before I picked you up. She and Armando did a quiet Christmas in Barcelona. Today is all about us. Whatever we want to do.”
“Whatever?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He made a ‘why not’ gesture as he finished the bite of cinnamon roll he’d just put into his mouth.
“Can we open presents next?” I asked, aware that my question made me sound more like a child than an adult.
He licked frosting from his lips, a smile curving his mouth. “We can.”
“And then make love in front of the fireplace?”
He moved the tray and then rolled over me, pulling me beneath him. “Mind if I amend that to making love in every room? They’ll get jealous if we don’t.”
I slid my hand down his chest, my eyes on his as I moved below the waistband of his pants. My fingers wrapped around his cock, and he sucked in a breath.
“This is a pretty big house,” I said, stroking him. His cock swelled under my hand, and I wet my lips. “Are you sure you’re up for the challenge?”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how up I am?”
I gave him a not-so-gentle squeeze. “I have a decent idea.”
When his mouth came down on mine, I could taste the cinnamon and sugar on his tongue, and I arched up against him. His fingers made their way between my legs, probing and finding me more than ready. Without breaking the kiss, I shoved down his pants and pulled him to me. We groaned as we came together, bodies aligning effortlessly. I was already sensitive from yesterday, and by the end of today, I knew I’d be sore, but I didn’t plan on holding back.
We were going to make it a Christmas to remember.
Twenty-Two
They laughed from the shadows. Lurked and laughed. Both of them. All of them. They held knives and needles in their hands to cut and poke and hurt and kill.
My hands and feet were free but frozen in place. I stood in the center of the darkness, surrounded by shadows. They reached for me, stabbed me, cut me. My mind flew as drugs invaded my bloodstream, sending me soaring. Even as the world circled around me, I felt every jolt of pain, every tearing muscle.
He ripped me apart, piece by piece, yanking out my insides, breaking my bones. I screamed in agony but made no sound. He was killing me, and I wanted to die. Death would be better than this. Anything would be better than this…
I jerked awake with a gasp of relief. My body throbbed with phantom pain that had, moments ago, been as real as the bedspread under my hands. I fell back against my pillow, concentrating on breathing, letting the nightmare loosen its hold.
It’d been harder than I thought, going back to sleeping alone after the last couple nights. It had been tempting to settle in at Jalen’s place, to not ask him to take me home on Christmas night. If I hadn’t told Maggie to come into work yesterday, I wasn’t sure I would’ve come back yet. Despite my lack of sleep the last two nights, I knew it’d been the right move. Jalen and I were working toward something serious, something I hoped would one day lead to us living under the same roof, but we weren’t there yet.
I still didn’t know exactly what drug Serge had given me while I’d been prisoner, but whatever it was had done a number on my sleep cycle. I’d had more nightmares since then than I’d had in a few years. They’d fade again, I knew, but for now, I was done sleeping.
I reached over and turned on the light. It was still early, but I had plenty to do to pass the time. I’d kept up with the basic cleaning since I’d been back, but I hadn’t done much in the way of anything else. That seemed like the perfect way to spend a couple hours until the office opened. Some mindless physical exertion to clear my mind.
I’d just gotten out of the shower and dressed after having thoroughly dusted, swept, and scrubbed everything I could think of when someone knocked on my door. I checked the time to make sure I wasn’t running behind, but I had a half-hour before Maggie was due.
“Clay, what are you doing here?” I blurted out the question before I realized how it sounded. A gust of wind made me shiver, and I folded my arms to warm myself up. “I mean, come in. It’s freezing out there.”
“Thank you,” he said as he stepped inside. He rubbed his hands together, then cupped them in front of his mouth and blew on his fingers.
“Want some coffee?” I asked as he bent to take off his boots. “I just made a fresh pot.”
“That’d be great, thank you,” he said. “Just a spoonful of s
ugar, if you don’t mind.”
“I remember,” I said with a smile.
The first time Clay had come over to the loft to work on the case that had introduced he and Anton, my uncle had asked me to make them coffee. When Clay had asked for a spoonful of sugar, I’d been unable to resist making a Mary Poppins joke. Anton had apologized for me, mortified I’d said something like that to an FBI agent. Clay, however, had just laughed and said that he’d never made the connection. Mary Poppins had been his favorite movie when he was four and five years old. He’d worn out his family’s copy of it. Anton had harassed him about it every time they had coffee together after that.
I glanced at Clay and saw a reflection of my own nostalgia on his face.
“I miss him too,” he said quietly. “He’d be so proud of you, you know.”
I shook my head. “Not after what happened at Quantico. There was a lot he and I didn’t talk about, but when we did, we were always honest with each other. He would’ve been ashamed of me for lying.”
“We all make mistakes.”
I handed him the mug of coffee. “We do.”
Our eyes met, and I knew we didn’t need to talk about things anymore. What happened was in the past, and it would stay there.
“Not that I’m not glad to see you,” I said as I took my coffee to the sofa, “but what brings you here this early?”
“News.” He sat down next to me. “The task force the bureau put together raided an auction last night and got their hands on the books for the trafficking ring that had you. Sixteen people were rescued, and we have the names of the people who bought the rest of the group you were with. Warrants went out an hour ago, and arrests are being made as we speak.”
I stared at him, unsure if I understood him correctly. “You got them?”
His expression was far too sober for it to be all good news. “We took down six traffickers and twelve potential buyers, including two that matched your descriptions of the scrawny guy and Yerik, but no one named Serge.”
I was glad to hear about the rescued people and the arrests made, but the fact that Serge was still out there didn’t sit well – obviously. I took a moment to compose myself before saying anything. I didn’t want to seem like I didn’t appreciate the work the FBI had done. In the whole scheme of things, one kidnapping wasn’t at the top of crimes Serge and his men had done.
“That’s great, Clay,” I said with a half-forced smile. “Hopefully the guys you arrested will be able to point you in the right direction to find Serge.”
“The federal prosecutor on the case is already laying out a couple deals for information.” He set down his mug. “We already got something out of Yerik though. Not about Serge. About you.”
“Me?” I wasn’t sure what Yerik could’ve told the FBI about me that would’ve been of interest. They already knew I’d been drugged and beaten. Okay, maybe I said some strange things when I’d been high, but I couldn’t think of anything the FBI would want to know.
“When you were mugged a couple weeks ago, it wasn’t some random attack.”
A chill crept over me. “What do you mean?”
“Yerik told us that one of the other men we’d arrested had been sent by Serge to scare you. Apparently, Serge had thought that if you were mugged while on a case, you’d decide that it was too dangerous to continue working as a PI. And it was some payback too, for rescuing Meka and the other girls.”
Oh.
“Serge said his employers weren’t happy with me,” I said, releasing the tight grip I had on my coffee mug. “I didn’t understand at the time. I’d thought that my dad had sent him, but Serge kept acting like he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Serge was the point man for this particular group, which means he has direct contact information for the people above him.”
Which meant he’d probably cut a deal. While I would love to see him rot in prison for the rest of his life, I understood the importance of cutting off the head of the snake, and that wasn’t Serge.
“You’re absolutely sure that one of the men you arrested was the guy who mugged me?”
“He had that personalized keychain of yours on him. He said his name was Ronald, and he’d run out of money partway through the engraving. We managed to convince him that no jury would believe that load of bullshit and that we’d build a kidnapping case against him. He said he was just following orders and told us everything.”
I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved that I hadn’t been subjected to two random violent encounters or worried that the man who’d been responsible for both was still out there.
“We’ll get him,” Clay said. “I promise.”
I nodded. I believed him, but I had a feeling I would never feel completely safe until Serge was found.
Twenty-Three
Clay’s news from yesterday should have kept me on cloud nine for a while, but most of what I’d felt after he left had been numb. I supposed it made sense, not really knowing how to feel after such a sudden change in the case, but when I’d gotten up this morning, I still felt like I was just going through the motions.
Maggie had come in this morning full of her usual bounce and levity, and I’d been tempted to ask her to leave simply because I wasn’t sure I could handle her today. Instead, I’d smiled and told her that if no one came in by noon, she could go home. She’d said goodbye less than twenty minutes ago, leaving me alone in the office.
I barely noticed the difference.
I’d made progress on my whiteboard by steadily making my way through a list of every Scott Browne in the area where Salome had sent Helen eight years ago. It wasn’t a name as common as John Smith, but it wasn’t exactly overly unique either. According to Salome, he was the one whose name went on the birth certificate as the biological father since his partner was half African-American, half-Haitian, and the baby was white. If, by some chance, he and Michael Farmer had split up, the child would’ve most likely stayed with Browne.
The next one I found was in Nunn, Colorado, not too far from the address Salome had given me. I dialed the number, and after the second ring, a kid answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak to Scott Browne, please?”
“Just a minute,” the child said politely before yelling, “Dad! Phone!”
This was a landline, I realized with surprise. This probably wasn’t the family I needed. I didn’t know of anyone under the age of thirty-five who still had a landline. This Scott Browne was probably the little kid’s grandfather, not father.
“This is Scott Browne. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Hi, my name is June Lewis, and I’m calling from the Foundation for LGTBQ Adoptive Services.”
“Uh, I’ve never heard of them.”
The hesitation was small, barely noticeable. I probably wouldn’t have even registered it if I hadn’t been paying close attention.
“It’s a new foundation,” I said, working to keep my voice upbeat without sounding overly hopeful. I had to keep up my cover.
Contacting adoptive parents was difficult enough, but I was dealing with an illegal adoption. The parents of Helen’s last baby, whoever they were, had to be worried about legal ramifications if they were caught, not to mention the possibility of losing the child they’d raised for the last eight years. I needed to be careful I didn’t scare them away.
“Our foundation has been specifically created to assist LGBTQ families looking to adopt, and ones that have already adopted,” I continued with the spiel I’d created for this specific task. “Our records show that you inquired about adoption a decade ago, but nothing more recently.”
I paused, waiting for him to say what the other Scott Browne’s had said. That they didn’t have kids. That they hadn’t adopted kids. They weren’t interested in adoption. They weren’t gay.
“My husband and I had been considering adoption, but we ended up going with surrogacy.”
I didn’t think I imagined the nerves I heard beneath
his words. “I would still love to talk to you in person about the ways you and your family could support the foundation.”
“But, my daughter is not adopted.”
Yeah, my PI’s intuition was pinging off the charts. He was on edge.
“That’s all right,” I said cheerily. “You don’t have to be an adoptive family to support the rights of LGBTQ families to adopt.”
“Of course, we support – look, send me an envelope with an address where I can send a check. I’m not really interested in doing anything else.”
The call ended before I could say another word. Someone else might’ve chalked it up to Scott simply not wanting to talk to someone he considered a solicitor, but my gut said there was more to it than that.
I needed to go to Nunn and make visual confirmation.
An hour later, I parked across the street from a nice, two-story house. Salome hadn’t met Scott or Michael in person or seen a picture, but Scott had provided a few identifying features for Helen, and then Salome had given them to me. They weren’t much, but they should be enough to confirm whether I was on the right track.
I planned on waiting for hours, sitting in the car until it was either too dark to see or until someone got suspicious. This wasn’t exactly a busy street, so I was guessing it’d be the latter.
To my surprise, however, I hadn’t been there more than forty minutes before the front door opened and three people came outside. The little girl wore a hat, but some of her chestnut brown hair had escaped, blowing wildly in the wind.
One of the men had darker skin and a lean, lanky body. I could hear his laugh even though my windows were closed, and the sound of it made me smile. The other man was stocky, probably a good three inches shorter than me, with broad shoulders and a bit of a gut that his bulky coat didn’t disguise. His hair was a burnished copper, and he had the sort of fair skin that the sun probably wouldn’t be kind to.
