by L. G. Davis
“Give me my baby, and I swear I won’t tell a soul.” That’s a promise I don’t intend on keeping. I’ve been running from a crime I didn’t commit, buried in guilt that doesn’t belong to me. She has to face justice.
“You think I’m some kind of fool?” Lightning flashes in her eyes.
“No, I don’t. I meant what I said.” A question pushes itself to the forefront of my mind. “Why didn’t you just kill me years ago? Why wait this long?”
“I wanted you to build a life you love so I could blow it apart, piece by piece. I followed you from the hotel that morning, all the way to that crappy motel, and then out of town. And I had my eyes on you the entire time over the years. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment. My job was made so much easier by the people who don’t like you in this town. There’s nothing money can’t buy.”
It hits me like a bullet that the people I suspected, including Lilliana, could all be involved. They were her puppets. Lilliana was probably the one who stole my key from my desk drawer and gave it to this monster.
“It was so much fun to destroy your marriage; now I’m going to take your child, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“You’re sick,” I roar. “You’re crazy to think you can steal my child. My brother and Dylan are dead because of you. You deserve to rot in prison.”
“That’s how you want to play this little game?” A corner of her mouth twists into a smile. “In case it hasn’t hit you yet, you are in a rather fragile state.” She places a hand on my stomach and presses down.
A scream splits the air in the room. It takes a moment for me to recognize it as my own. When she releases the pressure and lifts her hand, I spit in her face, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have closed you up. I should have left you to bleed out.” She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing lipstick over her mascara-smeared cheek. “You’re useless to me now, anyway. But I wanted you to know the truth. I wanted my face to be the last one you see.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I hear a baby crying from somewhere in the house.
My baby is alive. Tears of both joy and fear well up in my eyes. My body goes slack with relief.
Dr. Fern ... no, Tracey Pikes heard the cry, as well. She rises from the chair. “My baby needs me. I’ll be back.”
“Don’t you dare touch my child.” I reach out to grab her hand, to claw into her flesh if I have to, but she steps back before my fingers touch hers.
“Don’t hurt ... don’t hurt her.” I bite back tears. “Don’t you dare!”
She throws me a disgusted look and storms out of the room. The door slams behind her. I hear a click as she locks it.
I want to scream for her to open the door, to bring back my baby, but I force myself to remain calm. She’s too sick to reason with. I need to come up with a plan that will get her away from my baby and me without us getting hurt in the process. I have to find a way to alert the cops.
CHAPTER 45
I grit my teeth to contain the pain that’s rendering me immobile. I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep, so weak I could barely lift an arm.
Physical pain is much more bearable than the pain of knowing she’s out there with my baby. It’s been two hours since she locked me up in the room. I can’t find my cell phone anywhere nearby, but I know the time from the traditional alarm clock Jared always insisted on having at his bedside table.
For some reason, he never trusted the alarm on his phone to wake him up at the right time. I’m glad he didn’t ditch the clock when I made fun of him. At least I can keep track of time.
I can’t just lie here, waiting for something terrible to happen ... for Tracey, the monster, to hurt my baby girl.
Every time I hear my daughter crying, my heart weeps with her, and my stomach clenches as though it wants to protect her, releasing cramps that make me twist with agony. An hour ago, it got so bad I was tempted to take the painkillers. I didn’t cave, though. How can I trust she’s not trying to poison me?
Another desperate cry from my baby slices through the air again, seeping through the cracks in the door. A surge of anger and desperation triggers the flow of adrenaline in my veins. My baby is all alone and helpless. I need to get to her. I’m the only one who can get her out of this dangerous situation.
Biting back a tortured scream, I push myself to the edge of the bed. It’s excruciating trying to sit up, but I manage it, sweat trickling down my temples, tears sliding down my cheeks. To hell with the pain. I need to be strong for both my baby and me. She’s all that matters to me right now.
I need to find a phone and reach out to someone—hopefully, the cops. I can’t let Tracey get away with this. She needs to be punished for all the crimes she’s committed, including that of robbing me of my life and freedom. The thought that she killed my brother still burns like a raging wound inside me. But Ryan is dead and gone. He’s not coming back. Unlike him, I still have my life. I still have a chance to start again, to live a life of complete freedom. I just need to survive this night—my baby and me.
Once I get to my feet, my knees threaten to give way. My stomach feels like an empty sack. I wrap my hands around it, holding it in place even though my skin hurts to the touch. I’m only dressed in a bra and foreign, mesh panties. My gaze travels to the bathrobe draped over the back of the armchair, but I don’t think I’m in the condition to dress myself right now. Being half-naked is the least of my problems.
I blink away the rush of dizziness and take small steps forward, following each with a ragged breath and a clenching of the teeth. I can do this. It’s not over yet.
My bags have been thrown into a corner, including the diaper bag that had fallen to the floor when labor pains hit. It takes forever for me to get to them, but I do. I take a moment before bending down to pick up my handbag with one hand while the other still holds on to my stomach. Looking down, I notice a drop of blood at my feet. I’m terrified the stitches have opened. What if the wound becomes infected? Shifting my thoughts from my body to my baby keeps me focused on what has to be done. This is my chance to do the right thing.
If I end up dying while trying to save my baby, it’ll all be worth it. Sacrificing my life so she can live is a price I’m willing to pay. I force myself to believe that Jared will find out that he’s the father and take great care of her. The thought of my child growing up without me brings tears to my eyes.
My fingers connect with the leather handle of the handbag. I clench my jaw tighter as I lift it. Returning to the bed is even harder than when I left it. Determination gets me there, though. I spill the contents of the bag onto the bed. My phone is not among them. I can feel the blood drain from my face.
My God, what am I going to do now? How can I reach out to the outside world without a phone?
I return the bag to where I found it. She can’t know that I’m trying to escape. She probably thinks I’m too weak and in pain to do anything but stay in bed.
Hopefully, she doesn’t come back to the room before I’m back under the covers.
Still holding my stomach and myself together, I shuffle to the door, checking to see if she really locked it. I stagger back, disappointed.
My next stop is one of the windows. By the time I reach it, I’m on the verge of passing out. My heart is thudding so loudly in my ears the sound drowns out my baby’s cries. I draw in several shallow breaths. Breathing deeply would cause my stomach to move too much.
I pull open the window, the one overlooking Ruth’s cottage. Sea air wafts into the room. It dries the tears on my cheeks.
All the lights in Ruth’s house have been turned off, which is not surprising since it’s late at night. She must be asleep. I consider screaming in case someone out there hears me, but that could be a mistake. For all I know, Tracey could be standing on the other side of the door. If she bursts into the room, I won’t be able to physically fight her off. The knife I used to keep underneath my pillow is
gone, so is the baseball bat, and the hammer. The only weapon I can use right now is my head.
The sound of Tracey yelling breaks through the walls, shaking me to the core. I need to go back to the bed, pretend I never left it. I pray she doesn’t notice the drops of blood on the floor. I quickly close the window again and shuffle back to the bed.
My heart breaks when the shouting is followed by more heart-wrenching screams of my baby. Back under the sheets, which are now stained with blood, I clutch my chest and force myself to breathe. I want to shout for Tracey to stay away from her, to scream at the top of my lungs. But I saw Tracey’s monster eyes. She wouldn’t think twice before killing my daughter if she feels betrayed. I hate to hear my daughter crying, but at least that way I know she’s alive.
The cries only get louder and more desperate. My decision to stay quiet falls apart.
Sobbing as well, I return to the window. Since the baby is crying, maybe Tracey won’t hear me. I can’t leave any stone unturned. I have to try. It’s complete torture to raise my voice above a whisper, but I don’t give up.
“Help me, please ... somebody. She’ll kill us.”
The lights in Ruth’s house stay off. My voice dies to mere whispers. I failed. I need to try something else. Every second counts. An image of the spiked champagne bottle from the past brings an idea to my mind.
I shuffle to the bathroom, stepping over beads of my blood and teardrops.
My baby is still crying, but the sound is no longer as desperate.
I breathe out a sigh of relief as I sink against the bathroom wall.
After catching my breath, I push away from the wall and move to the medicine cabinet.
The first thing I see is a bottle of painkillers. I remove one pearly white pill, push it between my parched lips. I’m about to fill a glass with water to wash the pill down, but I stop. On the other side of the bathroom wall is the nursery. She might hear the faucet running. Knowing I can’t have a drink reminds me just how thirsty and hungry I am. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink for hours.
Ignoring my body’s need for nourishment, I reach into the medicine cabinet again. All the way at the back I find the blue bottle with Jared’s sleeping pills. Thank God he didn’t take them with him.
I have no idea how many pills I pour into the palm of my bloody hand. I don’t have time to count. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I need to act fast. She could decide to return anytime. Although, she seems to always be a step ahead. Maybe she already knows I’m out of bed and trying to get out of here. I don’t get why she’s stayed away so long.
Focus, Caitlin. Don’t think about her. Do what you have to do.
I use the bottom of the glass that holds our toothbrushes to crush the pills to a powder, which I pour into a small plastic bag I found inside the cabinet. I push the bag into my bra, between my breasts. I leave the bathroom with a few more painkillers in my hands, which I hide under my pillow for when the pain worsens.
Back in my bed, I think of what to do next. Given that I’m in a vulnerable position physically, I’m hoping I might be able to disarm her with the pills. My plan is to get her to drink them. The only problem is that I have no idea how to get the powder into her drink. I could end up failing big time.
The baby starts to cry again—much louder this time. She sounds like she’s in pain. My hands moved to my throat, clawing into my skin. Sobs rake my body as I call for Tracey to let my baby go. Only whimpers come out. My message doesn’t reach her.
I cover my face with my hands and pray that God will save my baby.
Five minutes later, in addition to the baby’s cries, I hear footsteps. She’s coming back. Thank God. Her face is the last thing I want to see, but I’d rather she’s in the room torturing me than with my daughter. But the sounds of the baby crying are pushed up another notch, getting louder by the second. Could it be Tracey is carrying her?
Before I can figure it out, the door is unlocked and swung open. My question is answered. Tracey is standing there, my daughter in her arms.
My little girl is wrapped in a fluffy, white blanket I bought her online.
Tracey’s hair is just as wild as her evil eyes.
“Make it stop,” she growls. “It won’t shut up.”
“Okay, okay.” My words come out in a rush before she can change her mind or worse, drop my baby to shut her up. “Bring her to me.” I raise my arms, desperate to hold my little girl for the first time.
Tracey stumbles across the room and drops the baby onto my stomach. I wince in pain, but it’s immediately erased by the joy surging through me as I pick up my baby and look into her small, flushed face.
As soon as our eyes meet, she stops crying. My own tears flood my eyes as I pull her close. She’s here, she lived. And Tracey was right; she’s gorgeous.
“Give her the breast,” Tracey barks. “She’s starting to get on my nerves. She won’t take the damn bottle.”
“What ... what do you plan to do to us?” I ask. I make sure to hold her gaze as I position my baby at my breast, careful to keep the little plastic pouch with powder from falling out. The baby is confused for only a second before latching onto my breast. She knows where she belongs.
“Don’t you listen?” Tracey tugs at her hair as though I’m getting on her nerves. From what I can see, she has pulled at it quite a few times in the past hours. “The baby is coming with me.”
“How about me?”
She reaches behind her and comes back holding a handgun. She must have had it in the back pocket of her jeans. I tense up inside. “For three days, you’ll feed my baby. I want her to be strong enough to travel to New York with me. After that, I no longer have a need for you. So, I’ll send you where you should have gone years ago, to the place your brother is now, deep in the ocean.” She surveys the handgun. “By the way, this baby is the same one he used to end it all. It was a gift from me to him.”
CHAPTER 46
I wake up from a disturbing dream, drenched in sweat and in more pain than I can bear. I don’t remember the exact dream, but it was about Ryan. And there were gunshots. Maybe I was reliving the day he was shot, the day that changed everything.
I reach under the pillow for the last painkiller. It’s hard to swallow it down with not enough saliva in my mouth.
Two days have come and gone, and I’m freaking out because I didn’t get the chance to knock Tracey out with the sleeping pills. She only comes into my room every three hours to bring the baby for feeding. Sometimes she treats my wound and changes the dressing on my belly. I don’t understand why she bothers. She plans on killing me anyway. Once a day she also brings me a few slices of bread with watery soup.
My body is weak, and I’m desperate for more food, but when I asked for more, she took away the last piece of bread I had left. At least I have water to drink. Though still painful, it’s getting somewhat easier to move around the room now, to go to the bathroom for a drink or to use the toilet.
I hang on to the hope that my chance to get Tracey out of our lives will come soon. The mere sight of her makes me sick. She won’t even let me look into my daughter’s face while breastfeeding. Last night, I tried to kiss my baby’s head, but a hard slap across the face made me regret it.
“Don’t you ever kiss my baby,” she shouted. “You are nothing but the surrogate.”
My only comfort is that at least I get to see my baby. That’s enough for now.
I glance at the clock. It’s 9:00 a.m. Four hours have gone by since she brought the baby to me.
I hate not being able to keep her with me, to protect her. I miss gazing at her big, blue eyes, which remind me so much of Jared’s.
Finally, my little girl’s cry reaches me before the door opens. I ache to hold her in my arms again. It’s comforting to hold her, to know that I’m not alone in this. Having her close reminds me that I have to come up with a plan. I have to succeed at whatever I decide to do so as not to endanger her life. I haven’t named her. Her name just hasn’t co
me to me yet. I’ll choose a name when my heart is free from darkness. Or am I afraid to name her only to lose her?
The door opens, and Tracey walks in with her in her arms. This time she doesn’t bring her to me. Instead, she sits in the armchair. Her eyes are on me as she unbuttons her shirt—my shirt, actually.
My breath catches in my throat. She can’t possibly be doing what I think she is.
“Let me feed her,” I beg her.
“I’ll take care of it.” Her eyes cloud with more evil than I’ve seen in anyone’s eyes before.
“But you can’t—”
“I can. I’m her mother.” She’s rocking back and forth, her eyes on my child.
I shake my head, disgusted. I guess her actions shouldn’t surprise me. She clearly has some mental problems. Why would she think she can feed my baby when she hasn’t given birth to her?
“Come on, let me do it.” I bring my hands together in a begging gesture.
“I said I’ll take care of it.” Her voice is a loud whisper. The baby struggles at her breast first, then settles down. But since there’s no milk there, she becomes fussy and starts to scream, rejecting the breast.
Thunderclouds flash across Tracey’s face. She moves the baby to her other breast as if that would change anything. The same thing happens. She only makes the baby more upset.
“Bring her to me, please.” I hold up my arms. “She’s hungry.”
Tracey doesn’t say anything as she stands up, buttoning the shirt with one hand. Her face puce, she drops the baby into my lap, then turns to look away from me.
I quickly open the buttons of my cream pajama top. Last night, after she changed my dressing, I begged her for a pair of pajamas. I was surprised when she gave them to me.
My baby latches on immediately and starts to suck, her chubby little hands holding on to me.
Tracey turns again, hands on hips, her glare hot against my skin.