The Finding Emma Collection (Books 1-5)

by Steena Holmes

When did her life screech to a halt? Normally, she’d be busy with meetings and errands. But then again, that would be during the school year, when the Safe Walks program was up and running.

  As she watched through the kitchen window at her daughters playing, Megan rubbed at the knots in her neck. The scene felt surreal. She pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Startled, Megan whirled around to find Laurie standing in the doorway to her kitchen holding two iced lattes.

  “You scared me.” Megan caught her breath and then reached for one of the drinks.

  “Really? I couldn’t tell.” Laurie smiled before leaning over the island counter, pushing some papers out of the way.

  Megan turned back toward the window to watch her daughters. The girls sat in a circle on the grass, picking the pesky yellow dandelions around them. Daisy’s head was in Emma’s lap, her tail thumping the grass.

  “Poor kiddo. This must all be hard on her. Is she adjusting?”

  Megan shook her head. She was beginning to wonder if she ever would adjust. Did Emma wish she were back at that farm, living with those other people? Megan wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but will you ever let him see her?”

  Megan clenched her fists when she saw Laurie holding Emma’s latest drawing.

  She snatched the drawing out of her friend’s hand. “No.” Of course she wasn’t going to. Why did everyone assume she would? He might not have physically taken her daughter, but he kept her. For two years. He didn’t deserve to see Emma.

  There was a look in Laurie’s gaze that Megan didn’t like. A look she’d seen too often.

  “He had her for two years. I only just got her back.” Megan dared Laurie to disagree with her and was surprised to see her only shrug her shoulders.

  “True.” Laurie took a sip of her drink. “You should make him wait at least two years. An eye for an eye.”

  Megan nodded. That was her sentiment as well.

  “Of course, you might as well tell Em that he’s dead, since he probably will be by then.” The edge in Laurie’s voice was unmistakable. The smile disappeared from Megan’s face.

  “That was harsh.”

  Laurie took her drink and stood at the patio doors. “I know.” A sad smile crossed her face. “We promised way back when that we’d always tell each other the truth, even if it hurts. Remember? I think you need to let go just a bit. It’s eating you up inside.”

  Megan shook her head. She wasn’t ready to let her fear and hatred go. Kathy had told her not to rush it, that it would come. Just like the day Emma would leave her sight and it wouldn’t hurt so much. So she wasn’t rushing; there was no reason to. Emma was home where she belonged: with her family. Her real family. And that was all that mattered.

  “Are you going to mail that one?” Laurie nodded her head toward the picture Emma had drawn for Jack. It was a pathway lined with flowers, similar to the ones that Emma had helped Jack plant at his farmhouse.

  “You’re pushing me too hard.” She thought about the letters she had mailed during that first week; Emma had written to Jack at least once a day. After the tenth one, Megan suggested they space out the mailings, especially when the first letter from Jack arrived for Emma. Megan had panicked and hidden it, only to have Peter find it and hand it to Emma who had lit up like a Christmas tree. She’d held on to that letter for days, even taking it with her to bed.

  Laurie shook her head. “Someone has to. Honestly, Megan, I’m starting to get really worried about you. You rarely leave the house, and when you do, it’s always with Emma by your side.”

  Megan crossed her arms. Emma was only five years old; it wasn’t like she could leave her home alone. Besides, Megan went grocery shopping last night alone while Peter was home with the kids.

  “Plus, you’ve canceled every girls’ night we’ve scheduled in the past month.”

  Megan frowned. She didn’t cancel every one. Just the last two, maybe three, times that Laurie had tried to plan one. Okay, so she had canceled every time. But it wasn’t all her fault.

  “Sorry. I have to work around Peter’s schedule. If Hannah was a year older, I’d feel more comfortable with her babysitting.” Megan shrugged, hoping Laurie would see past her weak excuse and accept her apology.

  From the frown on Laurie’s face, it didn’t look like she had.

  “She’s eleven years old, Megan. She’s old enough to stay at home alone for an hour with her sisters. And we’re only ever just down the block at the coffee shop. It’s not like we would be across town.”

  Megan shook her head. No way. “She’s not twelve yet, though. I won’t let her babysit any of the neighbors’ kids until she’s twelve, so why would I let her watch ours? I’m just not comfortable trusting her with . . .” She covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes widened. She did not just almost say that.

  “Not with Emma.” Laurie said for her. “That’s what you meant to say, wasn’t it?”

  Megan sagged against the kitchen counter, her body weighed down by guilt. Life was slowly getting back to normal, so why couldn’t she? Tears slid down her face, and when Laurie came to stand in front of her, she tried to smile, but when her friend’s hands wrapped around her shoulders, she leaned in.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Her throat hurt from trying to hold back the emotion. The last thing she needed was for the girls to walk in and see her like this again.

  Laurie rubbed Megan’s back, a soothing circular motion that reminded Megan of how she’d calm her own girls when they were upset. Megan pulled away, wiping her cheeks before hugging herself.

  “All I seem to do lately is cry. It’s probably why Peter is hardly home anymore. He leaves early and comes home late. He’s been put- ting in long hours, using the excuse that Samantha is overwhelmed with new deals. But he probably doesn’t want to come home to an emotionally disturbed wife.”

  Laurie snorted as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a container they both knew held Megan’s stash of emergency chocolate. “Emotional, yes. Who wouldn’t be? But disturbed? Far from it. Give yourself and Peter a break, would you? Since the day Emma disappeared, your life has been a virtual roller-coaster ride.”

  Megan reached for the chocolate Laurie handed to her and put it down on the counter. As much as she wanted it, she wasn’t about to waste the sweet morsel. It would taste like sawdust in her mouth.

  She shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Laurie checked her watch before reaching over to hug Megan. “Tonight is cheap night at the theatre. I want to see that new chick flick that’s out. Come with me.”

  Megan shook her head. “Peter’s working late again. Some deal he’s trying to close or something.”

  Laurie bit her lip. “I don’t understand. Why isn’t Sam helping more? She’s the one who should be working late nights, not the husband with three children and a wife who rarely sees him.” She crossed her arms and frowned.

  Megan agreed. It made perfect sense to her. Unless Sam was the reason Peter was staying so late. “Not much I can do,” she said.

  Laurie shrugged her shoulder. “Then what about tomorrow night? Tell him you need him home, and don’t give him a choice. We can even go to the late showing if that will help.” She reached for her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “I won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even bother trying.” She waved before walking out of the kitchen.

  Megan shook her head as Laurie left. The door shut, but the alarm didn’t go off. That bothered her. It meant Peter hadn’t set it when he left or locked the door. It would also explain why she hadn’t heard Laurie come in. With a quick check into the backyard to make sure all the girls were there, Megan headed to the door, locked it, and then entered the code into the panel. How could Peter not set the alarm? He knew how she felt about that. Especially with Emma back home.

  A stack of mail on the table by the door caught her
attention. Laurie must have grabbed it from the mailbox and set it down. She picked her way through the bills but stopped when she found an envelope addressed to Emma from Jack Henry.

  There was no way in hell she was giving Emma this letter. How dare he write Emma again? Didn’t he understand what his letters did to her daughter?

  After the first one, Emma would wait for the mailman to come to the door; if there wasn’t a letter for her, she’d run up to her room. Megan found her once hiding in her closet, her face burrowed in her knees as her shoulders shook from the sobs she tried to keep quiet. It was easier after that to keep the letters from her. Kinder to Emma, Megan told herself.

  She clenched the envelope in her hand and went upstairs to her bedroom. What if Emma had found the letter first? She laid the magazines and bills down on her bed but kept the offending piece of mail. Her fingertips were white from their tight hold. She opened the door to her walk-in closet and reached up for a box on the high shelf. She opened the lid and dropped the letter on top of the others.

  When was he going to stop? What would it take? Last week, during one of her late-night grocery runs, she’d driven to his farmhouse and dropped a note in his mailbox. Megan had sat in her parked car and stared at the dark house. She hadn’t really looked at the place and its surroundings the day Detective Riley had asked her and Peter to meet him there. But in the evening, with the sun setting, Megan’s heart ached.

  This was where her daughter grew up for two years, in the country, surrounded by flower gardens, trees, and open fields. She pictured her little girl playing in the front yard, chasing butterflies or picking dandelions. Now, when Emma told her stories of when she’d help Jack pick weeds and sing songs to his rosebushes, Megan could picture it.

  She knew Emma had been happy in that run-down farmhouse— happier than she was at home now. She needed Emma to become settled back at home, to adjust, to smile, and to be willing to create new memories. She needed Jack to respect her wishes as Emma’s mother. Apparently, he didn’t.

  He could write all the letters he wanted to her daughter, but she would guarantee that Emma never saw them.

  He’d kept Emma from her for two long years. It didn’t matter that her child had been happy and well cared for. It didn’t matter that she had been loved by strangers. The fact of the matter was that he’d kept her daughter from her. She hadn’t believed him when he’d said he had no idea; that he’d believed Emma was his granddaughter. Megan had listened to him try to explain how Emma had come to them and how he’d never thought to question his wife. How could he not? If Peter hadn’t put his foot down after the investigation, Megan would have pressed charges.

  No. Jack Henry would never be a part of their lives, and Megan would do everything she could to ensure that.

  Three

  Emmie’s First Year July 25

  It’s my birthday today. Jack surprised me with fresh scones and tea. He took Emmie into town with him to the bakery, even though he’d promised me he wouldn’t take her out in public. It’s not safe. He knows how I feel about Emmie leaving the house. It’s not often he goes against me like that. It’s our responsibility to shelter her as much as possible. Her laughter, the way her eyes light up when she smiles—I don’t want that to ever go away. Not like it did with Mary.

  Jack understands. I know he does.

  I’ve been told I need to spend some time today away from the house, and that there is going to be a special surprise for me, and I can’t be home while they do it. Or make it. I hope Jack will bake me a cake. On our first date, we picnicked near the stream on his father’s land, and he’d baked me the most delicious vanilla cake I’ve ever tasted. Even after all these years, he holds his mother’s recipe close. I’ve tried to get him to write it down for me, but he refuses. Says it requires a magic touch. I’ll be sure to leave the coconut out on the counter, though. I’ve got a hankering for a coconut cake today.

  Emmie wanted to know what I would do, since I can’t stay at home. I really have no idea. It’s been a long time since I spent the day just by myself with nothing to do. Jack and Emmie are downstairs making a list for me. I already know what Emmie will suggest—a stop at the local bookstore. Jack handed me some money to buy myself a dress or two. But Emmie needs clothes more than I do. That child grows like a weed, just like Mary did.

  I think the first thing I will do, though, is drive down to the lake. There’s a place I like to go; it’s special in some way . . . I wish I could remember how. The memory is there, I can feel it, but no matter how hard I try, it slips away from me.

  There’s a little tree that’s been freshly planted in the wooded area just before you step onto the sand. I noticed it the last time. My mother used to tell me how important it is to plant a tree when a loved one has passed on. I think I planted it, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I was thinking of my mother that day, of how much she loved the water. But I have two trees in our yard—one for her and one for Daddy.

  Maybe Jack will know.

  The creak of the old wood rocker broke the silence. Jack knew he should turn on the radio for company, but there was something in the air tonight; a restlessness he couldn’t quite understand.

  It was a night for memories.

  He sank his head back on the worn chair and closed his eyes. Fairies danced before him, their lights flickering as they twirled in the air, or so Emmie used to say. The fairy lights were just Christmas lights Dottie had unearthed from who knew where—lights that he had spent hours tacking onto the wall—but it made their little girl happy to have those lights in her room.

  He could almost feel the weight of her body snuggled in his lap, ready for a bedtime story. She’d curl up nice and close, her legs either tight underneath her or hanging loose over his knees as she rested in the crook of his arm. She’d help him turn the pages in the story, but first they had to close their eyes and wait for the fairies to dance—a silly game, but he indulged her all the same.

  Jack still went upstairs every night to read Emmie a bedtime story. He didn’t dare tell Doug or Kenny, men he considered almost brothers. He knew of course that she wasn’t here anymore, but one moment he’d be down in the kitchen and the next he’d be opening her bedroom door to check on her. Seeing the empty bed covered with the stuffed animals she left behind nearly broke his heart every time.

  He snuggled the floppy-eared bunny Emmie had given him on the day they’d packed her suitcase and sighed. He missed all three of his girls so much that it sometimes hurt physically. He never thought he could lose so much in such little time. He had just started to grieve for his Mary when Dottie had collapsed and was taken to the hospital. Then he’d had to give up Emmie, only to have Dottie pass away in her sleep, oblivious to his pain and the turmoil her actions had caused.

  Or maybe she did know. Deep down, Jack suspected Dottie could no longer live with the guilt. That was why she never woke up from her coma. That was why, just moments before she breathed her last breath, she squeezed his hand three times in succession. The doctors said it was involuntary—a reflex. But Jack knew it had been her private good-bye, her final “I love you.”

  He just wished he’d had the chance to say goodbye back. To tell her he loved her and that he understood why she did what she did. Not that it was right, but that he understood.

  With a groan, Jack pushed himself up from the chair, his old bones creaking from the exertion. He went to Emmie’s bed and laid the bunny on the pillow, smoothing its fur. He knew it was silly, but he’d promised his little girl that he would take care of her bunny. He’d never broken a promise to Emmie, and he wasn’t about to start.

  He thought about the letter on the kitchen table, half-written. Did she know that he had planted a rosebush in his front garden just for her and that he’d cut the first bloom the other day? Did she even receive his letters?

  Probably not. He knew if he was in her parents’ shoes, the last thing he would do was allow his daughter to remain in contact with the people who took her away. T
he media labeled him and Dottie kidnappers, but if only they knew. Jack’s hand trembled at the thought. It killed him to admit that kidnapping was exactly what Dottie had done, despite all her good intentions and her unstable state of mind. He and Dottie had been vilified in the media and had their life scrutinized, but no one really understood. How could they?

  He thought back to that day in the hospital, shortly after Dottie’s death, when he’d seen Emmie. He’d been there to bring flowers to one of the nurses, his way of saying thank-you. One moment his heart had been heavy, and the next a tiny pair of arms had wrapped around his waist. He knew then that it was his little girl. He didn’t know how, but he thanked God anyway. He wished she had held on a little tighter, a little longer, just so he could savor the memory a little bit more. He wished he could take back the words he said, telling her that her grandma was gone. It wasn’t fair of him to share his grief with his little girl. Not like that.

  Jack went downstairs to make a cup of tea before bed. It was a heavy burden to carry, knowing that he’d been instrumental in tear- ing a family apart. He’d never forgive himself for that. He should have known when Emmie first came home with Dottie that something was wrong.

  “Oh, Dottie-mine, you sure made a mess of things.”

  Jack didn’t like to be alone. Lately, the silence bothered him. He’d confessed to his doctor that he had been talking to Dottie as if she were there with him, and he’d been ready for the doctor to say it was time for a nursing home. But the doctor only nodded and said it was normal—as though people talking to the dead was something he was used to hearing about. Jack shook his head at the thought. Back in the day, if his daddy had started to talk to his momma after she’d passed away, everyone would have said he’d lost it. But nowadays, it was “normal.”

  He pushed aside the dishes in the sink to make room for the kettle and filled it with water. If Dottie were here, she would have smacked his hand for leaving dirty dishes lying around. But then, if Dottie were here, there would be no dirty dishes.