All She Ever Wanted Part 17

Chapter 21.

Shrugging on her jacket, Grace headed out to the cl.u.s.ter of cops in the front yard, where Balfour was coordinating the search. She was glad to have a veteran like Mike Balfour in charge. With eighteen years of experience, he knew the routine but was open to changing it up if they got a lead, and he was a good boss who got the most out of his squad because he treated them with respect and humor.

Over the radio, someone was calling in addresses that had been canva.s.sed. A cop made a note on his clipboard while Balfour listened in.

"How's it going, Mike?"

"I wish I had better news for you. Or any news." At six feet, Mike was a head taller than Grace. His short-cropped hair glimmered with silver, and his blue eyes could be stern. "If the child was older, I'd send a helicopter up to do an air search, but Annabelle Green isn't able to motor on her own yet."

"Yeah, at three months, she's not going anywhere on her own." Grace pulled her jacket closed against the pelting snowflakes. "I saw the dog out here. Any luck?"

"He caught the scent, but the trail ended three doors down, southwest. It's possible someone took the baby to a car that was parked there."

Grace s.h.i.+elded her eyes against the snow to check out the houses in that direction. "How about the people who live there?"

"An older couple-retired." He flipped open his notebook. "Tina and James Wilkinson. Tina Wilkinson let us search their yard, but honestly, the dog just sat down at the curb there. The trail ends in the street."

"But he did lead you somewhere." Grace turned toward Chelsea's Subaru, which sat gathering snow in the driveway. Had it been moved during the night? If Chelsea had loaded her daughter into the car, dead or alive, it didn't seem likely that she would have parked three doors down and toted the child that far in the middle of the night.

Mike Balfour looked over at the car. "Yeah, I know. The first cops on the scene did a search. Miklowski says they didn't disturb any evidence, but I hate to impound the car at this point."

Grace nodded. She didn't think it was time to turn all their focus on Chelsea Maynard as a suspect. At least, not yet.

She studied Pickler's house, a cape similar to her neighbor's, only more rundown. White dripped down the brickwork from the shutters. The porch awning listed drunkenly to one side, and the windows were a dingy gray.

"Have you talked to Louise Pickler yet?" she asked Mike. "She's the neighbor on this side."

"No one is answering, and we don't see a car in the garage. But I can tell you, there's been some conflict between Pickler and our family here. On Monday night two officers were here after a report that a child was abandoned in the street. The complaint came from Pickler. The officers responded at nineteen thirty-two and found the child inside with the mother, Chelsea Maynard. I e-mailed you a copy of the police report."

"I'd like to talk with Louise Pickler," Grace said. "I'm going to call her information in to Chris, see if he can run a check on her as soon as he gets to the office." Chris Panteleoni was her partner on most cases.

"And I'll let you know as soon as she comes home . . . if she comes home." Mike's eyes narrowed as he stared up at Pickler's house. "The house has that abandoned look. You can't tell from here, but there are a bunch of old flyers on the porch, and see how the walkway wasn't shoveled or trampled all winter?" Mike Balfour knew his stuff.

"Yeah, I'd say that house has seen better days. Let me know if you see any sign of Pickler."

"You're sticking around, then?"

"At least until the husband gets here. I want to get a full profile of the family."

Back inside the house, Grace was relieved to see Chelsea at the kitchen table eating eggs, toast, canned peaches, and cottage cheese. Emma had taken charge of the kitchen in that big-sister way, but the conversation between the two women was strained. Even after Grace stepped inside, they didn't acknowledge her or miss a beat.

"How can you be mad at me when I don't remember anything?" Chelsea stared at her plate, tracing invisible shapes with the tongs of her fork.

"I'm not mad. I'm worried about Annabelle, and you don't seem to get that we'd be able to find her much more quickly if you could just remember what you did with her."

"I told you, I don't remember." She dropped the fork and pressed her palms to her face. "But I do remember talking to you. Didn't I ask you to take her?" Chelsea's voice was dull and listless, almost disembodied. "I knew I couldn't handle her. I begged you to take her."

"I couldn't. Dammit, Chelsea, I'm spotting and I might be miscarrying. Do you remember that?"

Chelsea looked up tentatively. "Sort of. I'm sorry. So . . . what's going on?"

"I've got to get to the doctor this morning, and . . . You know what? Never mind about me. I wish I had helped you, okay? But I needed to rest and I thought you'd be okay. You've been feeling better. The Nebula has been working . . . at least until last night. You were joking around at the garden yesterday. I thought you'd be fine."

"Well, I wasn't." Chelsea got up from the table and cradled her mug of herb tea in both hands. "It's time for my happy pill. Ha, ha."

Grace and Emma watched in silence as she went up the stairs, carefully holding on to the rail.

"Do you think she asked anyone else to take her baby?" Grace asked.

"She doesn't mean it that way. I've helped her out a few times. Stayed overnight, gave the baby a bottle so that she could sleep. Leo does it for her on weekends. I would have done it last night, but . . ." Emma's eyes filled with tears.

"Don't blame yourself. You have your own life, your teaching job. Third grade, right?"

"That's not it. I'm pregnant, after a hundred rounds of in vitro. I'm finally pregnant and . . . I'm afraid I'm miscarrying." She gasped for air, then sobbed. "The bleeding started last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Grace had overheard as much. "Can I get you something?"

Emma shook her head, swallowing hard. "I just have to go. My doctor will do a sonogram, just to see . . . to see if . . ."

Grace put a hand on Emma's arm. "I'll say a prayer for you and we'll hope for the best, right?"

Emma sniffed, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Thank you." She slipped her jacket on and went to the side door. "Tell Chelsea I'll call her later, okay? And you have my cell if you think of any other questions."

"Right. Take care."

So much pain in the world, Grace thought as the door closed behind Emma Wyatt. Sometimes it was a wonder that the human race kept on going.

Chapter 22.

Worry was a ball of pain in her gut, a p.r.i.c.kly pineapple that cut straight to the core when she pictured her baby's innocent face, those trusting eyes watching her as she nursed. The pain filled the void that Annabelle had left, and Chelsea braced herself, bargaining with the sense of order in the universe. If she endured the pain, then Annabelle would make it home. A pineapple in the belly in exchange for the safe return of her baby; she could do that.

She had wanted to help with the search, but the detective had insisted that she was better off staying here, helping her fill in the details of Annabelle's life. How many details could a person have after three months on this earth? Parents. Doctor. Sitters. Annie was too young for playmates in the sandbox at the park or creepy Scout leaders or boyfriends from the dark side. But Chelsea settled into her spot on the couch and answered every question she could find the answer to. She wanted to appear helpful. She wanted them to think she was a good mother. The big lie.

You're not a bad person. You're just tired. You're suffering from depression, that postpartum monster. The kind voice inside her tried to be warm and rea.s.suring.

The cruel voice dug under her skin with questions that chilled her to the bone. What did you do to your baby? Did you drop her down the stairs or push her out the window? Did you silence her cries with a pillow, or were you under the spell of one of those dark visions in which knives sail through the air and babies fly from their mothers' arms like nightjars?

Two of the cops stood talking with Grace, their big, dark uniforms and guns and radios filling the kitchen with authority and a sense of safety. Cops from the crime scene unit had come and gone, leaving a fine black powder smeared here and there throughout the house. She couldn't imagine what they'd done in Annie's room, and she couldn't bear to look.

She rubbed her fingertips, still tinged with ink that didn't come clean. Grace had explained that they would rule out fingerprints of people who had reason to be here. Chelsea and Leo, Emma, too. She didn't mind the stain of ink that remained in her cuticles-a reminder that something was being done to find Annie.

And Grace had told her that most infant abductors were women.

A woman!

On the one hand it was rea.s.suring that Annie was probably not in the arms of some creepy man. But how could a woman take another woman's child? And what woman would steal my baby?

Grace was talking with the cops about the media, how they could keep the reporters off the lawn, though the street was fair game. Chelsea wondered what kind of a world it was when a dozen people were paid to stand outside the home of someone going through the worst ordeal of her life. Paid to gather the sc.r.a.ps of sorrow and distress.

Their voices blurred to soothing white noise as Chelsea stared at the fireplace, her gaze moving gently over the familiar tiles on the facade. Delft tiles, from Holland. The hand-painted white-and-blue tiles were installed years ago, then covered with fake brick, which Chelsea and Leo had removed themselves. What a kick it had been to find these beautiful tiles hidden away under the tacky brick facade. Chelsea and Leo had lovingly restored the mantel, replacing two broken tiles with originals s.h.i.+pped from the Netherlands.

The project had consumed them. They'd spent nights and weekends working on the project, chiseling away the soft mortar of the bogus brick, being careful not to damage the tiles underneath. Chelsea doc.u.mented the project with photos and wrote an article for Home Handyman magazine. That was when Leo had dubbed her the DIY Girl, a nickname that had stuck at the office.

Through the long hours of tedious work, she and Leo talked about their growing family, their dreams, their baby girl. They had gotten the phone call that they were having a girl while working on the fireplace, and they had talked about the bobbing dresses and cute hats they'd dress her in. Birthday cakes with pink frosting and dance lessons. Girl Scouts and prom dresses. "What if she wants to be a cheerleader?" Leo asked. Chelsea responded that it wasn't in their genetics, though she had been on a cheering squad for a year in high school. "You, a cheerleader? This could change the nature of our relations.h.i.+p. Would you put one of those little skirts on for me some night?" She had tossed a sponge at him, laughing. Then she shared the demise of her short career. One night, while she was cheering on the sidelines, a nice couple asked her to get out of the way so that they could see the game. After that, she'd switched to the tennis team. "Well, I bet you had some kick-a.s.s pom-poms," he teased, and they'd had a good laugh over it all.

Resting her chin on the armrest of the couch, she wondered if they would ever laugh again. Would they ever light another fire in their fireplace? She couldn't see it in their future. No trace of their former life would survive without Annie.

"You've been staring at that fireplace an awful long time," Grace said.

"We restored it ourselves." She told Grace about the ugly brick facade, the discovery of tiles from Europe.

"It's beautiful. I noticed it as soon as I came in."

"We tackled a few projects to make this house a home. The carport outside. Painting and carpeting. We replaced the kitchen backsplash in just one weekend. Leo and I worked hard, so hard to make a home for our baby. Our dream house . . . a dream life."

"You did a good job with it," Grace said.

"But a house can be a prison." Chelsea bit her lips. "That's what happened here. Once Annabelle was born, nothing worked out as we'd planned. I couldn't do anything right. I don't have the energy to get off the couch, much less take care of a baby. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel and . . . I've failed. I always prided myself on conquering challenges. They used to call me the 'DIY Girl.' I could do anything. I was so independent and capable. But not anymore."

"You have postpartum depression," Grace said. "I know it because I've been there. My son, Matt, he's almost a teen now, and I can't imagine this world without him. But twelve years ago, I came this close to killing us both, and back then people didn't have patience for anything beyond the baby blues. But I get it, Chelsea. It's very real, but it can be treated. You need help."

"I don't deserve help. I'm a terrible mother. What if I left the door unlocked? Or maybe I left my baby outside last night. I don't deserve to be here now. Annabelle should be here, and I should be the one out there." Out in the cold. The property of some stranger. Or worse . . . dead and already buried. She pictured Annie's little body frozen like a little doll. A doll left out in the cold. Why could she see that so vividly when she couldn't imagine her daughter squirming in her arms or reaching for her hair or nestled in her crib once again?

The p.r.i.c.kly ball twirled inside her, cutting her to ribbons, and she closed her eyes and rode the pain. Her penance.

Chapter 23.

Leo squirmed in the narrow seat of the jet, wis.h.i.+ng against time, wanting to be home now. The thought of his ex-wife getting her mitts on Annie had festered inside him through the flight, and now that they were in their final descent, his fingers clenched into fists at the prospect of facing Jennifer.

Oh, he would gladly have a showdown with her.

He winced against the nauseating dip in alt.i.tude and thought about the list. He'd hit on the profile of a typical infant abductor when he'd done an online search while waiting at the airport. He'd just about memorized the bulleted list of traits.

The typical infant abductor was a female of childbearing age.

Check.

Compulsive, manipulative, deceptive. A liar.

Check. Check. Check. Check.

Lived in the community where the abduction took place.

Well, she did now.

Frequently indicated she had lost a baby or was unable to have one.

Check.

Leo pressed his eyes shut. How could you do this to me, Jen? You've stepped over the line . . . way over the line.

The second the wheels bounced on the runway, Leo fished his cell phone out of his pocket and fired it up. If someone complained, what could they do? Throw him off the plane?

His first call was to Jennifer, and as luck would have it, she answered.

"Well, look who's finally getting around to calling me back. I knew you'd come around once you got my message."

"Enough is enough, Jen." It was a strain to keep his voice low, his tone even. "Is this your idea of a bad joke?"

"It's no joke, sweetie. This is for real. I am really here in town and I am really going to stay, so you'd better get used to it."

He gritted his teeth, annoyed that she was beating around the bush. She always was a ball buster. "Stop playing games and-" He cut himself off, knowing that Jennifer would only play wilder if he pushed her. "You know what? Don't waste my time. I'm coming over there. Now."

"Are you really? That's great. I have to ask, what swung you to my team after all these years and months?"

In the background he heard a sound that rent his heart-a baby's cry.

"You have her! She's there with you. I hear her!" he shouted. An inappropriate voice level for the cabin of a commercial flight-he knew that-but he couldn't help himself.

He turned away from the woman beside him, who looked like she was about to drop her teeth, but everyone else was staring, too. The other pa.s.sengers gawked, then the bell released them from their seats and their interest slipped away with the urgency to pop up and jockey their bags down and get off the plane.

"Excuse me?" Jennifer copped a pouty att.i.tude. "What are you talking about?"

He pressed into the emptying aisle and yanked down his duffel bag with his free hand. "Don't try to pa.s.s this off as a cute attention-getting device. It's kidnapping!"

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"Annabelle. Bring her back right now."

"Calm down, and don't use that tone with me."

She was getting mad . . . and Jen was a terrible driver even sober in the suns.h.i.+ne. Besides, she probably didn't have a car seat. She probably didn't know a baby needed one. "No, wait! Stay right there and I'll come get her." He pulled out a pen to write on his hand. "What's your address?"