“Are you a new student here?” she asked in a calm, neutral voice. “I don’t recognize you.”
Still he said nothing. He looked to be about nine years old, and he was thin, with straight dark hair and big solemn eyes. Eyes that never left Taylor’s face. She shivered in spite of herself, and jumped when a voice called from down the hallway, “David! Where’d you get off to this time, boy?”
At the sound of the voice, Taylor glanced over the boy’s shoulder, but he didn’t move, just stood there staring at her.
Stanley Barlow, the school custodian, came out of the shadows and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The child started, then glanced up. He signed something to Stanley, and Taylor realized why he hadn’t heard Stanley’s approach, and why he had studied her face so intently. The child was deaf.
Stanley squinted at her in the dim light. “Miz Robinson? That you?”
“Yes. I’m locked in, Stanley, and I thought I saw someone in Mr. Thorndike’s office.”
“Probably saw Davey here,” Stanley said. “He’s my grandson. He comes with me sometimes to keep me company, but he has a habit of disappearing.” Stanley signed to David and the boy nodded, then his gaze moved back to Taylor.
Taylor signed, Hello, David. I’m happy to meet you.
The child’s solemn expression disappeared, replaced by a beaming smile. He quickly signed, You can sign!
A little, Taylor answered. But I’m not as good as you. You’re so fast!
The boy smiled proudly. Stanley patted him on the back, then said, “Let’s see about getting that door open for you.” He walked past her to the door and shook the handle. “Hmm. That door ain’t supposed to be locked from the outside.”
“I didn’t think so, either,” Taylor said.
He rattled the handle again. Satisfied the door wasn’t going to miraculously open somehow, he said, “Come on. We’ll let you out the front way.”
He signed to David to let him know what they were going to do and the boy nodded, then took Taylor’s hand. Stanley said in amazement, “Well, don’t that just beat all. The boy don’t usually take to strangers like that.”
Probably because strangers didn’t usually know how to communicate with him, Taylor thought. His world was probably a lonely one for the most part, and her heart went out to him.
She and David followed Stanley back down the hallway, and when they passed the headmaster’s office, she cast an uneasy glance toward the door. There was no movement or sound from inside. She wondered if her imagination had played tricks on her earlier, or if it had been David inside.
At the end of the hall, Stanley pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked the main entrance and he and David walked outside with Taylor. A breeze had picked up, and the night suddenly felt chilly.
“We’ll see you to your car,” Stanley said.
“Oh, I hate to take you away from your work. I’ve caused you enough trouble for one evening.”
“No trouble at all helping a pretty lady, is it, Davey?” As he talked, he signed to his grandson, who shook his head vigorously in agreement.
Taylor smiled gratefully. She fell into step beside Stanley, and David ran along the sidewalk in front of them. As they rounded the corner of the building, Taylor fished in her purse for her keys.
Up ahead, David stopped short.
Beside her, Stanley gave a little grunt of surprise.
Taylor looked up and saw that they were both staring across the parking lot. She followed their gazes. The parking area was deserted except for her gray Volvo, parked beneath a street lamp. The car sat tilted at an awkward angle, and with a shock, Taylor saw that both rear tires had been slashed.
Beside her, Stanley muttered, “Damn punk kids. That’s the second time this month a car’s been vandalized in this parking lot. You’d think that cop who came around last time would have done something.” He lifted his cap to scratch his head. “Well, we’d better call a garage and see if we can’t get you fixed up.”
He signed to David and the two of them started back to the building. Numbly Taylor followed. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She wanted more than anything to believe the violation had been a random act of vandalism, as Stanley had said, but she didn’t think kids had done this to her car.
There had been too many other incidents in the two weeks since Brad’s funeral. Hang-up calls in the middle of the night. A car that looked very much like Deirdre Robinson’s parked down the street from Taylor’s house.
As the three of them walked back into the building, a dark premonition descended over Taylor. If she was right, and Deirdre Robinson was behind all this, the woman’s hatred had become more than just disturbing.
It was downright frightening.
She seemed to be obsessed with tormenting Taylor, and there was no telling what someone in her frame of mind might do next.
TWO HOURS LATER, Taylor let herself into her tree-shaded bungalow in midtown, a few blocks from Memphis State. She was almost afraid to open the door and step inside, scared of what she might find waiting for her.
But everything seemed in order when she finally got up the courage to enter. The familiarity of the oil paintings on the wall, the red silk piano scarf draped artfully over her baby grand, the glass wind chimes tinkling softly in the breeze from the air-conditioner vent, all gave her a measure of comfort.
Though not ostentatious like her mother’s house on Tamarind Street nor as elegant as the sprawling ranch she’d shared with Brad in Germantown, Taylor’s little redbrick, World War II era bungalow had quickly become a haven for her. She’d decorated it to please her own eclectic tastes, and was happy with the results. Breathing deeply, she took pleasure in the cozy security of her surroundings.
Laying her purse, briefcase and keys on the antique pine table in the hallway, she carried her mail into the living room and sat down at her desk to sort through it.
Toward the bottom of the pile, she pulled out a white envelope that had a handwritten address but no return address. Thinking it another sympathy note, she slit the flap with her letter opener.
There was a newspaper clipping inside. Taylor stared down at the headline, which read: Could This Happen To You? Someone had circled the word you in red ink.
The story was about the parents of a baby born at a private hospital who were filing suit, claiming that the hospital had been paid to swap the couple’s healthy baby for a baby born with a serious disease to wealthy, socially prominent parents.
“Odd,” Taylor mumbled, flipping the article over, but there was nothing on the back to give her a clue to the sender’s identity, and no accompanying note in the envelope. Why in the world had someone sent her this clipping? Did someone know about Taylor’s own tragic background? About her own baby dying at birth?
The veiled woman at Brad’s funeral instantly sprang to mind. The woman had given Taylor a newspaper article that day, but after Deirdre’s verbal attack, Taylor had forgotten all about it.
She vaguely remembered stuffing the paper into the pocket of her suit jacket and hadn’t given it another thought since. Now she went in search of that jacket, praying she hadn’t yet sent it to the cleaners.
She hadn’t. Taylor jerked the jacket off the hanger and rummaged through the pockets. The clipping was wadded up and crammed into one corner.
This article concerned a police investigation into the murder of a man whose death had originally been ruled a suicide. In red ink someone had written in the margin: Things are not always what they seem.
What had the veiled woman told her the day of Brad’s funeral? Things often seem darkest before the dawn. What in the world had she meant? And why had she given this clipping to Taylor? Had she sent the other one, too?
Taylor went back out to her desk and placed the clippings side by side. An apparent suicide that turned out to be a murder. A private clinic dealing in baby-swapping. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? Could Deirdre Robinson be behind this?
The more Tay
lor thought about it, the more uneasy she became. Were the clippings the product of a disturbed mind? A game devised to torment her because her own baby had died at birth?
Or was someone sending her a message? Was someone trying to tell her something?
Her heart began to pound as she stared down at those articles. No, she thought. It couldn’t be. Her baby had died at birth. The article about baby-swapping meant nothing to her. It couldn’t.
But what if…
She told herself she refused to be drawn into such dangerous speculation, but like it or not, those articles had unleashed a maelstrom of memories inside her.
Brad had called her the night he died. He’d been drinking, was barely coherent, but he’d rambled on and on about the Westcott Clinic, the private hospital run by Dr. Elliot Westcott for women experiencing high-risk pregnancies.
Dr. Westcott had once been Brad’s mentor, had groomed him, in fact, to succeed him at the clinic. But the two of them had a falling-out several years ago, and Brad’s subsequent drinking and bouts of severe depression had all but destroyed what had once been the promise of a brilliant career.
Just a few weeks before his death, Brad had been suspended from Mercy General Hospital for misdiagnosing a patient, and he’d blamed Dr. Westcott, who was on the board at Mercy, for sabotaging him.
Taylor thought Brad’s ranting and raving that night were a result of his drinking and his bitterness toward Dr. Westcott, but now, thinking back, something else Brad said came to Taylor’s mind, something about the secrets at the Westcott Clinic.
When Taylor had asked him what he meant, he’d insisted it was nothing important, and then he’d abruptly hung up. The next morning he had been found dead in the home he and Taylor once shared, the victim of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head.
As far as Taylor knew, there’d been only a token police investigation into Brad’s death. He’d tried to commit suicide once before. He had a history of severe depression. There’d been no reason to believe his death was anything other than a suicide.
Until now.
Taylor stared out the window into the deep darkness surrounding her little tree-shrouded house.
What had Brad been trying to tell her the night he died?
What were the secrets at the Westcott Clinic?
And why had someone given her newspaper articles about an apparent suicide that turned out to be a murder and a baby-swapping incident at a private clinic…like the one in which Taylor had given birth to her son?
Chapter Three
Dillon stared out the window of his second-floor apartment, watching the ebb and flow of traffic on Perkins Road. Several squad cars sped by, lights flashing, and he wondered for a moment if he should find out what was going down. He had a radio in the apartment. He could turn it on and find out what was happening in five seconds.
Then he decided, to hell with it, he was off duty. Lieutenant McCardy had seen to that.
Turning, Dillon walked back into the living room and sat down in his battered leather chair, stretching his long legs in front of him. He had the whole night before him. What the hell was he going to do?
He waited for inspiration. When nothing came, he got up and walked into the kitchen to open the refrigerator and stare aimlessly inside. Not much to work with there. A week-old pizza box, a jar of dill pickles and a bottle of beer. Dillon took the beer and twisted off the cap.
He should have stayed downtown after his shift was over, he thought gloomily. Most nights he just grabbed a quick bite at a bar near the station, then would linger for some pool or a round of darts. Anything to keep from coming home and facing his empty apartment.
But tonight he hadn’t been in the mood for more cop talk, or for the girls that liked to hang out at the bar. Tonight he’d found himself too damned preoccupied by memories of a woman with golden hair and beguiling blue eyes.
A woman who had once ripped out his heart without a second thought.
Dillon closed the refrigerator and swore. He didn’t want to think about Taylor Walsh, but ever since he’d seen her that day at the cemetery, he’d been bombarded by memories of her. Thoughts of the way things had once been between them.
You’re a damn fool, he told himself as he crossed the living room floor to answer the knock at his door. For a moment, he hoped it might be Domino’s delivering to the wrong address, but he knew he wasn’t that lucky. More likely it was Nadine from down the hall, trying to interest him in a game of gin rummy.
“Not tonight, Nadine,” he muttered, opening the door.
But instead of Nadine, it was Casey, the kid two doors down. As usual he was dressed like a waif—grubby jeans, a T-shirt at least three sizes too large and a baseball cap turned around backward.
Dillon felt sorry for the kid. He was alone a lot. His mother was a cocktail waitress at a bar downtown, and didn’t get home until the early morning hours. She was usually asleep or gone by the time Casey got home from school, so Dillon had taken to playing basketball with the kid on occasion, buying him a pizza once in a while, just so he didn’t have to be alone every night. And besides, the kid was good company. Dillon liked him.
Casey was bouncing a basketball now, not missing a beat as he said, “Hey, Dillon, how ‘bout a little round ball, man? Gotta new move I wanna show you.”
“Some other time, Casey. I’m beat tonight.”
Dillon tried to ignore the crestfallen expression on the kid’s face. Tried to ignore the guilt he suddenly felt. Casey turned away, his shoulders slumped as he headed for the stairway and the exit.
Dillon cursed under his breath. “Hey, kid,” he called. Casey turned expectantly. “Drop by later. We’ll order a pizza, okay?”
Casey’s face lit up. He nodded, then made like he was doing a lay-up at an invisible goal before he disappeared down the stairway.
Not thirty seconds later, someone was again knocking on Dillon’s door. He drew it open and said in exasperation, “I said later—”
His words broke off when he saw who was on the other side of the door. He knew he was staring but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He couldn’t believe his eyes. For a moment, he thought his memories must have conjured up her image.
How many times had he dreamed of opening his door and finding her on the other side? Of having her look up at him with those big baby blues and beg him for forgiveness?
How many times had he told himself it was never going to happen? Taylor Walsh was out of his life for good.
But here she stood.
“Hello, Dillon.”
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Long time, no see,” he tried to say casually.
“It has been a long time. I…wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
Who was she trying to kid? There was no way he could ever forget her, and she damn well knew it. Not after what she’d done to him. He said coolly, “Oh, I remember you, all right. But you’re about the last person I expected to see here.”
She gave him a tentative smile. “Actually, this is about the last place I expected to be, but…I need to talk to you. Is it all right if I come in?”
“Door’s always been open.”
He hadn’t meant to sound so accusing, but he knew from the expression on her face, the sudden flash of anger in her eyes, that his subtle message had been received loud and clear.
Turning, she took a moment to close the door. When she faced him again, the anger was gone. Or at least it was hidden. She stepped into the room and gazed around, looking anywhere but at him.
She was thinner than Dillon remembered, more fragile looking somehow with her blond hair pulled back and fastened at the nape and her blue eyes shadowed with an emotion he could only assume was grief.
She was dressed in a peach-colored suit with some sort of silky-looking blouse beneath. A string of pearls—no doubt real—draped her throat and tiny pearl teardrops hung from her lobes. She looked polished, sophisticated, expensive. Too perfe
ct to touch.
That much hadn’t changed.
“So…this is where you live.”
“Yeah.” Dillon waved a careless hand around the room. “It’s not Chickasaw Gardens but I call it home. Hell, it beats where I grew up. But I’ll bet you’d already made that comparison, hadn’t you?”
A look of sadness flickered across Taylor’s face. The wounded glitter in her eyes, the air of uncertainty that seemed to surround her, caused funny things to happen to Dillon’s insides.
“How did you find the place, anyway?” he asked abruptly.
“I called your mother. She gave me your address. I…hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?”
She shrugged, then said hesitantly, “Look…I’m sorry for just dropping by like this. I know I should have called first, but…I didn’t think you would see me.”
“Now why would you think that, Taylor?”
If she noticed the sarcasm in his voice, she chose to ignore it. She sat down on the couch with her knees pressed together and her purse clutched tightly between her hands.
When Dillon took the seat across from her, he saw her moisten her lips with the tip of her tongue. He recognized a nervous woman when he saw one, and Taylor’s discomfort in his presence gave him an almost perverse sense of satisfaction.
“I was sorry to hear about Brad’s death,” he said.
Raw emotion passed across Taylor’s face, and for a moment, she looked as if she might break down.
Dillon found that he wasn’t enjoying himself, after all. No matter how much he might wish to, he could take no pleasure in Taylor’s pain.
Regardless of what she had once done to him.
“This isn’t easy for me.” She gripped the purse so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Dillon lifted his gaze to her face. “What isn’t?”
“Coming here. Seeing you again. Dillon—” Her fingertips fluttered briefly to her lips, as if she could physically quell her emotions. It was an action that struck yet another memory inside Dillon.
Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 23