The Death of Life (The Little Things That Kill Series, #2)

by Pamela Crane

  The creak of the backdoor opening told her it was time. Then Mommy and Daddy appeared in the doorway, Mommy clutching her belly and Daddy holding a duffel bag. Giana was already halfway across the yard before Daddy spoke, a half-moon smile widening his pink face.

  “Giana—it’s time for Baby to arrive! Are you ready to go?”

  As she yipped with delight, she knew it was going to be the Best Part of her life.

  Chapter 13 Ari

  My fingers hovered over the keyboard. After finishing my shift at the police station, my eyeballs ached and my head drummed an angry beat. I’d been prone to migraines and anxiety ever since I was ten, and I knew a bad one was coming. The slow burn across my temples, the intensifying throb, my lunch churning wickedly ... soon I’d be seeing stars and hiding my eyes behind a sleeping mask while sipping warm ginger ale laced with crushed painkillers.

  While waiting for two migraine pills and a coffee to kick in, I had typed into People Finder every possible name and location combination I could think of for P. Baxter in North Carolina, but there were simply too many choices.

  Peter Baxter. Patrick Baxter. Philip Baxter. Paul Baxter. Hundreds of Baxters.

  So I had narrowed it down to age, selecting only the ones who would be an approximate parenting age. Still, way too many names, way too many variables. I didn’t even know if the ones who bought Giana lived in North Carolina. Somewhere George had to have a file on these people, but where? Would my father have copies? Or had they destroyed all traces of a paper trail once the cops got wind of their flesh-peddling enterprise?

  A gut feeling told me the Baxters were the ones who had Giana—if that was even her legal name—but it would take a bit more digging to find them. I pulled up the pictures I had taken of pages in the ledger. Another name had gotten my attention, mainly because of the date. The same day the deposit was made by the Baxters. Only this time it was a withdrawal. Perhaps it was made to a lawyer who drafted up fake birth records. Or the person who delivered the baby to the family. There was only one way to find out.

  The keys clicked as I punched in E. Peterson, Durham, North Carolina. Only three names popped up on the screen:

  Edward Peterson. Eleanor Peterson. Evette Peterson.

  I first searched any records on Edward, discovering he was in his early twenties. I jumped over to Facebook to see if he had a profile, and sure enough, he was on social media. His profile said he worked at Duke University in the technology department. Too clean-cut for what I was looking for.

  Next I checked out Eleanor Peterson, a single woman in her mid-fifties. As I dug a little deeper, I found her association with several local midwifery groups on Facebook and LinkedIn. A midwife—an interesting fit for the timeline. I slid the puzzle pieces together, creating a picture of how it all connected. George would have hired someone to deliver the baby who was discreet, someone professional but not corporate. Someone he could easily pay to keep quiet.

  A midwife.

  In particular, Eleanor Peterson.

  I jotted down her last known address and checked the time. Not even five o’clock. I could be there before dinnertime if I hurried. With a quick pit stop at the ladies room, I stood in front of the mirror to check my face and hair, which was a blond frizzled mess from the humidity that smothered eastern North Carolina like a wet blanket. My brown irises were islands in angry red seas. I wondered if I was coming down with a cold, or if it was just the sleeplessness catching up with me while I tossed and turned worrying about my father.

  Why he deserved my nighttime fixation, I couldn’t explain. No one understood it—not Tristan, not Tina, not even me. No matter how angry I was at his decision to cut me out so long ago, someone was after him now. I couldn’t let whoever it was get to him.

  Rummaging through my faux brown leather hobo bag that fit my entire makeup collection, a variety of feminine hygiene products—which I warned Tristan about in case he ever felt tempted to look through my purse without asking—and my eReader to occupy me during my lunch hour, I pulled out some basic primping necessities. Running a brush through my hair, some eyeliner on my lids, and pressing a hot paper towel to my cheeks, I shook off the exhaustion and tried on my best private investigator imitation:

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m Private Investigator Ari Wilburn, and I’d like to speak with you about your relationship with George Battan,” I rehearsed, rolling my eyes at how ridiculous I felt. I sounded like a bad actor on a cancelled television series. It was time to take Tristan’s advice when it came to interviewing people: be myself.

  “You’re charming, witty, and down-to-earth. Don’t feel the need to force a persona. Just be you. Wonderful, amazing, smart, superstar you,” he had reminded me again and again, though I never believed it.

  Sometimes I really didn’t deserve him.

  **

  Eleanor Peterson lived in a cute two-story gray brick home down a long winding driveway lined with wildflowers, monkey grass, and copses of pine trees green with life. I parked in a graveled pull-off next to a fenced-in garden brimming with herbs and vegetables thriving in moist black soil, a minty scent that reminded me of childhood when I opened the car door. As children we’d had an herb garden comprised of mint, rosemary, basil, and oregano, which Carli and I helped dice for Mom’s meals. Beyond the garden was a row of beehive boxes, very active ones that I made sure to stay far away from. After being stung on the eyelid during a neighborhood softball game as a child, bees and I weren’t on the best of terms.

  A broken stone walkway led to a screened-in porch that was home to an array of clay pots in every shape, size, and color, and at the end of the porch sat a pottery wheel. A bee suit hung on one end of the wall, and a dirty white shelf lined the rest of the way, littered with gardening tools and birdseed. A woman of many interests, apparently.

  After I knocked on the screen door, a woman answered, an earthy sort of lady in a flowing pastel skirt and loose flowered blouse that reached her knees. A leather belt cinched the waist, creating a tailored, chic look. Her long brown hair was parted perfectly down the middle. A braided leather headband and granny glasses completed the picture of a gracefully aging flower child.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Hello,” I began, forcing my best authoritative voice. “My name is Ari Wilburn. I’m looking for Eleanor Peterson—the midwife.”

  Glancing at my flat stomach, her eyes narrowed. “You don’t look pregnant, dear.”

  “Well, actually, I’m an investigator looking into a man by the name of George Battan. I believe you know him?”

  A frown creased her smooth face. With skin like that at her age, apparently her back-to-nature lifestyle had paid off. Maybe I should consider less pizza and more salads. “I’m confused. Are you with the police?” she asked, her tone blunt.

  “No, ma’am. I’m a private investigator. No formal connection to the police. More like an independent contractor.” Well, maybe not yet, but I was aspiring to be one. She didn’t need to know the difference.

  “Then I have nothing to say to you.” She stepped back to close the door, but I grabbed the jamb and held it.

  “Please, Ms. Peterson.” I dropped the act. It wasn’t working and I was growing desperate. This was my only lead, slipping through my fingers. “I need your help finding a little girl. A girl I think you helped deliver three years ago.”

  She stopped and looked at me, empathy in her emerald eyes. She sighed, and I watched the guilt wash over her.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Through my father, Burt Wilburn.”

  “You can assure me this conversation will be confidential?”

  “I promise. Girls Scout’s honor,” I vowed, holding up three fingers like I’d seen kids do. I had never been a Girl Scout, but it seemed befitting a promise.

  Nodding me inside, she opened the door wide and stepped aside to let me in.

  “You seem pretty young to be in law enforcement.”

  “I get that a lot. I gue
ss I lucked out finding my passion at so young an age.”

  “And your parents approve of you being in such a ... dangerous field, dealing with criminals and such?”

  “You don’t look like much of a criminal to me.” I grinned big and received a faint Mona Lisa smile back.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” she deadpanned.

  Eleanor guided me through the house toward a sitting area where several tastefully mismatched chairs dotted the room. There was a funky futon with built-in magazine racks overflowing with seed catalogs and copies of Mother Earth News. Colorful teal and orange pillows nestled in the corners of each piece, reminding me of an Indian sari. I was really starting to like this lady.

  “Do you like tea? I make a smooth herbal blend from scratch. No pesticides either.”

  I’d never once given thought to pesticides or hormones or chemicals in my food, but I appreciated the effort. Considering how young Eleanor looked compared to me—thirty years her junior—I figured maybe I should start caring.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  While she busied herself in the kitchen, I meandered around the living room, noting how uncluttered it was. No family photos. Few knickknacks. Just some artistic pieces purposefully placed on end tables and shelves. Some painted landscapes on the walls. A bookshelf of books on medicine, midwifery, herbal remedies, plant care, and other topical odds and ends. She was definitely more well-read than I was, considering my bookshelf held two college criminal justice textbooks and the rest of the space was dedicated to my shoe collection.

  Eleanor flitted in from the kitchen carrying two gorgeous mugs of tea and set them on the “coffee table,” a repurposed electrical cable spool she had whitewashed. “Sit!” she commanded, then pattered back to the kitchen.

  “Cream and sugar?” she called.

  “Yes, please. Thanks.”

  I sat down in a Queen Anne accent chair whose stuffing threatened to explode from the thin upholstery under my weight. I picked up one of the mugs and examined it. It was roughly blemished, like it had been handmade. The teal was beautifully vibrant.

  Eleanor breezed back into the room with a tray holding a cow-shaped creamer and a vintage glass sugar dispenser. She sat down across from me in a peacock chair, fluffing a purple velvet pillow behind her back. The chair suited her; I guessed it was her favorite, and she looked delightfully regal in it.

  I helped myself to cream and sugar. “Did you make this?” I asked, tapping the mug.

  “No, one of my students did. It was her thank-you gift to me. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I’d love to learn how to do this.” Though in reality I hadn’t the patience for it. Sitting at a pottery wheel for hours on end, molding and reshaping the clay, painting and firing the piece again and again. I’d heard it was a weeks-long project. Too time-consuming for my impulsive nature.

  “I teach a class if you’re ever interested.” “So how can I help you?”

  “About three years a girl named Sophia Alvarez was being held captive by a man named George Battan, and she was pregnant. She gave birth to a little girl and that baby was taken from her. I found your name in a ledger for receiving payment for services—Sophia’s midwife, I assume. Do you have any idea where that baby was sent?”

  A tear glistened in Eleanor’s green eyes. “I remember that day. Giana, Sophia called her. I remember your father taking her shortly after she was born. Beautiful little baby. Just perfect. I don’t like to think about it, but I had a feeling that day would come back to haunt me.”

  “Do you know the name of the people who adopted her? I know they paid a lot for her, so I’m assuming it was a black-market adoption.”

  Sighing, her lips creased into a tight line. “In fact, I do know the family. I had to do several follow-up visits for Giana to make sure she was eating okay and gaining weight properly.”

  “Wait—did they keep the name Giana?”

  “Yes, I mentioned to them that the birth mother had called her Giana, and they loved the name. Wanted to keep it in honor of Sophia.”

  I groaned. “How noble of them, after illegally purchasing a stolen baby.”

  “I know it seems horrible what they did—illegally adopting a baby—but they had been through so much. The mother had tried over twenty IVFs—”

  “IFVs?”

  “In vitro fertilization. They had previous adoption attempts fall through, fostered two kids who ended up getting reunited with their birth parents. All they wanted was a family and things just kept falling apart. They’re not bad people; this was their last option for having a baby. And I don’t think they were aware that Giana was stolen. I’m sure George didn’t disclose that. I hope you understand, they are a nice family.”

  Did the ends justify the means? Only Tina could answer that.

  “I’m sure they’re great, but that baby was kidnapped from her birth mother. It’s only fair that Giana’s mother has a say in what happens. Please, can you tell me where I can find them? I won’t mention your name. But Sophia really needs to know what happened to her little girl.”

  Eleanor glanced away, her eyes glazing over like a muddied sea.

  “I don’t know ...”

  “Please. Put yourself in Sophia’s shoes. Imagine if your baby was taken from you, you had no idea if she’s alive or dead ... I’m not saying Sophia will do anything beyond seeing for herself how her daughter is doing. Right now that’s all I’m asking. Please. You’re my only chance of giving Sophia peace after years of torment by George Battan. Doesn’t she deserve this one mercy?”

  Lifting her mug to her lips, Eleanor sipped contemplatively. Stared into her tea. Picked up a spoon and stirred, then met my pleading eyes.

  “Philip and Eve Baxter. They live here in Durham, about twenty minutes away.” Then she turned to me, her jaw clenched and stern. “Promise me you’ll do what’s best for Giana. Sophia was a broken child back then, and she very well might still be that broken girl. You must think of Giana before you go tossing her sweet little life into chaos.”

  Unfortunately, chaos was a factor I could not control.

  Chapter 14 Ari

  Oleander Way was an idyllic, Stepford-esque neighborhood of gorgeous mini-mansions, fancy cars, rich husbands, and their tan, slim wives. The seemingly perfect trappings were all superficial, of course; these people had their problems and dark secrets, like any neighborhood. But that didn’t stop me from envying—and hating—them a little.

  The car idled. I sat in silence opposite the beautiful Tuscan house with stucco exterior, stone accents, and terracotta roof tiles, like a creepy peeping Tom. It was a necessary evil, I kept telling myself, not quite believing it while I stalked an unsuspecting suburban family. The blinds in the Baxter family’s living room window were raised, and as darkness settled in for the evening, I could see figures moving inside. I needed a closer look to verify these were the right people. Turning off the engine and sliding out of the car, I gently nudged the door shut, glanced up and down the empty street—noting the immaculate sidewalks and neatly trimmed trees, heck even the road appeared swept—and snuck up to the house. Crouching beneath the windowsill behind the safety of a shoulder-height pyramid-trimmed shrub, I peeked through the cherry wood slats, watching as a family bustled about within.

  The mother had set up a stool for a small dark-haired girl to stand on at an island while passing around mixing bowls and spoons and ingredients. Hovering over the child, the mother’s arms encircled the girl, entwining her in a swirl of busy limbs as she helped her pour, stir, and mix. The child looked up, a baby-toothed smile of pearly white giggles as the mother smeared a doughy fingertip across her nose, then kissed the smudge off.

  Such precious moments I longed for again.

  I remembered baking with my own mother, back when she was human and capable of maternal love. Carli and I would fight over who got to lick the spatula, until Mom solved the dilemma by dipping two clean spoons in the batter and handing one to each of us. Simpler
times, better times. If only those memories could outweigh all the wrongs committed since.

  A movement across the room drew my attention—a tall man with graying brown hair in polo and khakis. An executive type who golfed without fail every weekend, and whose hands never got too dirty, not even when mowing his lush green lawn with his riding lawnmower. He might know his way around an Excel spreadsheet, but replacing a broken fixture was a handyman’s job.

  In his arms he cradled a baby dressed in pink ruffles. A little girl. So tiny she had to be mere days old. Her frilly-socked feet kicked frantically against Dad’s forearm while her arms reached out for his glowing face. Mom approached, hand in hand with her apprentice baker, her chubby cheeks garnished with flour. Holding the baby to his chest, Dad bent over so the little girl could plant a gentle kiss on her wrinkled blond head.

  Sisters.

  The sweet scene struck a chord in my heart. A deep, resounding, aching song of sibling love.

  The little girl tucked into her mother’s side bore an uncanny resemblance to Tina, from the raven hair—even Tina’s platinum dye job couldn’t keep up with her black roots—to her bronze skin tone, to the cleft in her chin, to the inquisitive brown eyes. A tiny Tina. I noted the mother’s dirty blond ponytail and blue eyes, and the father’s pale Irish skin, heavily freckled. There was no doubt.

  This had to be Tina’s little girl. This was Giana.

  My eyes stung as I watched them, this perfect little family in their perfect home baking perfect cookies or cake or whatever the hell they were making together. I’m sure it would taste perfect, just like their lives. I’d seen all I needed to see. As I stepped back to leave, the husband glanced up in my direction. Startled, I ducked down out of sight. Had he just seen my black silhouette lurking behind the glass? He might not be so sure. Or he might be certain and start heading out to look for me right now while carrying a baseball bat—or gun.

  I crawled on my hands and knees until I was sure I couldn’t be seen from the window, then stood up and booked it back to my car. Even after shutting the car door behind me, I couldn’t catch my breath. My nervous fingers dropped my keys once, twice, before I finally found the ignition and floored the gas pedal. A glance in the rearview—a long, lean figure stood on the sidewalk across from where I had been parked. Geez, what stealthy detectiving I had done so far, nearly getting myself caught during a stakeout.