Only Ever You

by Rebecca Drake

  She mentioned it to the female detective when she handed her the list. Finley immediately circled his name. “Do you have a last name or a phone number?”

  Jill shook her head. “But Tania will know. I can call her—”

  “No.” The detective held up a hand. “We’ll take care of that, Mrs. Lassiter.” She took David’s list as well and walked off with them. Jill returned to her vigil at the window. A woman wearing red slacks and a black, puffy down coat was leaning back against one of the news trucks smoking a cigarette. A man sat in the door of the cab, camera equipment between his feet. As Jill watched, the woman laughed at something he said and then glanced at her watch. Time was dragging for them, they looked bored, while for Jill time was hurtling along like a train switched to the wrong track, unable to avoid the disaster looming ahead.

  “You’ve only lived in this house a few years, is that right?”

  Startled, Jill turned to see Detective Finley behind her. The woman was stealthy; Jill hadn’t heard her coming. “Yes, we moved right after—” she caught herself. “I mean, before Sophia was born.”

  Jill wondered how the detective knew how long they’d been in the suburbs, then caught a glimpse of her mother-in-law chatting with a police officer in the other room. Elaine Lassiter didn’t understand boundaries and thought that any news was hers to tell.

  “So you don’t know many of the neighbors?”

  “No. Are you sure that they checked all of their houses and yards?”

  Finley nodded. “No sign of your daughter, but we’ve got officers canvassing other streets, farther out.” She looked out the window, then said casually, “Before moving out here you lived in the city?”

  Jill nodded. She didn’t want to make idle chitchat. “How often will they repeat the Amber Alert?”

  “It will keep up at regular intervals until we call it off,” Finley said. “What made you leave the city?”

  David answered for her. “The same thing that makes lots of people move—starting a family, lower housing costs, better schools.”

  Finley turned back toward him. “Privacy?”

  “That was one factor,” David said. “We were also tired of apartment living.”

  “It seemed like a safe place to raise a child,” Jill added. She hadn’t directed it at him, but David looked distressed and she remembered how much he’d pushed for the move, extolling the virtues of the suburbs.

  Ottilo came back into the living room and David immediately said, “Was that call about the car that was stopped?”

  “It was a single eyewitness report—” he began, but Jill interrupted him.

  “But they stopped a car, you said there was a child in it.” She dug her nails into her palms. It had to be Sophia in that car, please let it be Sophia.

  Ottilo looked at Finley, then sighed, taking off his reading glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry. There are always false leads in cases like this. The child in the car wasn’t your daughter.”

  The breath Jill hadn’t realized she was holding came out in a whoosh like a door closing. She stood there, disappointment acid in her mouth. David staggered back to the sofa, rocking slightly, his head in his hands.

  Fifteen minutes later, the young police officer at the door announced Andrew’s arrival, saying “It’s Senator Graham’s son” in an awed tone that drew a reproving look from Detective Ottilo.

  Andrew had obviously come straight from the office, this was clearly an interruption in his day, but he acted like a man with all the time in the world, brushing a few drops of rain off his wool topcoat before he took it off and draped it over a chairback. His charcoal suit was immaculate, the sheen in his peacock-blue tie catching the light. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said to both Jill and David.

  David stood up slowly, as if his body hurt, and went to shake his hand. “Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it. What did you find out?”

  Jill couldn’t make herself move. She didn’t realize that she’d crossed her arms protectively over her chest until Andrew crossed the room to embrace her.

  “How are you holding up?” he said in a low voice, his expression grave. Gratitude for his kindness overwhelmed Jill; she choked back a sudden wave of tears as hope rose inside her like a swimmer coming up from deep water. She had to clear her throat before she could ask, “Have you found—”

  “The birth mother?” Elaine Lassiter talked right over her. “She’s the one who’s got Sophia, right?” Jill’s mother-in-law stood in front of Andrew barking up at him like a small dog. “I knew it was the birth mother, I knew it. It happens all the time with adoptions. The minute I heard Sophia was gone I said to Bill, ‘I’ll bet it’s the birth mother.’ Where is she?”

  Andrew looked nonplussed. “She’s dead.”

  chapter nineteen

  DAY ONE

  “It’s nothing,” Bea said to the cop, panicked, but his light moved away and instead of the car door being yanked open, the officer abruptly walked off, and Bea realized he’d been talking to the road crew, not her.

  Seconds later, he waved Bea through and she drove past as quickly as she dared, terrified that the cop would follow. The car bounced and rattled up cratered Fernwood Road, so loud she feared it would wake neighbors she’d never seen. It was even noisier when she turned onto the pea-gravel driveway at 115. Bea slowed to a crawl, inching the car between the trees that seemed to squeeze it on either side. She jumped when a branch scraped the roof like a ghostly claw. It was a relief when the headlights finally shone on the house.

  “Home sweet home,” Bea muttered and hit the garage opener.

  The door rose with a quiet whir and she pulled the car inside. She didn’t move until the door was completely closed; then she rushed the bag into the house. It wasn’t moving anymore. She set it on the concrete floor and pulled down the zipper and the child’s head emerged, downy hair first, like a chick peeking out of its shell.

  The toddler’s skin felt damp, but that was a common side effect of the drug. Bea brushed fine strands of blonde hair back from the flushed cheeks and leaned down to listen, reaching into the bag to find a wrist and take the child’s pulse. Blue eyes shot open, startling her.

  “Oh!” Bea cleared her throat. “Hello.” She looked down at Avery, and the little girl looked up at her. There was silence for a long moment as they appraised each other. Then the child opened her mouth and wailed.

  “Ssh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Bea kept up a soothing mantra as she slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and spread a sheet on the floor. She lifted the child from the bag onto the sheet and quickly stripped her, setting aside the nightgown and tiny panties. The child was still too dopey to do more than cry in protest, her head listing to one side, then the other, when Bea cut her hair, cropping it short all the way around, careful to catch the fine blonde strands in a plastic bag.

  She clutched the stuffed dog that she’d been holding when Bea took her, floundering dopily as Bea forced her into a new pair of pajamas. At last they were on and Bea hoisted the child into her arms, groaning at the weight, as she carried her upstairs. She put her down on the old velvet sofa and covered her with a blanket. The child’s eyes fluttered open and closed. It would take time for the effects of the drug to wear off.

  Bea dropped down on the couch next to her, completely exhausted. Adrenaline forced her up again fifteen minutes later, pushing her back downstairs where she slipped on another pair of latex gloves, carrying the duffel bag into the utility room and setting it on top of the washer. Unzipping the side slot, she took out the used syringe and dumped it in a small trash bag to dispose of later in some city bin. A second syringe went back into her medical kit. Benzodiazepines were effective tranquilizers. It had been easy enough to put on her nursing scrubs and slip unnoticed into area hospitals. Harder had been getting the various drugs, which were always locked up. Or supposed to be. People were careless and she took advantage of that, being sure never to take too much from any one place to avoid provokin
g an investigation. The trickiest part was mixing the drugs and monitoring the dosage. Bea wasn’t sure how much Avery weighed, but she’d made a conservative guess and clearly it hadn’t been quite enough. She would have to use more next time.

  The duffel bag went into the trash and she stripped off all her clothes and divided them into two other trash bags. It was a pity to get rid of perfectly good clothes, but simply not worth the risk to save them. She changed into clean clothes she’d left in the laundry room for that purpose and picked up a small, brand-new white pillow, pulling it free of its plastic wrapper which declared it to be extra firm, and placing it on the washer. She stretched the child’s nightgown around it and went to fetch the knife. She practiced for a moment, just as she had every day for weeks, before thrusting the knife hard through the nightgown and into the pillow, feeling the blade quiver as it cut through cloth and sank into the polyester fluff. She jerked it out and repeated the thrust, slightly lower this time, then again and still once more. The blade was coated with bits of white fiber when she was finished, the nightgown shredded down the front.

  She hustled back upstairs to the kitchen, where she collected the glass test tubes she had taken from the freezer and placed in the fridge to thaw overnight. She took one of the vials from the plastic rack holding them and held it up to the light, swinging it gently side to side. The dark red liquid moved with it and she smiled.

  She’d done thousands of blood draws over the years, so that day in the park had been quick. The child had struggled, of course, but chloroform on a cloth worked fast and Bea had been able to retrieve three vials and get the child lucid again in pretty short order. A quick peek at the child, who hadn’t stirred, and then back to the basement, where she examined the child’s nightgown again before pouring the blood across the knife holes, soaking the front of the little cloth. It poured easily, just as if it were fresh and hadn’t been frozen for three months.

  The old clock radio she’d found in the basement showed almost seven a.m. Time was ticking away. Had they discovered the child missing? Had the police been called? She placed some of the hairs she’d collected in different places on the nightgown, some of them on the cloth, some with the blood. It was good to give the police plenty of DNA to work with. She wondered if the story was on the news yet. The very idea excited her and she couldn’t wait any longer, turning on the radio with the sound turned down very low. She didn’t want Avery to hear it.

  Chirpy announcers were talking about the prospect of snow so soon after Halloween, about local trick-or-treating, about whether the Penguins would do well in that weekend’s game. “C’mon,” Bea muttered. She leaned against the washer, careful not to touch the nightgown. The blood was tacky to touch now, drying in patterns. An ad for incontinence played, then one for Viagra, then one for some nasal allergy spray. Sweet Jesus, was everyone in this country drug dependent?

  “And now, some breaking news.” The announcement alerted Bea. She stood upright. “State police have issued an Amber Alert for missing Fox Chapel toddler Sophia Lassiter. I repeat, an Amber Alert has been issued for three-year-old Sophia Lassiter of Fox Chapel, reported missing from her home sometime this morning. Sophia Lassiter is white, with short blonde hair and blue eyes, approximately thirty-three inches tall and weighs approximately thirty pounds. Anyone who sees a child matching Sophia Lassiter’s description is asked to contact the police.”

  “Mommy!” The child’s cry was piercing; Bea jumped, banging into the washer. She ran up the stairs as the child wailed, “I want my mommy!”

  The little girl struggled up to a sitting position as Bea reached her. “It’s okay,” she said, reaching out to help the child get her balance. “You’re okay.”

  The child shrank from her touch. “Mommy!” she wailed again.

  “Sssh,” Bea crooned. “It’s okay. Are you hungry?” She pointed over her shoulder at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the dining room table that she’d prepared before she left. Her daughter had loved pb&j; it was her favorite. Didn’t all kids like it? She’d stocked up on bread and peanut butter and on mac and cheese and apple juice. “I know you must be hungry, Avery. Come and eat some food for me.” It felt odd but good to finally say the name out loud. Her daughter’s favorite name for all her dolls when she’d been little; convenient that it worked equally well for boys and girls.

  “My name’s not Avery,” the little girl said.

  “That’s your real name.”

  “My name is Sophia.”

  Bea shook her head. “That was just a pretend name. Your real name is Avery. It’s a pretty name. Try it. Say Avery for me.”

  “Sophia!” A shout.

  Bea rubbed a sweaty palm against her pants leg, glad that the house was remote. No one was likely to hear them; they were alone in the woods.

  As if she could understand, Avery screamed louder. “Sophia! Sophia! Sophia!” The last cry ended on a wail and she began to weep again, eyes creasing into tiny slits and face turning red. Bea walked to the table, peeled back the plastic wrap from her own sandwich, and took a bite. What she really wanted to do was sleep. Her head kept throbbing in equal time with her chest, but it wasn’t safe to give the child another sedative, not so soon after the last one.

  “Doesn’t your dog want some food?” she said loud enough to be heard over the little girl’s wails.

  The crying stopped and Avery, who’d been clutching her stuffed dog tightly in her arms, suddenly lifted one of its floppy ears and whispered into it. Then she looked at Bea and nodded.

  “Does he like peanut butter and jelly?”

  “Just jelly, no peanut butter,” Avery said, but with a glower.

  “I’ll make him a jelly sandwich,” Bea said, getting up from the table and walking into the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Avery wiggle off the couch and move slowly to the dining room. Bea didn’t say a word as the child climbed up onto a chair and picked up the sandwich.

  With the crying ended, another noise became noticeable. Scratch, scratch, scratch against the kitchen door. Bea had left Cosmo in the backyard last night. There was food and water for him outside, but he still wanted to come in. He knew that someone else was in the house; the question was how would he react? How would Avery? Cosmo was a friendly little dog, and Bea wasn’t worried as much about him as she was about the child.

  Cosmo barked, just a single sound to attract attention, but it was loud enough that Avery heard. She swiveled around on her chair to stare wide-eyed at Bea. “Do you has a dog?”

  Bea nodded. “Do you want to meet him?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Avery scrambled off her chair, still holding on to her stuffed dog. Bea opened the back door and Cosmo shot into the kitchen, little nose down and up sniffing wildly. He stopped in front of Avery and barked once, small tail wagging like crazy.

  “Hello, doggie! Hello!” She bent to pet his head and then his side. “What’s his name?”

  “Cosmo.”

  “Hello, Cosmo! Good doggie!” All of a sudden she paused and looked at the dog more closely and then up at Bea. “I sees him at the park and at my house.”

  The hairs rose on Bea’s body. It hadn’t occurred to her that the child would remember the dog. She said to distract her, “Do you want to eat your sandwich with Cosmo?”

  It was important that the child ate. Hungry children were cranky children, and Bea didn’t want any more tantrums. The little girl ate with Cosmo at her feet, offering bites of the jelly-only sandwich to her stuffed dog. Bea refilled the small mug of milk and sat across from Avery. “What’s your dog’s name?” she asked.

  Avery gave her another mulish look. After a moment she mumbled, “Blinky.” Her chair wobbled and Bea reached out to catch it, only to feel a sudden numbness in her left arm.

  She clutched it, walking into the kitchen in search of the nitroglycerin tablets. She paused with the pill bottle in her hand. When had she taken the last one? Was it three hours ago or four? She needed to keep better track; she swa
llowed one anyway, looking out the kitchen window at the woods rising behind the house. Gray light, the sun rising somewhere behind the clouds. Wind blew roughly through the trees, trunks groaning like boats tossed in a stormy sea. Leaves poured onto the cracked patio. Soon the trees would be completely bare. Would anybody up the hill be able to see them? Bea tried peering through the foliage, but it was still too dense.

  “I see you went ahead and took her.”

  She whipped around. Frank stood in a dark corner of the kitchen, arms crossed. She put a hand to her chest. “Stop sneaking up on me!”

  “You’re a stubborn woman, Bea.”

  “She belongs with us. Can’t you see that?”

  Even with his face half in shadow, making his expression hard to read, she could feel his disapproval.

  “I only took what was mine to take,” she added, looking away from that hard face and walking back to the child. She waited until Avery was done eating to say, “I have a surprise for you.” The little girl simply stared at her with that same sullen expression. “It’s downstairs.” Bea pointed toward the hall and the door to the basement steps. Avery swiveled in her chair to stare at the door, and then looked up at Bea for a long moment in a very adult, almost suspicious way. It made Bea uncomfortable. “Don’t just sit there,” she said. “Go downstairs and see what it is.”