Finally, she reached the far side of the road. She didn't have the energy to stand, so she crawled until she was far enough in the yard, nobody would see her unless they were looking. She studied the little house. Old, but cozy. Wood siding and a fireplace sticking up from the back. Not that she could light it. At least inside would be warmer than out here. She crawled around to the back and up four steps to the patio. A wall of windows looked out over the frozen lake. She rested and took in the view. She could imagine what it would look like in the summertime, but she decided not to. Those memories would be the end of her.
When she caught her breath, she crawled across the patio to the back door, levered herself up by hanging onto the knob. Locked, of course. She'd try the windows if she could walk. But they were probably locked, too. Not that she was an expert, but she'd learned to pick locks a long time ago. It had become a basic survival skill.
She took off her backpack, propped herself against the door, and unzipped the biggest compartment. A moment later, she pulled out her lock-picking kit, a fifteen-dollar online special. Her fingers were frozen, but she took off her thin gloves, managed to unzip the canvas case, and selected the right tools.
She warmed her fingers with her breath until she could move them, then stuck the flashlight in her mouth to illuminate the lock and got to work. It took less than two minutes before the lock clicked. She swung the door open.
And waited.
No alarm. At least not one she could hear. She stepped inside the rustic living area. It was chilly, but fifties was better than twenties. She'd take it. The cabin smelled stale, abandoned. An old leather couch and matching La-Z-Boy faced the brick fireplace. She longed to throw herself on that couch and sleep. Not yet. A flat-screen TV rested on a stand in the corner. Kelsey swung the flashlight through the door on her left and saw a galley kitchen. Using furniture and walls, she hobbled in there. She found a glass and turned on the tap. Nothing.
Of course not. That'd be too easy.
She opened the fridge, and the light came on. Power in the house—good to know. Not that she would use it. Two bottles of water and a half-full gallon of expired apple juice. She grabbed both bottles of water, opened one, and downed the whole thing. She didn't feel thirsty, but she knew she needed to hydrate after that walk.
She stuck the second bottle of water in the inside pocket of her jacket and hopped through another door to the eating area, which was open to the cabin's front door. Across from it were stairs leading to the second floor. She should walk up there, make sure she was alone. Grab some blankets. No way she could do it.
There was a door beneath the stairs. She opened it and nearly cried with relief. On the shelf just above her head lay a pillow, folded blankets, and sheets. She pulled them down, dropped the pillow and sheet, and squeezed the blanket beneath her armpit. She hobbled back to the living room, where she tossed it on the couch.
She sat on the chair and set her backpack beside her. From the front zipper pocket, she took out her handgun, a little Taurus revolver that probably wouldn't shoot straight. She'd never tested it and had no plans to do so.
Unless she ran into Carlos. She'd be happy to shoot him.
After the stupid van had died, she'd bought the gun at a pawn shop in hopes that pointing it would scare away thieves, thugs, and guys who got the wrong idea about her. After everything, she still wasn't that kind of girl.
She stuck the handgun in her pocket, then tugged out the tablet along with her wallet and phone. She stood again, heaving a sigh at the thought of hopping across the floor one more time. She gathered her strength and managed to make it back to the closet without falling.
The closet would be a good hiding place. It was close to where she was sleeping, so she could retrieve her stuff quickly—assuming her ankle healed. On the floor, she'd seen a jumble of things before she'd grabbed the blanket. She took out her flashlight and looked closer. Deflated inner tubes, foam floats, a couple of Frisbees, a football, and a volleyball net propped against the wall. On the other side, a pile of beach towels. Perfect. She shoved her things in the back corner, beneath everything else, and hoped she was just being paranoid.
Paranoia was another life skill she'd picked up along the way.
She grabbed a towel, lifted the pillow and sheets from the floor, closed the closet door, and hopped back to the living room, where she dropped the pillow and sheet on the sofa before she collapsed on the La-Z-Boy. After a few minutes to rest, she stripped to her bra and underwear, teeth chattering in the chilly air. She dried her wet feet with the beach towel, then wiped the floor where she'd dripped. She slipped on her fleece pajamas and dry socks, grabbed her jacket, and hopped to the couch. She covered the bottom with the sheet, a thin layer against the cold leather, put the pillow on the far end, then sat against the armrest. She lifted her foot onto the pillow, gritting her teeth against the pain. She covered herself with the blanket and reached for her jacket.
Out of breath, she rested a minute. Then she emptied the jacket's pockets. Water, flashlight, gun. She set them on the coffee table beside her and laid the wet jacket over her freezing feet.
She should be safe here tonight. Tomorrow night, she'd move on. Assuming she could walk.
She closed her eyes, and images of her beautiful, perfect son filled her mind. Her sobs filled the silence until, finally, she succumbed to exhaustion.
CHAPTER FOUR
Earlier in the day at the salon while Vanessa Bakočević had been preparing for this charity ball, she'd overheard a conversation between a hairdresser and a client about that feeling a woman gets when a man rests his hand on the small of her back. Possessive, the client had called it.
The hairdresser had nodded and smiled, as if it were a good thing to feel possessed. Obviously, neither woman had any idea what it meant to be possessed by a man.
When they'd walked into the party that night, a black-tie affair for which Carlos had allowed Vanessa to purchase a new dress—skin tight, floor length, plunging neckline—Carlos's hand on her back felt kind. It felt loving. It felt far from possessive.
Those women were lud, as Mama used to say. Crazy. Maybe just stupid, because possessive was never gentle.
Possessive was a grip on the wrist. Possessive was fingers pressed into the soft flesh of an arm. Possessive was a huge hand squeezing the neck. Cutting off oxygen. Making you dizzy with fear.
That gentle hand on the back. That was only tenderness.
Vanessa could live her life in happiness if only Carlos would keep his hand right there, inches above her bottom.
Of course, the hand wouldn't stay there. Which made the moment that much more worthy to be cherished.
Clearly, normal women would never understand.
Vanessa had been a possession almost as long as she could remember. There were snatches of her childhood, memories of a small apartment in Belgrade, her mama and tata in the kitchen, arguing about money. About sanctions, which she hadn't understood. Still didn't. Her life didn't leave a lot of room for history lessons, for any lessons apart from how to survive. From her childhood, she remembered there was always fighting somewhere. Inside, outside. She'd understood very little. But she'd felt cherished. She'd felt loved, surrounded by her parents, her grandparents, and her aunt. And of course her younger brothers and sisters, who all adored her. She'd been their caretaker, helping entertain the little ones while the adults argued and worried and cried. She'd changed diapers and fed them meals and loved them. They'd loved her, too, their big sister who wasn't all that big at eight, nine, ten years old.
Even then, she'd been a possession, though too young to understand. How could she not have been? If Tata sold her, then he must have owned her too.
She could remember her mother holding her tight, screaming her protest. "Vojislava, my baby."
Tata pulled her away. "Better to lose one than to watch them all starve."
Vojislava had become Vanessa. Property to be loaned, rented, and sold.
But Carlos's
hand on her back said something else. That hand said she was more than a possession. Perhaps it meant she could belong somewhere. She could be loved, like she'd thought she'd been loved as a child.
Was it so much to ask?
Vanessa posed beside Carlos, sipped champagne, smiled at the women. She felt their husbands' stares, their desire. She knew how to stand, how to move, how to speak, to get their attention. She had a decade of experience now. People called her young, as if a person could be judged by her years. Vanessa had lived a thousand lifetimes since she'd been wrenched from Mama's arms at ten years old. How did the men not see her scars?
Carlos liked it when other men wanted her, and Vanessa did her best to make Carlos happy. What did she care about the women glaring at her? They would never understand Vanessa's life. At the end of the night, they would go home with husbands who loved them. Perhaps their husbands' wandering eyes sometimes led to wandering bodies, but when it was over, they would go home. They would provide for their children, care for their wives. Those women had families.
What did Vanessa have?
Mateo Ruiz joined their group. Tonight, he wore a tuxedo like the rest of the men, a far cry from the jeans and T-shirts he preferred. His gray hair was freshly cut in the very short style he liked. He looked for all the world like a fit-and-trim grandpa. He shook the other men's hands, smiled at the women, nodded kindly to Vanessa. But she wasn't fooled. Mateo resented her for the place she'd taken in Carlos's life. He feared how close they'd become. Mateo's frustration gave her courage. If Mateo thought Vanessa was a threat, then she must have meant something to Carlos, something more than a bedmate.
After polite conversation—Mateo was always polite—he apologized to Vanessa and pulled Carlos away for a private conversation, leaving her to talk to the strangers in the circle.
A woman asked about her dress, and she made conversation about clothes and hair and shoes, then about her accent, which people often wondered about, all the while watching Carlos and Mateo's whispered conversation out of the corner of her eye. Carlos didn't look upset or worried, and Vanessa allowed herself to relax. His temper was terrifying, though he'd never unleashed it on her. She knew better than to believe he never would.
He glanced at her across the gilded ballroom, and in his gaze, she saw something more. Not just desire, but that new thing she'd noticed lately. She'd seen hate in men's faces. She'd seen scorn. She'd seen murder. She'd seen fear. She'd even seen kindness, at times, born out of pity. But this was new.
She smiled at him, not the seductive look she'd learned after hours of practice. This was an affectionate smile, like the smiles normal women gave their normal men.
He excused himself and returned to her side.
She barely kept herself from looking at Mateo. She knew he'd see triumph in her eyes, and she didn't need to make more of an enemy of Carlos's right-hand man than she already had.
Carlos reached her and whispered in her ear. "You look lovely, my darling."
My darling.
Her granite heart thumped. She hardly dared to hope. Could it be that Carlos truly cared for her? He treated her as if he did. He told her he did.
Was it possible that Vanessa could someday be like the normal women? Could she be loved?
Did it matter if she didn't deserve love? Ha. What mattered, this deserve? People deserved what they fought for. And she would fight for this.
Carlos would want her, not just as his bedmate and helper. He would want her as his wife. As a wife, Vanessa would be free. She'd already started putting her plan into place to make sure of it. And God help anybody who stood in her way.
CHAPTER FIVE
"But I want to stay with you."
The boy might as well have wrenched Eric's heart right out of his chest. He crouched beside where Daniel sat in the conference room of the police station. The air still carried the scent of the fried chicken and potato wedges someone had picked up for them at KFC. "I wish you could, son."
Daniel had been stoic before, but now, his bottom lip trembled, and tears filled his eyes. "I won't cause you any trouble. I can feed Magic and take her for walks. I'm a good cook, too. Mama taught me how to cook frozen french fries and pizza, and I can even make a grilled cheese sandwich with ham. I won't be any trouble, I promise."
Eric barely knew this kid, but somehow, his arms opened like he'd been comforting eight-year-old boys all his life. Daniel slipped off the chair and into his hug. Eric held him close, rubbed his tiny back, and cursed the woman who'd abandoned such a special kid. "The state has rules about these things, and I'm not allowed to keep you. You'll have to go to a foster family."
Daniel slid his skinny arms around Eric's neck and rested his face against Eric's chest. Warm tears soaked his sweatshirt and seeped into his heart. He lifted Daniel up, sat in a chair, and settled him in his lap. The boy was probably too old and too big to be held like this, but Daniel wasn't complaining, and Eric sure didn't mind. He'd longed for this, just this, most of his adult life. Well, not just this. He'd like a mama to go with his son, and not one like the heartless monster who'd thrown this boy away like last week's leftovers.
They sat like that until a knock sounded on the open door. Eric looked up to see a gray-haired woman step inside. She approached them and held out her hand. "Marcia Lamont."
He shook it. "Eric Nolan."
"And who is this young man?"
Daniel squeezed Eric's neck tighter. He didn't look.
"Daniel, introduce yourself to Ms. Lamont, please."
The boy shook his head.
Eric took hold of Daniel's little arms and gently separated them so he could back away and face the boy. "Fighting it won't make it easier."
"Will you come see me?"
His answer came fast. "Of course. I'll bring Magic."
Little Daniel's grip lessened a little.
"Mr. Nolan," the woman said.
Eric met her eyes over Daniel's head. "It's Detective Nolan."
A quick nod. "Detective, don't make promises you can't keep. Daniel, come along, honey. There's a nice family waiting for you."
Daniel flung his arms around Eric again.
"It's okay, son. I always keep my promises."
The woman huffed like a dragon. "Detective, Daniel will need to become accustomed to his foster family, and having you make promises won't help."
Eric stood, and Daniel wrapped his arms around his neck and held on tight. "Nobody's ever been harmed because too many people cared, Ms. Lamont." He snatched his wallet from his back pocket and managed to open it and extract a card without dropping the boy. Not that Daniel would have fallen, the way he was latched on. He replaced his wallet and set Daniel on the floor. Then he held out the card.
"You hang onto this. When you get settled, ask your foster parents if you can use the phone, and give me a call. Okay?"
He could see the woman shaking her head and feared she'd take the card away.
He returned his gaze to Daniel. "If you lose my card, that's no problem. Just call the Nutfield Police Department. They'll know where to find me."
Daniel took the card and stuffed it in his jeans' pocket. Then he glanced at the woman.
"Where are you taking him?" Eric asked.
"I can't tell you that."
"That's all right," Eric said. "I'll figure it out." He looked down at Daniel, whose face had lost all its color. "I promise to come see you, make sure you're doing okay."
"Can you try to find Mama? I'm worried about her."
Eric forced a kind expression, though the woman who'd done this deserved no kindness. "I'll do my very best."
Daniel crossed the room, and Ms. Lamont held out her hand for him to take. He did, then peered over his shoulder one last time. Eric nodded at him like it would all be all right. It had better be. He'd be checking up on that boy to make sure he was being well cared for. If he wasn't, those foster folks would have to answer to him.
ERIC stood at the window and watched through the dark
ness as Ms. Lamont settled Daniel in her car—back seat, and was that a booster? Safety Nazi.
Eric tried to shake off his anger. The woman was only doing her job, and she knew better than he did how to manage an abandoned child. She certainly knew better how to care for one. It was ridiculous there were policies in place to handle this situation. How could such an unnatural, aberrant thing as a mother abandoning her kid be so common there needed to be a procedure?
The world was one seriously messed-up place.
"Good thing there are no pigeons in here."
Eric turned to find the chief, Brady Thomas, behind him.
"You'd be covered in pigeon poop, standing there like that."
Eric tried to think of something funny to say, but he came up empty. He settled for, "Thought you went home for the day."
"Thought you did, too. Donny called me to let me know about the child."
Eric gazed out the window again, but of course Daniel was long gone.
"You okay?" Brady asked.
"I'm fine." A lie, but there was no way to explain the connection he'd felt to the boy, the way his heart seemed to be cracking in two.
"Let's go to my office."
Eric followed his boss to the only office with a door in the small police department and sat. As always, the desk was tidy. A picture of Reagan, Brady's wife, and Johnny, their son, rested on the corner. They looked...complete.
"So, what happened?" Brady said. "You went home, and the kid was there?"
"Not exactly." He recounted the events automatically, trying not to get riled again at the thought of the mother.
"You think she hiked through the woods with him, then just left him there?" Brady asked.
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