by Debra Webb
There Once
Was
A
CHILD
A Novel
DEBRA WEBB
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Debra Webb
Edited by Marijane Diodati
Cover Design by Vicki Hinze
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
PINK HOUSE PRESS
WebbWorks, Madison, Alabama
First Edition April 2018
This book is dedicated to my children, Erica and Melissa.
Thank you for giving me a world of inspiration.
Love you always, Mom
There once was a child, frightened and alone.
No matter how good the child was, the child was battered and abused.
In time the child grew bigger, stronger and no longer confused.
And then the child was gone, gone…gone.
Until now.
Table of Contents
Tuesday, May 1 Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
The Child
Wednesday, May 2 Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
The Child
Thursday, May 3 Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
The Child
Friday, May 4 Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
Detective Olivia Newhouse
The Child
Saturday, May 5 Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
The Child
Detective Olivia Newhouse
Sunday, May 6 Detective Olivia Newhouse
The Child
Detective Walter Duncan
Detective Olivia Newhouse
Detective Walter Duncan
Friday, May 25 Detective Olivia Newhouse
Tuesday, May 1
Nashville
Detective Olivia Newhouse
Positive.
I stare at the pregnancy test stick. My hands shaking, my heart pounding.
Impossible.
Then I look at the other three lined up in a neat row on the marble counter with its double sinks and antique bronze hardware. I am pregnant. My eyes close and I move my head from side to side in silent, frantic denial. How could forgetting my pill that one time have culminated in this catastrophic event? In ten years of using birth control products I have been nothing less than diligent. But after my father’s unexpected death I was a wreck for a few weeks. Then there was the move…
The excuses tumble through my brain, all of them irrelevant. None of them change the reality. I’m pregnant.
Only a little, probably. I had a period last month…it was light, shorter than usual, but I had one. Does that count? So how pregnant can I be? What the hell am I thinking? You can’t be just a little pregnant. You’re either pregnant or you’re not.
I. Am. Pregnant. The words echo through me like shotgun blasts.
A knock on the door jerks my head up.
“Liv, are you going to be awhile in there?”
I suck in a sharp breath, grab up the test sticks and shove them into the back pocket of my navy trousers as I rise from my seat on the side of the tub. I remind myself to stay calm while I shoulder into my favorite khaki jacket—the one I wear basically with everything. I pick up my holstered service weapon and slide it onto my belt, then my cell phone and finally my badge.
I check my reflection. Hair in ponytail, I smooth my hand over a few stray strands. Eyes are clear. No sign of the tears I shed last night. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak. Cheeks are a little pale but that goes with the territory of being a blue-eyed blonde. Good enough, I decide and turn away from the telltale mirror.
Cool, calm and collected. I cannot deal with another fight this morning. Last night’s was bad enough. I reach for the door. Except he’s being a prick already and I haven’t had nearly enough sleep or coffee to function properly.
Even as I remind myself that yelling will not help the situation and most likely won’t make me feel any better, I want to do exactly that. There are four other bathrooms in this big ass house for Christ’s sake. You would think he could give me five fucking minutes to myself in this one.
Another deep breath. I open the door and brush past him, lips tight in a fake smile. “It’s all yours.”
I feel his gaze burning a hole in my back as I storm across the bedroom and out the door. It’s barely past six. Early for him. The man I’m supposed to marry in November is the president of Brentwood’s Neighborhood Bank, one of four local banks his family owns. I don’t have to look back to know he’s still wearing his Ralph Lauren pajama bottoms, that his dark hair is mussed and his green eyes are bleary with sleep. I also know from experience that he’ll wait until I’m halfway down the stairs before he decides on an appropriate display of his irritation. The man takes passive-aggressive to a whole new level.
Annoys the crap out of me. Everything about him used to make me happy. I have no idea when that changed. Or why. But somehow everything feels different, off somehow.
“Good morning to you, too!” he calls loudly. Not quite a shout, mind you. Prestons don’t shout. They speak firmly, knowledgeably. They stand their ground.
“Morning,” I grumble, uncaring whether or not he hears me.
He doesn’t have to hear me to know that I’ve responded. He has watched my morning rituals daily for nearly a month now and two or three times a week for about six months before that. He understands I’m inevitably behind and that I mutter when I’m annoyed. He recognizes that I am always as tired when I get up as I was when I went to bed because I never, ever manage enough sleep. I’m a cop—a homicide detective. I eat, drink and breathe my work. And sometimes I manage to sleep with the monsters stuck in my head, but not nearly often enough.
And now I’m pregnant.
Charles David Preston, II, fondly called David to prevent any confusion with his father, Charles, was well aware of these facts before he pushed me to move in with him. Before he insisted it was time we progressed to the next level in our relationship and became engaged. I agreed to all his demands, however grudgingly, for no other reason than to make him happy—not because I don’t want to be with him or that I don’t love him and not even that I’m anything less than as committed as he is. The truth is, I’m not good with change. But I took the plunge into all out rapid-fire commitment…for him. Because he wanted to move up the timeline. Because loving him terrifies me on every single level of my being. And because some part of me has suddenly become convinced that I don’t deserve him and I despise the idea that he makes me feel so fragile in that regard.
This is why his morning ritual bugs the shit out of me.
He dragged me to this new level with his eyes wide open. I am not a morning person. I’m an even worse housemate. I might very well be terrible wife material—I’m certain his parents are still in shock over the announcement.
And I am most assuredly not mother material.
Jesus Christ, I’m pregnant.
This is the real problem. I exhale a ragged breath as I shuffle across the kitchen with its gleaming white cabinets and shiny black-and-white diamond patterned f
loor tiles. From the soaring ceilings to the gleaming wood floors filling most of the luxurious rooms, this classic Belle Meade two-story is every inch the epitome of his mother’s design style. The furnishings alone likely cost more than I make in three or four years of hard work as a detective. Not to mention his top of the line Mercedes parked in the triple car garage.
This is not my life, it’s his and I am not certain I fit into it. How did I not notice this before now?
“What the hell have I done?” I mutter to myself as the panic builds.
My cell shudders against my waist before I can start answering myself. I shove a mug under the coffee dispenser, thrust in the first pod my fingers find and then reach for something else he complains about—the amount of attention I give my phone. The truth is, I haven’t touched my personal cell phone in ages. It’s in a box or a drawer somewhere with zero percent battery life remaining. This is my official work phone issued by the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department.
What am I supposed to do, ignore it?
“Newhouse.” I answer without checking the screen so I can push the necessary buttons to prompt the flow of java. I need more caffeine. The two cups I consumed before going on that test-taking spree just didn’t get the job done.
Something else to worry about, how much caffeine is safe for a pregnant woman? As it is, my stomach feels queasy already. Can I have morning sickness at this early stage?
I scrub at my forehead and wish away the distant ache. A bad headache is coming. I can feel the storm of it gaining strength. Until a few days ago it had been years since I suffered one of these debilitating migraines, but I recognize the precursors. No one who has ever had that kind of migraine forgets. Even now memories of total darkness, puking my guts out and eviscerating pain flicker in my head like a neon sign with loose mercury. The one that hit me out of the blue the day before yesterday brought me to my knees. I was at the farm, packing a few more things for the big move. When the headache struck I had no choice but to close myself up in my old room and ride it out. Hours passed with me basically unconscious, as if I’d fallen into a deep black hole.
David drove to the farm looking for me in the middle of the night, and found me in the darkness. He stayed with me, uncertain what else to do. As much as I complain, he’s a good guy. He loves me. I know this. He just wants me to be this perfectly organized and perpetually punctual person that I am not. He wants my entire focus when I’m home and that’s just not possible. The nature of my work simply won’t allow me to separate my personal and professional lives so completely. I am a cop through and through, on and off duty.
Maybe he has suddenly realized this relationship is a mistake and he wants to make me so miserable I’ll walk away.
Or maybe it’s me subconsciously pushing him away.
Except now it’s not just about the two of us.
“Hey, Liv.” Walt Duncan, my partner. The gruff sound of his voice drags me back to the here and now, makes me smile. He is the one thing in my life at the moment that feels normal, steady.
“I’m headed your way,” he says. “We got a call. Over on Linden Green Drive. Might be just a missing person but there’s a lot of blood according to the uniforms on the scene.”
I drag my steaming mug from under the dispenser. “I’ll be waiting on the porch.”
As I head for the front door David pauses at the bottom of the stairs, that caught you expression on his face. A sigh drains out of me. This—being here, being us—is suddenly, utterly exhausting.
“So you’re leaving? Now? No breakfast? Not even a minute or two for quality time with me?”
I am leaving and I cannot eat for fear of vomiting. If I mention the latter, there will only be more questions. “Got a call. I have to go. I don’t have a nine-to-five job, David. You know this. I don’t understand why my work is suddenly such a sticking point for you, but this is what I do.”
His lips compress for a second, then two while he searches for a different strategy. Christ, I know him so well.
I love so many things about him. Why has everything suddenly changed? Why are we both suddenly so determined to torture each other?
“What about all these boxes, Liv?” He gestures to the pile a few feet away. “Are you ever going to unpack and actually start living here or is this nothing more than the new place where you shower and sleep?”
I consider the stack of boxes I reluctantly packed and moved from the farm where I grew up to his stately foyer right here in Belle Meade where so many of Nashville’s rich and famous reside. The boxes do sort of block the view into the dining room. The drab brown color certainly clashes with the elegant décor. I’m certain it drives him crazy. Not to mention the unsightly mound of cardboard is the first thing anyone who drops by sees. Appearances are a true sticking point in our relationship. Since moving in I’ve come to see that everything always, always has to be just so. He thrives on hosting elaborate dinner parties and attending all the right social functions. I don’t know why I didn’t notice this before I said yes. Maybe because I am rarely more than a drive-by at any of his grand social gatherings. Work always got in the way and he didn’t seem to mind. Now he minds. Everything I do is wrong.
This morning, however, the boxes are merely something to use as fuel for a fight. He can’t really yell at me for doing my job.
Not fair, Liv. You aren’t exactly making any of this easy.
I look into his green eyes—the eyes that charmed the pants right off me the first night we met—and remind myself that I love this man. I plan to spend the rest of my life with this man. Evidently, I will be bearing his child.
Guilt straddles my shoulders so I walk over to him, go up on tiptoe and give him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And I will unpack the boxes. Soon. See you later. Gotta go.”
Then I walk out the door.
He says nothing. He’s pissed.
But I’m the one who’s pregnant.
A couple minutes later Walt’s Tahoe enters the u-shaped drive and stops in front of the house. I hustle down the steps, leaving my mug on the porch. I’ll hear about that decision tonight but I have no desire to go back inside and continue the fight that actually started last night—which is exactly what would happen. I want to delay the wedding from the day after Thanksgiving until April of next year. I told him I needed more time. Clearly, we both do.
Of course that was before the pregnancy tests I took this morning, all four of which I tucked inside a trash bag in the bin next to the garage while I waited for Walt. It’s not that I don’t like kids and don’t want any of my own. It’s not even that I don’t want to get married. I’m just not certain now is the right time. This year has been insane. My father died not even three months ago, the month before that I turned thirty. On top of those life-altering events I agreed to marry the man I love and move into his house—into his life. I feel as if my life is spinning out of control. All I want is to slow things down a bit.
Except now the timeline is completely out of my control.
The throb in my skull deepens as I climb into the passenger seat and reach for the safety belt. I push away the madness of my personal life and study my partner as he guides his SUV away from the house.
“You look like I feel,” I warn.
He glances at me, his eyes bloodshot, his face haggard. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
I breathe a laugh. “Me, either.”
I continue my scrutiny of him as he drives through the damp streets. Apparently it rained after I went to bed about two this morning. Walt left the office a little while before me. I finalized our reports on the now closed homicide case that kept us beating the bushes for almost two weeks.
Based on those bloodshot eyes of his I think maybe Walt’s old buddy JD kept him up a while. That happens a lot lately. I don’t ask. If he wanted me to know whatever’s going on he would tell me. This is a concept my fiancé doesn’t grasp and certainly cannot appreciate. Walt and I—th
ough separated in age by three decades—completely understand each other. We respect each other. There’s no “ball room” in our relationship. It doesn’t matter to Walt that I’m female or that I’m half his age. We’re equal. Of course, I’m well aware he’s the experienced detective of thirty-odd years and I’m the newbie with only two under my belt, but he never flaunts that detail. He treats me as a peer in every way.
“Jack can be a real ass kicker the morning after.” I turn forward and sink into the seat. Walt’s a grown man, turned sixty on his last birthday. If he decides to drink more than usual—far more frequently than is normal for him—it’s none of my business. I don’t doubt his ability to have my back for a second. He’s the best. I just worry about him, that’s all. Since his wife died, he’s had a hard time dealing with life outside of work.
“What’s your excuse?” He flashes me a quick grin.
“Trust me.” I fold my arms over my middle as if I fear he might be able to see the answer without me saying a word. “You do not want to go there.”
“More trouble in paradise?” He chuckles. “I’m not sure your fiancé knows what he’s getting himself into marrying a dedicated cop like you.”
I grunt. I have no desire to discuss my personal life this morning. Way too complicated. “So what’ve we got?”
“Uniforms were dispatched for a welfare check. They arrived and found the back door open, nobody home and a considerable amount of blood in the kitchen so here we go.” He shrugs. “No big surprise considering the neighborhood. We’ve worked the area before. Last October, if memory serves.”
I remember. Last time it took a week to determine that the wife was the killer. The diminutive woman hadn’t looked like a killer. The vic was a big guy—six four, two hundred plus pounds—a drug dealer. The wife had waited until he was passed out on the couch one night, and then put a bullet in the back of his skull with his own backup piece, a .22. Discovering that fact might have been a fairly easy step had she not worn elbow length rubber gloves to prevent any risk of gunpowder residue on her skin. To be completely certain she covered her tracks, she even went so far as to burn the clothes she’d been wearing at the time. Then she claimed she had spent the entire night at her sister’s. The whole family backed up her alibi. But by day seven she came forward and confessed. Said it was her Catholic guilt. She ended up getting a plea deal for providing information on her husband’s drug connections.