He huffed in disbelief. “So why didn’t you tell me last night?”
When she turned to face him again, her eyes were earnest. “Because I wasn’t sure why Sarah hadn’t told me about you. Maybe you were some danger to Nicholas, too. I had to think before I acted.”
“Or maybe you were hoping I’d limp out of town feeling like a heel for lying to you—never to show my face again. That I’d believe your well-executed lies.”
“I entertained the thought.”
Her candor took him off guard.
She said, “I love this baby. All I want is what’s best for him. Every decision I’ve made, right or wrong, has been because of that.”
As he stood there looking into those silver eyes, Dean had never wanted to believe a lie so much.
Chapter 18
Molly’s telephone rang. The sound startled her; she’d been so immobilized by Dean’s glare that she’d nearly lost track of where she was.
She glanced at the handset. “I should get this. Could be about the kids.”
He continued to stare, giving away nothing of what was going on inside him.
She answered.
“Molly, the sheriff just called,” Lily said. “Karen’s got everyone up in arms. She wants a warrant for Riley’s arrest!”
“Did you explain to him the circumstances?”
“Of course!” She sounded short tempered with frustration. “He says he has to take every complaint seriously. And since Riley and Mickey are both still missing—”
“What? Is he setting out the hounds?” She could throttle Karen for her histrionics. Things were a big enough mess without her taking center stage in this drama. “Hey, that might not be a bad idea. Send out tracking dogs. That could put this whole matter to rest rather quickly.”
“Really, Molly, I thought you were concerned.”
Molly rubbed her eyes. She nearly told Lily that Riley wasn’t the only one in danger of being arrested. She took a deep breath. “I am. Is the sheriff’s department looking for the cars?”
“Yes. Neither one has shown up.”
“How about the state police? In case they really did get a wild hair and decide to take off.”
“Yes.”
“I really don’t think they’ve taken off. Did anyone check the lake house?”
“Clay said there were no cars in the drive. He went inside and looked around, no one had been there.”
“I have this feeling they’re close. Maybe they’re up in the fire tower. Or hiding in the park—there are a dozen places to hide a car if you’re willing to drive across the grass. Maybe they’ve gone into the Hoosier National Forest. Did Clay check the old Kaleidoscope Caverns?” That tourist attraction had been closed since the sixties but kids used to trespass there all of the time; Molly figured they still might.
“No. I’d forgotten about that place. I’ll have him drive out there and see if one of their cars is on the access road.”
“Good idea. I just know they’re fine.”
“Then why haven’t they come home?”
“Because Riley wants to punish you?”
When Lily didn’t respond, Molly went on, “Really, how many ways does a kid have to do that? Running off, making you suffer is about the only card he has.”
“Then why didn’t Mickey come back and tell us he’s all right, like she promised?”
There was a question Molly didn’t have an answer to and it frightened her more than she wanted to admit. The late hour was making her worry. Since moving to Glens Crossing, Riley had been extremely conscious of substance abuse because of his father’s addiction. Now that he knew Peter wasn’t his father, would he lose himself in drugs or alcohol? Maybe he was too stoned to move and Mickey didn’t trust him to stay alone.
If something did happen to those kids, Molly would never forgive herself.
Instead of giving her sister a comforting answer, a sob choked free. She quickly muffled it with her hand.
“Molly, are you crying? Oh Jesus, if you’re crying it has to be bad.”
She tried to pull in a draught of air quietly. “No, I’m not crying.” She took another breath. “They’re just somewhere talking, trying to get this sorted out. Didn’t he and Mickey always use each other as sounding boards?”
“They did. But not for a long time.”
“He’s turning to his oldest friend here in town. They’re working it through together. They’ll be home soon. We should free up the line.”
“Okay. Keep in touch.” Lily hesitated. “And, thanks, Mol.”
“Yeah.”
She managed to keep herself together until she disconnected the call. The sob she’d been suppressing broke free. She wanted to bolt from the room, to hide in the bathroom away from Dean’s critical gaze and cry herself out. But he was blocking the doorway.
Turning her back to him, she cried into her hands. What else could come apart today? How could she have fooled herself into thinking it was okay to send Mickey after him? The same way you fooled yourself into thinking it was okay to keep Nicholas.
From Dean’s angry glare, she knew there would be no forgiving, no gratitude for keeping the baby safe, no becoming a “favorite aunt.” She felt the life drain out of her. Her strength left along with her tears.
“I’m sorry.” She turned and faced him again. “Do you want to call the police now?”
He looked at her for a long time. Then he said, “You’re not really sure your nephew is all right, are you?”
Pushing her hair away from her face, she gave an unladylike sniffle. “I was—earlier. Mickey has her head on straight. I thought she’d be a good influence on him, calming. But what if something happened to them? What if they had an accident—or ran into some crazed killer?”
“You did a good job trying to calm your sister.”
A sardonic laugh escaped her control. “You just said I’m a good liar.”
“I won’t call the police until they find your nephew.” He didn’t look at her when he said it, as if it was a concession that made him uncomfortable.
“Thank you.” She started to get Nicholas’s bottle ready. “It’s time to feed him. Do you want to do it, or should I?” Those were some of the hardest words she’d ever had to say. This could well be the last feeding before Dean took him away.
“You can. I’ll go sit on the porch.”
“Fine.” She was glad to have him out of the house so she could enjoy her last hour with Nicholas.
As she fed the baby, she studied him carefully, memorizing the curve of his ear, his tiny earlobes, his pale lashes and round blue eyes, the way his tiny fingers, with their impossibly small pink nails, grasped hers, the sweet cupid’s bow of a mouth, the new downy hair over the perfect shape of his skull. Oh, what will you look like when you’re a boy? A teenager? A man?
The magnitude of what she was losing struck her with sledgehammer force, stealing her breath, making her want to sneak out the back door and run again.
Instead, she sang to him, a soft sweet lullaby that she knew she would never sing again.
Dean had left the front door open a crack. As much as he shouldn’t trust Molly, he couldn’t see her sneaking out the back and taking off with Nicholas. Or maybe he was giving her the chance, just to see if she would.
He was having a difficult time getting a handle on his own motivation. Was he testing her? Or was he just hiding out here so he didn’t have to watch Molly mothering a baby he was going to take away from her? He’d seen first hand the love she lavished upon Nicholas. She was as devoted as any mother he’d ever seen. Which said she was either completely committed to upholding a promise—or was a woman who wanted a child enough to kill for it.
Dean couldn’t remove the memory of the bicyclist lying in the rain. Molly had acted on instinct. A person couldn’t fake something like that. That act alone shouted that she wasn’t a killer, that she was telling the truth about his sister.
Would Molly truly have come to him with the fact that
Nicholas was his nephew? It was certainly a convenient story. Still, try as he might, he could not see Molly Boudreau putting a bullet in anyone’s brain—for any reason.
It was difficult to think of that tiny baby as his nephew, his only living relative. He tried to recall how he had felt as he held him. Had there been anything, some small voice deep inside that recognized him as family? Shouldn’t that be the way of it—some intuitive affinity?
But there hadn’t been. Nicholas was just a baby. Dean had felt as awkward holding him as he would have any other baby. There hadn’t been the slightest spark of recognition, no hint that this child was connected to his sister. On the other hand, Molly appeared completely natural with the baby. Shouldn’t there have been some telltale sign that she wasn’t his mother?
That small voice deep inside did answer this time, and he didn’t like what it had to say. Molly was Nicholas’s mother, the only mother he’d known. The very thought made him feel disloyal to his sister.
Why, Julie? Why didn’t you contact me?
He tried to think of her, the way she’d been the last time he’d seen her. Were there any clues that her life was on the fast track to trouble? It had been at Christmas; before she’d conceived this child.
As he combed through the details of that visit—they’d met in Rome for the holiday—nothing out of the ordinary came to mind. She hadn’t acted like leaving New York for Christmas was upsetting any personal relationship she might have had.
He closed his eyes and remembered walking with her across the damp cobbles of the piazza at the base of the Spanish Steps. It had been cold, but the sidewalk cafes still served coffee. They’d stopped and had strong espresso to keep them going as they spent their last day traipsing all over the ancient city like a couple of tourists. It was a very good day—the last day they would ever share.
Julie had wanted to be home by New Year’s Eve. He hadn’t questioned, especially since he needed to get back to Afghanistan himself. But now he had to wonder if it had something to do with seeing the father.
Dean wanted to pull out his own hair. How was he ever going to unwind this tangled mess and see the truth?
Molly’s voice drifted out to the porch, a low, mellow lullaby. Dean tried to block it out; it was too bittersweet and only served to further cloud his judgment.
In those first fury-blinded moments after he’d spoken to Harry, Dean had wanted to believe he’d unearthed the truth, fully and undeniably. He had wanted to believe this was the end of the search, that justice could now be served, that dear Julie could rest in peace.
But his gut told him if he turned Molly over to the police, justice would never be done.
There were large missing pieces in this puzzle. Only Julie knew the shape of them. But Molly might know more than she was conscious of.
He thought of the large carton of unopened mail he’d left in his office. Could there be something in there? It seemed highly unlikely; he couldn’t recall getting a scrap of mail from his sister any time in his life. Even birthday greetings when he was in the field were left on his voice mail. She always said it took cards too long to get there. She wanted you to know the second she was thinking about you.
There had been no voice mails.
The police said she’d emptied her bank accounts and sold her car. She left New York in what would have been the early weeks of her pregnancy. It could only be because she didn’t want people there to know about it. But why go to the extent of a false identity?
Molly was right. Julie had been hiding. Nothing else made even a shred of sense.
He had to stop riding back and forth on his emotions. He had to take a step back and look at the facts as he knew them from a journalistic point of view.
Molly stuck her head out the front door when Nicholas started fussing. She said to Dean, “You’d better come in and see this.”
She didn’t wait for him to get up before she turned away and headed for the bathroom. When he arrived at the bathroom door, she said, “Come in and close it.”
Turning on the hot water in the shower, she explained to Dean, over Nicholas’s shrieks, how to calm the baby.
He stood there looking skeptical, the steam reaching him long before it got down to Nicholas. He slipped his coat off. “Doesn’t seem very scientific.”
“Maybe not, but it works.” She gave him a pointed look. “And you’ll be thankful for it.”
As Nicholas began to quiet, Dean said, “I’ll be damned.”
Molly had to pinch her lips together to keep from agreeing. Over and over she had to remind herself, Dean was in the right here. He had the law on his side. Still, did he think he could offer this child a better home than she could? She bet the man didn’t even have a home.
After about five minutes, she got tired of him standing there wiping the sweat off his brow. “You can go on out.”
“How long do you have to do this?”
She lifted a shoulder. “An hour, sometimes two.”
His chin dropped and his mouth came open. “Two hours?”
“Get used to it. I use it as my time to think.”
“What if you don’t do it?”
“He screams.”
“Every day?” There was an edge of desperation to his voice.
“Pretty much. At least for two to three more months.”
“Months?”
She glared at him. “Am I not speaking clearly?” The heat was beginning to get to her, too.
The baby seemed to be the only one enjoying the sauna. His cries had dwindled to the occasional whimper accompanied by a tensing of his stomach and legs. Molly continued to rub his back.
She’d been giving this a lot of thought while Dean sat out there sulking on the porch. Now her frustration was ready to bubble over. “Do you have any idea what you’re going to do with this baby?”
The look in his eyes told her he had absolutely no idea. He said, “Of course.”
She said, “Well, think this through. I won’t run off with him. I know he’s your nephew. But good God, I will not hand him over without some assurance that he’s going to be well cared for.”
He stiffened. “He’s my nephew. You think I would mistreat him?”
“Not mistreat. But you have to prepare yourself to take care of him. What will you do with him while you work? How about when you go back to the Middle East? Do you have a place for him to sleep—you cannot sleep in a bed with a baby; I’ve seen cases where an infant suffocated. Do you have any idea how often, or how much he eats? You need to select a pediatrician.”
“I can change a diaper.”
“I’m not saying you aren’t capable of doing any of these things. I’m saying you have to address them. Prepare.”
“You didn’t.”
She closed her eyes and huffed. “Jesus, man. Your sister gave her son to me because she could trust me and because I’m a pediatrician. She knew I’d know how to take care of an infant.”
Now she was really getting worked up. “And just to get this straight, keep in mind she did choose me. Sarah—Julie—entrusted her child to me, not you. I’m sure she had a good reason.”
He started to argue, but she held a hand up and said, “Whatever that was, I understand you’ve got the law on your side.
“But think! Your sister was murdered! I’m pretty sure the baby’s father did it—a man Sarah was deathly afraid of. I had to make a decision in an instant. I worried he would come after the baby, too. Everything I’ve done I’ve done to keep Nicholas safe. I’m not stopping now. I need to know you can handle it.”
His jaw flexed. “I can handle it.” He went out the door and closed it behind him.
Even though she was tempted to hand the baby over this instant and let Dean flounder just to make her point, she hated to make the baby suffer. So once Nicholas was relaxed, she got him ready and put him to bed.
When she returned to the kitchen, Dean was sitting at the table, reading the formula can.
He looked up.
“Why not?” He set the can down.
“Because the car seat is in it.”
“Oh. I wasn’t leaving right away anyhow.”
“Need to call the police first?”
He shot her a heart-stopping look. “No. I need to talk about Julie first.”
“Okay. Then we talk about Nicholas.” She’d meant what she said; she wasn’t handing him over until she was sure he could deal with an infant.
She sat down at the table across from him. “Are you going to have me arrested?” She couldn’t stop the question.
Dean had to give the woman credit. She was facing this with calm acceptance. Very uncriminal-like. “Not if you help me.”
“Help you what?” she asked.
“Help me find out who this baby’s father is.”
“Threatening me with arrest won’t make my answer any different. I don’t know anything about the man. I have no idea where he lives or what he does. I can only tell you that your sister said the man was evil—oh, and he has red hair.”
“She said he had red hair?”
“Actually, it was the only detail of the man she let slip—right after Nicholas was born.”
Another question came to mind. “Did she name him, or did you?”
“She did. Nicholas James. But she made it clear she wasn’t naming him after his father.”
“No. She named him after me.” He could hardly swallow around the lump of emotion in his throat.
“Your middle name is Nicholas?”
“James. My name is James Dean Coletta.”
“Well, as she told me she had no family, you can see why she didn’t share that with me.” She leaned closer. “I really can’t tell you things I don’t know. You have it all.”
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