Claiming His Family

by Ann Voss Peterson

  He nodded as if following her thoughts. “John carried the blood out of the prison, but he didn’t have anything to do with the scheme. He didn’t even know he was carrying Smythe’s blood. He, like everyone else, just assumed it was ketchup inside those ketchup packets he has in his briefcase.”

  Alyson picked up the thread and ran with it. “And then someone else took the blood from his briefcase while John wasn’t looking and hired Connie Rasula to fake the rape.”

  Alyson glanced at Maggie. The guilt and fear on the woman’s face said it all. Alyson brought her gaze back to Dex. “So, Runyon did nothing more than convey messages to and from prison. And Jennifer Scott?”

  “I think she merely gave Smythe the notion, if that.” Dex tore his gaze from Alyson and turned an accusing stare on Maggie. “But I think we know who did the rest.”

  Maggie straightened. “I want a lawyer.”

  He nodded. “You’re going to need one.”

  Alyson focused on Maggie. After the way she’d defended her half brother, the fact she’d helped spring him from prison didn’t surprise Alyson in the least. But the last thing she wanted was for the woman to hire some attorney who’d tell her not to say a word. Alyson still hadn’t gotten the answers she needed—the most important answers of all. “First tell me about Patrick. Where is he? What has your brother done with him? Please.”

  Unflinching, Maggie looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t know anything about your baby. I swear.”

  Alyson dropped her gaze to the floor and fought back the tears blurring her eyes. She had no more questions. And no more hope. Because this time, no matter what Maggie had done, Alyson knew in her gut the woman was telling the truth.

  DEX WATCHED ALYSON pick at the sandwich he’d bought for her. She usually loved the subs from the local Italian deli. But after today, she probably was having trouble choking down a single bite of food. And he couldn’t blame her.

  Even though they had discovered the truth behind the DNA double ploy that had led to Andrew Clarke Smythe’s pardon, they were no closer to finding Patrick than they were the night Smythe kidnapped him.

  Alyson looked up from her untouched sandwich. Circles hovered under her eyes, puffy from tears. “Maggie hasn’t said anything more, has she?”

  “No. She’s following her attorney’s advice.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She doesn’t know where Patrick is. Smythe didn’t confide in her about the things he did after he got out of prison. She was under the impression that her half brother was a swell guy.” Bitterness laced her tone.

  “Britt will keep working on her. She might give us information in exchange for a reduced charge.”

  Alyson shook her head. “She doesn’t know about Patrick. We’ve reached a dead end.”

  Despite his better judgment, Dex reached across the table and touched her shoulder. He wanted to take her into his arms. He wanted to kiss away her fear as he’d kissed the tears from her face last night. He wanted to make everything right again. For her. For Patrick. And for him.

  And damn it, he refused to believe they were at a dead end. “If not his sister, who else would he trust to keep a baby for him?”

  Alyson’s gaze shot to his face, life stirring in her green eyes. “The housekeeper? She was pretty quick to tell us about his relationship with Maggie. Maybe she just wanted to throw us off.”

  Dex shook his head. “It isn’t her. She testified against Smythe at the first trial. Ripped his alibi to shreds. I can’t see him ever forgiving her, let alone trusting her to keep a baby stashed for him. She’s probably on his revenge list after me.”

  Alyson’s eyes glazed as if her mind was far away. “She said, ‘he promised me on the life of the woman who raised him.’”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Maggie said to me. She said Smythe promised her he wouldn’t rape again ‘on the life of the woman who raised him.’ It was the reason she believed he’d stopped.”

  “He couldn’t have meant his mother.”

  “No. Maggie knew his mother beat him. It had to be someone else. Someone who was good to Smythe when he was growing up. Someone he cared about—if he’s capable of caring about anyone at all. Someone like a nanny.”

  Dex jutted to his feet and strode across the room to the bank of file cabinets on the far wall. He pulled a drawer open and rifled the files. “Why didn’t I think of it before? If I remember correctly, Smythe had one nanny through most of his childhood.”

  Locating the file he was looking for, he pulled it from the drawer and spread it open.

  Tense as a spring, Alyson followed him to the cabinet and looked over his shoulder at the papers. He could hear her sharp intake of air as she caught her breath and held it.

  He flipped through the papers, his fingers beginning to shake. Finally he found what he was looking for. “Here she is. Clara Thompson. And she lives only about a forty-minute drive from here.”

  ALYSON SHIFTED in the passenger seat of Dex’s car and watched the windows of the tiny ranch house. The house, the yard, the whole town looked straight out of a small-town cliché. She glanced down the quiet street. “It’s hard to imagine Andrew Smythe having anything to do with such a peaceful town. The neighbors probably leave their doors unlocked.”

  “Clara Thompson was probably one of the few good influences Smythe had in his life.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “I cross-examined her. She was one of the character witnesses Runyon trotted out as part of his flimsy case.”

  “So she’ll know who you are as soon as she peeks out the door.”

  “I assume so.”

  “Then I’ll have to go to the door.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

  She wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “All I need to do is to convince her to open the door. If Patrick is inside, I’m going to find him. Nothing is going to stand in my way. Certainly not an elderly nanny.”

  “What if Smythe is inside? Do you want to risk a replay of what happened at Maggie’s house?”

  Alyson’s breath hitched in her throat. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of Smythe hiding here. Just the thought of his presence in this quiet town was an abomination. “He wouldn’t be here, would he?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t want you anywhere near if he is.”

  “But if you go to the door, the woman might not even answer the door, let alone invite you inside.”

  “We’ll have to take that chance.”

  “No. Let me go. You can wait in the bushes near the house. If Smythe is there, you’ll be close enough to use that gun of yours.”

  Dex smiled. She might not like guns, but after being attacked by Smythe twice and finding two women murdered by him, she wasn’t as averse to the thought of him using it as she’d been only days ago.

  “You win.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “I’ll stay in the bushes until you need me.”

  She leaned into his warmth, into his strength. She wasn’t alone. Dex was here with her. They would find Patrick. They would bring him home. And together they would raise him. Even if they couldn’t be husband and wife, they could be Patrick’s mother and father. That was all she dared ask for. To have Dex in her life again. To be a family.

  Taking a deep breath, she grasped the handle and pushed the door open. She climbed out of the car and smoothed her sweaty hands over her skirt. Before she had the chance to think—to remember Smythe’s hands on her, his breath fanning her face—she forced her feet to take one step after another up the street.

  She turned onto the sidewalk flanked by moss roses. The sound of Dex’s car door opening and the rustle of arborvitae followed her, but she forced herself not to turn around. If she needed him, he’d be there. And that was all she needed to know.

  She walked up the narrow walk, her heels clicking on concrete, the only sound
in the still summer afternoon. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dampened the hair at the nape of her neck. She climbed the shallow steps leading to the front door and pressed a finger to the glowing doorbell button.

  A chime echoed in the house. A few moments later footsteps pattered on the other side of the door. Ruffled sheers pulled back from a side light, and a blue eye peeked out at Alyson. “I’m sorry. I’m not interested in buying anything.”

  “I’m not selling anything, ma’am.” Apparently this snug little community wasn’t as naive as it appeared. So much for Ozzie and Harriet stereotypes. The residents of this neighborhood had joined the modern world of crime along with the rest of society.

  Or at least the modern world of door-to-door salespeople and evangelists.

  Alyson would have to try a tack no kindhearted woman could resist. She infused her voice with all the emotion threatening to break her apart. “I need your help.”

  “What for?”

  “My car has broken down. I need to use your phone to call Triple A.”

  The blue eye didn’t seem to soften. “There’s a service station down a few blocks. They can help you there.”

  So much for hoping Clara Thompson would offer to be a good Samaritan. But the woman had worked her entire life as a nanny, surely Alyson could use that to her advantage. “I can’t walk that far. My children are in the car asleep. I hate to wake them. And I can’t leave them alone.”

  The eye withdrew and the sheer fell back into place. A few rattles of locks and the door opened.

  The house was dim inside and Alyson had to wait for a moment to let her eyes adjust. Lined seafoam draperies cloaked the windows, blocking the sun. No doubt to keep the seafoam couch from fading. Or the dark green sculpted carpet. And everywhere she looked, upholstery and wood alike were covered with crocheted doilies. It reminded her of visiting her grandmother’s house when she was a child.

  Clara Thompson stared up at her from her barely five-foot height. Eyes wary, she forced a polite smile to her lips. “You’ll have to follow me. The phone is in the kitchen. I don’t have one of those fancy ones without the cord.”

  “I really appreciate this, ma’am. I don’t know how I could have handled getting the children to walk one block, let alone several.”

  “Happy to do it.” She nodded matter-of-factly, but she didn’t look happy about it. Not happy at all. “How many children do you have?”

  Alyson paused to come up with a number. “Three.”

  The woman nodded, knowingly. Apparently she’d chosen the right one. “The kitchen is this way.”

  As soon as the woman turned, Alyson took the opportunity to glance around the house. The place was small—tiny really. It shouldn’t be hard to find evidence of a baby. Even easier than at Maggie Daugherty’s condo. The only drawback was that Mrs. Thompson was painfully neat.

  She followed the woman to the back of the house and the kitchen. There on a dish drainer near the sink propped a freshly washed bottle.

  A shiver zinged to Alyson’s toes.

  She motioned to the bottle. “You must have grandchildren.”

  The woman’s smile was genuine this time. “You could say that.”

  “A baby?” Alyson’s legs shook so badly, she leaned against the counter for balance.

  “Yes. A boy as sweet as can be.”

  “I love babies. May I see him?”

  Clara hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. He just went down for his nap. I’m sure we won’t wake him if we just peek in.” She squeezed past Alyson and walked back into the narrow hallway.

  Alyson forced her trembling legs to follow in Clara’s footsteps. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She glanced at the window, searching for a sign of Dex outside. The baby had to be Patrick. It had to be. If it wasn’t, Alyson didn’t know how she’d control the tears burning behind her eyelids.

  Clara opened one of the bedroom doors and stood aside for Alyson to peek in.

  Biting her lip, she craned her neck to see around the door. The room was dark and it took her eyes several moments to adjust. The outline of a crib came into focus. Then a little body huddled on the mattress.

  And then her child’s beautiful face.

  “Patrick,” she yelled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She pushed past the older woman and crossed the room in two strides. Reaching into the crib, she picked up her sweet little boy and kissed his sweet-smelling head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “What are you doing? He’s napping. Put him down.” Clara’s eyes flashed even in the dark room.

  Tears blurred the dim room into a mosaic of shadow. “He’s my son.”

  “You’re his mother?” Clara barred the door, threatening despite her small stature and feeble age. “You abandoned him. What kind of a woman abandons her own child?”

  “Abandoned? He was kidnapped. Stolen from me.”

  Patrick flailed his hands. His cry split the air.

  “Now see what you’ve done?” Clara advanced. Her hands grasped Alyson’s arm.

  Alyson twisted her body to keep Patrick away from her. “Dex!” she yelled.

  The crash of the front door flying open shook the little house. Suddenly, Dex was in the room. He grabbed Clara from behind, detaching her grip from Alyson and restraining her arms at her sides.

  “Let go of me.” Clara clawed at his arm. She lunged at Alyson, her effort stunted by Dex’s hold. She struggled to break free. “The baby belongs with his father. Not with you.”

  “The baby’s father?” Alyson met Dex’s eyes.

  “Andy cares more about him than you do. He has provided everything for this baby. You just walked away.”

  Fury welled inside Alyson. She skewered Clara Thompson with a hard stare. “Andrew Clarke Smythe is not this baby’s father. Dex is Patrick’s father. Smythe kidnapped our child.”

  The woman froze.

  “Go, Alyson. Now,” Dex ordered.

  Alyson whirled for the door. Running out of the room and down the hall, she cradled Patrick against her, trying not to jostle him. She ran all the way to the car. By the time she reached it, Dex was right behind her. They ducked inside and locked the doors. Dex twisted the key in the ignition and the car sparked to life.

  Alyson cradled her son in her arms, the most precious thing in her life, and looked straight into Dex’s blue eyes. “Meet your daddy, Patrick.”

  THE BABY LOOKED UP at Dex from the changing table in his bedroom where Alyson was undressing him. She was right. Patrick looked just like him. The spitting image from his blue eyes to the tiny cleft in his chin.

  Except for his little bow mouth, so like Alyson’s.

  When Alyson had held the baby up to meet him once they were safe in the car, too many emotions to name had surged through Dex. Joy, pride, worry, fear. They had flashed so fast, he couldn’t pick one from another. And now, even hours later, he still hadn’t been able to sort them out.

  He’d always wanted a family, a wife, children. But somewhere deep inside, he never truly believed that kind of happiness was in his reach. But here it was, his own son, looking at him with clear, blue, innocent eyes.

  Tears stung, but he didn’t let them fall. He should be happy. Patrick was home. The police were out searching for Smythe with a vengeance. And a regular army had been set up outside Alyson’s house to protect her and Patrick. Dex should be enjoying the evening with his baby, reveling in relief that the nightmare was over, planning to get on with his life.

  He reached out to touch the tiny cleft in the soft, chubby chin. His hand dwarfed the little guy’s head. He was so fragile. So vulnerable. So dependent on his parents to take care of him, to not let him down.

  Dex’s throat constricted. Plenty of responsibility came with raising a baby. Responsibility his own father had shirked. And even though the moment Dex had heard about Patrick’s existence he’d vowed to live up to that responsibility, he didn’t
have a clue how to begin.

  But God, he wanted to learn.

  “It’s time for him to eat and go to bed.” Alyson secured the diaper tape and started clothing the little guy in pajamas sprinkled with yellow bears. Her fingers moved smooth and sure over the baby’s clothes, slipping fabric over a limb here, securing a set of snaps there, as if the whole operation was second nature to her. Lifting Patrick from the changing table, she looked up at Dex and smiled through her drape of auburn hair.

  What he wouldn’t give to smooth that hair back from her face right now, to caress a silken cheek, to take her and their baby into his arms and never let them go. The wife, the family, the complete package. All within his grasp if he could only reach out and claim them.

  “Do you want to play with him for a little while?”

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “He’s had a big day. And he’s probably hungry. I’ll play with him tomorrow.”

  Alyson cocked her head, an ethereal smile lighting her eyes. “That’s right. We have tomorrow, don’t we? A lifetime of tomorrows.”

  Her words cut Dex to the core. A lifetime with Alyson and their son. It sounded like heaven. Or more like a fantasy. It couldn’t be reality. Not for someone like him—someone who grew up without a real family, without a stable home.

  Could it?

  Alyson’s telephone rang once, followed by the chirp of her cell phone. A forwarded call.

  Smythe.

  Alyson’s eyes rounded and met his. He could almost see the questions poised on her lips, the fear she didn’t want to voice.

  “It could be the police,” he said, trying to make his voice reassuring.

  The phone rang again.

  “The kitchen,” Alyson whispered. “The phone is in my purse.”

  He ripped his gaze from her face and ran down the hall and the stairs to the kitchen. Alyson’s purse perched on a countertop, the phone inside. He pulled it out and hit the button. “Yes?”