Peter took the picture out of Megan's hand and laid it back on his desk. He placed one hand on her knee.
“Meg, honey, I know how much you want it to be Emma. I do. I wish it were her. But it's not. I’m not even sure who it is. You’ve blown it up so much that it’s all blurry. What if it’s a boy? What if it’s someone carrying a bag and not a little girl in a dress? Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Megan shook her head. Conclusions? A bag? How could he not see it? How could he not understand?
Peter leaned closer to her. His voice was velvety smooth as he spoke to her. As if she were a child he needed to comfort.
“Meg, please, would you trust me? Please? I think you need to talk to someone. I could call the counselor and make an appointment if you want?”
Megan shuddered. The tears that welled up in her eyes now overflowed and ran down her cheeks. She yanked her hand out from his and wiped at her cheeks.
“No, Peter. I won't go back to her. You know what will happen. I'm not going on medication.”
“Then what about the pastor's wife at church? We could start going back, and take the girls. It might be good for us.” Peter handed her a Kleenex.
“The only thing good for us would be to find Emma. I'm going to take this to the police Peter. I'll see if Detective Riley is in, give him the photo. He’ll be able to find her. Hanton is only a half hour away; he can contact the local police there. Our daughter is so close. I have to do this. Please don't stop me.” She wiped at her face.
Peter cast his eyes down. She didn't know what he thought. If he would agree.
“I'll call him,” Peter said, his voice low. He didn't raise his eyes.
“You?” Megan couldn't believe what she heard. She took a quick breath. Does this mean he believes me? Oh please God, let him believe me.
“I need closure. I can't keep doing this. I'll call him. But on one condition.” Peter raised his eyes. They pierced her own.
“I need you to promise that this will end. That if he looks at the photo and doesn’t think it’s her, then you'll stop. You'll stop looking for her in every face you see. That we can move on.” He rubbed his face.
Megan couldn't believe the difference one sentence could make. He looked older. More tired. A stranger. She almost hated him.
“Peter, we've already discussed this.”
“But you're not listening to me. I can't do this anymore Megan. If you can't promise me this, if you can't stop, then I can't continue.” He turned his face from her.
It felt like a load of bricks had fallen on Megan. She was crushed. He didn't mean that. He couldn't. He wouldn't walk away. Not from her. Not from his children.
“I would never walk away from our children,” Peter said. She must have spoken out loud.
Megan stood. No matter what she did, she lost something. If she agreed with Peter, then she was giving up on her daughter. If she didn't agree, then she was giving up on her marriage. No win situation. There was nothing she could do.
Even though Peter was willing to give up without a fight, she wouldn't. If it meant she was the only fighting, then so be it. She reached down for her purse that rested against her chair and hooked it over her shoulder.
“Call him, Peter. Just call him,” she said as she opened the door to his office. Samantha stood across the hallway in her office.
“Nothing else matters to me. Not right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As a child, Megan loved to walk through cemeteries.
She would spend hours as she meandered through the rows of graves. She loved to read the tombstones. To her, she was a way to honor those who had gone before her. The other children who died too soon, the mothers who lost too early, the grandparents who knew what it meant to survive. Her mother called her fascination with cemeteries morbid.
Today, she'd have to agree.
Somehow, from the time she’d left Peter's office and now, she managed to drive from one end of the town to the other. But her trip was all a fog. Her mind was empty, void of anything but disbelief. Stumped that her husband was willing to give up everything they had built together so easily. Hurt that he could cast her aside without a fight.
She opened her car door. The stillness found only in a cemetery greeted her. A lone bird chirped in the distance. Though they were close to the lake, the rush of the waves as they beat against the rocks were muffled. She took in her surroundings. The rows of white, grey and black marble tombstones stood sentry. Being here, in this place, soothed her somehow. She drank in the quiet, the peace she'd always found here.
She wasn't surprised that she drove here. Often during her runs, if she were emotional or needed to really think, she would take the long route, through the cemetery, down to the lake and then back up to her house. It was a long route, but worth it.
She left her vehicle parked off to the side and walked through the rows. Her gaze would caress each tombstone, read the few words chiseled onto the stone that someone thought embodied their loved one. She took note of the years.
Her heart broke at all the children who lay under her feet. Thank God Emma wasn't here.
She reached a large tree that stood alone on top of a hill and sagged against it. Weariness covered her body. At the bottom of the slight hill stood a group of people dressed in black. A funeral car with its back door open waited on the other side of the crowd.
A casket made its way out of the car and into the hands of four men who stood waiting for it. The moment the casket appeared, a woman in the crowd let out an anguished cry and would have crumpled to the ground if it wasn't for the man who stood beside her. He caught her in time.
Megan's gaze reverted back to the casket. To the small child sized casket.
This is what Peter wanted. For her to accept Emma's death and move on in life.
Her body slithered down the tree as a sob tore through her throat. Her fisted hand covered her mouth as she tried to remain silent. She imagined Emma in that box. She watched the woman down at the gravesite. Her face was turned as it made its way past her. When it rested on the lowering devise above the empty hole, the woman broke away from the man's hold and draped herself over the casket. Her cries thundered through the cemetery.
Megan turned her gaze. It was as if her heart had been ripped out of her, thrown to the ground and trampled on. Tears flowed freely down her face. Her silent cries echoed the woman's sobs.
It was time to admit Emma was gone.
*****
Megan fled to the nearest building where she could hide until she had calmed down after the scene at the cemetery.
Unfortunately, it happened to be in front of their old church.
It had been two years since she'd last crossed through the front doors. She couldn't handle the looks of sympathy she would receive, the tiny pats on the hand along with the whispered words sorry for your loss. In their minds, Emma was already dead.
The worst was when the pastor had dropped by their house one night and told them that God didn't give more than we could handle. If Peter hadn't escorted him out of the house, Megan would have killed him. Literally.
The reserved parking spots for the pastors and administration staff were full, but other than that, the church that should be open to all people was empty. Megan had no doubt that the doors would be locked, even if she had wanted to enter the church and spend some time on her knees. Which she didn't.
Megan drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She never quite understood the concept of a locked church. Why do people have to make an appointment to pour out their hearts to a man, when the altar should be open and available for anyone who needed to feel the hand of God upon their shoulders?
At the end of the street, Megan watched the funeral procession pull out of the cemetery grounds. It was a small group, a total of six cars followed the large black limo as it snaked its way down the street.
A sharp pain shot through her chest, and she planted her hand where the pain originated and struggled to b
reathe. What was going on? This used to happen to her at the beginning, when her nightmare first started, about a month after Emma was kidnapped and they'd received no word about her whereabouts.
Panic attacks, the counselor told her. Worry pains, her mother insisted. Just give it to God and you'll be fine. If Megan had a dollar for all the times her mother told her to just give it to God, she'd be a rich woman.
The funeral procession passed and faded into the distance as Megan focused on breathing through the pain. At the count of twenty, she was able to breathe without issue again. She massaged the back of her neck where a bubble of pressure had formed. She should head home before a full-blown migraine hit.
Megan reached into her purse to pull out a tissue and instead her fingers found the little candle Johnny had given her at the ice cream parlor. She pulled it out and rolled it in her hand. Such an innocent little thing. As a child you believe that making a wish is all it takes for all your dreams to come true. As an adult, you know wishes go unheard.
But she made a promise. What could it hurt?
She reached across to the glove box and clicked the little lock. She should have some matches in there, somewhere. After pushing aside her insurance and the pamphlets for the Jeep, she found them.
Her fingers trembled as she broke off a match and struck it against the black edge. A flame leapt to life and blazed brilliantly. She dipped the flame to the candlewick and watched as it burned bright. She shook the match and watched as a plume of smoke drifted towards her open window. She flicked the match out the window and stared at the lit candle in her hand.
She ignored the taunting in her head that teased her, called her weak and faint hearted. Who but a child would believe in wishes from a candle?
Hot drops of wax burned her fingers as the flame continued to burn.
There were no wishes left to whisper. It was time to face reality.
With a soft burst of air, she blew out the candle.
She dropped the candle into her cup holder and flicked the small ball of wax off of her finger before driving past the parked cars in the church lot and heading home. In her rear view mirror, the sight of the church steeple, the white cross diminished the further away she drove.
“Where were you God, when my daughter was taken away from me? Where were you when we waited for word of her return? Why did you let her die alone?”
A gentle breeze caressed her cheek through the open window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Butterflies and fireflies danced together amongst the garden beds in Megan's backyard. As she rinsed the dinner dishes in the kitchen sink, the scene at the cemetery filled her mind. The little casket with the mother draped across.
Peter's footsteps alerted Megan to his presence. She wished he would go away. The girls were in the family room playing a game on the entertainment unit, and despite their fervent pleadings, Megan begged off from the game. Peter took her place instead.
“Done so soon?”
Peter's arms encircled her body. She stiffened her back and stilled her hands in the hot sudsy water. The last thing she wanted right now was to be touched. By him.
“Yeah, the girls are getting pretty good at the game. They whipped my butt in a manner of minutes.” His arms withdrew from around her body and she breathed a sigh of relief. A small one.
She rinsed another dish and placed it in the dish rack to dry. Hand washing dishes soothed her. She could have used the dishwasher, but they had take-out tonight, so there wasn't much to wash.
“Listen, about today --” Peter headed over to the island and leaned against it.
Megan clutched the dishcloth in her hand. “It’s okay.”
“No, I--”
She bit her lip before turning. “I said it was okay. I heard you, Peter. And you were right.” Tears dripped down her face as she stared at her husband.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s time to say goodbye.” The air shattered into a million pieces.
Peter shook his head. “No, no. That’s not what I was going to say.” He dropped his gaze and hunched his shoulders. “I spoke with Riley.”
Megan's hand shook. A jolt of energy fluttered through her stomach. She drained the sink and wiped down the counter.
“Does he think it's her?”
She didn't want to look at Peter, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. Afraid to hope again.
When he didn't answer her, she turned. That was answer enough.
“Meg--”
He’d crossed the slight distance between them and reached out.
“We need to be prepared that it’s not her.”
Megan fisted her hand against her mouth, silencing the sob that welled deep within from escaping. Tears welled up in her eyes and it was all she could do not to let them spill. Everything ached inside of her. Her heart. Her mind. Her soul.
“Dad?” A small voice broke the silence that had formed in the kitchen. Both Peter and Megan turned to face their daughter who stood in the doorway.
Alexis' eyes darted back and forth between Megan and Peter. “Um, it's your turn, Dad,” she said. The uncertainty in her voice spoke volumes. More than a single word would have.
“He'll be there shortly, okay, hun?” Megan tried to keep her voice calm. She gave a tentative smile, which apparently reassured her daughter since she nodded her head and left.
“Peter--”
Peter shook his head and reached for her hands. Again. This time, she didn't pull away.
“Riley doesn't know if it's her or not. It's not a real clear picture. He'll follow up though and let us know.” His fingers caressed her hand. “I know you want it to be her. I want it to be her. But it’s not. We have to accept that.” Peter's eyes shone with unshed tears. “I can't keep doing this, I'm sorry. I know you think I'm a monster. That I'm uncaring and selfish. That I've given up on our daughter. But that's so far from the truth. I just wish you could see that. Waiting for Emma, it's hurting our family. Don't you see that? It's killing us, Megan. We need to say goodbye. To the little girl who was ripped from our arms. We need closure. I need closure.” His eyes searched hers. She could see the need there, the need for her to believe him.
If she wanted her marriage to survive, the next words she spoke would determine the outcome.
“Okay.” She watched as Peter reeled back in shock.
“Okay?” She heard the doubt in his voice.
“Okay. But I can’t...” her voice broke, “I can’t be the one to plan the ceremony. You’ll need to. Or my mother. But I don’t want to be a part of it.”
Peter gathered her into his arms, held her close to his body. She stiffened before relaxing and drawing her arms up against his chest. She buried her face into the crock of his neck.
“Thank you,” Peter said.
“What if she comes home though? What then?”
“If,” he said as he rubbed his hand against her back. “No Megs, when. When she comes back, we'll welcome her with open arms. But she'll be a different girl than the one we knew. And we’ll be a different family. A stronger family. I'm not saying to give up Megan.” He pulled away and took a step back. “Just that this will help us move on.”
He leaned forward and placed a kiss upon her cold lips before heading back towards the living room to continue playing games with their daughters.
Something had changed between them. It began a long time ago. A little crack that widened on its own. She wasn’t sure if it could ever be fixed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Do I get to pick my very own donut, Papa?”
Jack glanced down at Emmie. She sat in the middle of the cab, the seat belt buckled across her waist, with her hands in her lap and a smile on her face. Her eyes danced with excitement.
“Whatever kind you want,” said Jack.
When Dottie had been about to bring out ice cream for their dessert, Jack stopped her and said they should go in town for a donut. Emmie, wide eyed, waited for Grandma to agre
e. Jack had a feeling she would. Today had been a good day. Going to the fair last night seemed to perk Dottie up.
Emmie twisted in the front seat to look out the back window of the old pick-up truck.
“What is taking Grandma so long?” She placed her chin in her hands as she stared at the back door.
Jack looked at the watch on his wrist. What was taking her so long? All she had to do was grab her purse, not like she had to get all dolled up or anything. They were only going to the donut shop.
“Will your friends be there, Papa?” Emmie tilted her head to look at him.
“Oh, I'm sure they will. They've wanted to meet you for a very long time.” Jack winked. Too long.
He looked out the window and saw that the grass on the side of the house needed to be cut. That side always grew faster than the rest of the yard. Dottie had wanted him to dig up a plot in the spring and let her plant some sunflowers there. Maybe he should have done it. Less grass to cut then.
The door to the back remained closed. What is Dottie doing in there? If she didn't hurry up, the sun would set and she'd be telling him Emmie needed to go to bed. He nudged Emmie in the shoulder and honked the horn. Her eyes widened to twice their size, her mouth shaped into a big O. Jack chuckled. Yep, Emmie knew Grandma didn't like to be rushed.
“Emmie, why don't you go over and play with Daisy for a couple of minutes while I see what is keeping Grandma?”
Jack opened the door and cringed as it squeaked on its hinges. He knew he forgot to do something today. Dottie mentioned the noise last night when they headed into the fair. He waited for Emmie to scoot across the seat and then he helped her to jump out of the cab.
“Daisy, Daisy,” Emmie called as she ran into the backyard.
Daisy poked her tiny head out of the large dog house Jack had built. He waited to ensure Emmie could open the gate he'd rigged to keep Daisy enclosed whenever they were out and about. Which wasn't often.
Jack headed over to the back door, cupped his hands over his eyes and peered inside. He couldn't see Dottie in the kitchen. He opened the screen and stuck his head inside.
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