Deadly Secrets (23 page)

She blinked. “You didn’t get my message, did you?”

If he had, surely he wouldn’t be blowing her off.

“The one with a girl who went missing? Yes, I did. But as I’ve stated before, we need hard evidence. This girl, I ran her name, Natasha—”

“Nadia.”

“Yes, Nadia, and she’s basically a transient. She’s got a rap sheet and has been all over the place. There’s no way to know for certain that she’s actually missing.”

“Except that she’s no longer at the Retreat.”

She heard him shuffling papers on the other end.

“Did you see someone accost her? Did you see or did anyone see what happened to her?” he asked, all calm and reason.

She shook her head and thrummed her fingers on her growing belly. “A young woman is missing.”

“So you think.”

Pissed, she hung up the phone. So far there wasn’t anything concrete to pass on. She’d looked. It wasn’t like she could crack the computer files. She didn’t know the passwords and it wasn’t like she would be in the offices anyway.

Her phone rang.

Jareaux showed up on her screen. Screw him. He wouldn’t listen. He never listened. She’d talked to girls, to Fran, to Nadia, to others. There was a pattern. Women, usually young girls that had no one, went missing.

How to prove that? She had no idea.

Chapter 16

Taos, September

“No. No. No. You can’t have her. You can’t have her. She’s mine. She’s my daughter,” she said. Dark legs loomed out of the fog in front of her, and she scooted back, even as a hand reached for her.

“Nooooo!”

Ella jerked awake, a scream still caught in her throat. Her heart thundered against her ribs and in her ears. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She shivered and shook, her large T-shirt stuck to her back, her chest.

A sob caught in her throat. Stupid. Stupid. Just a damned dream, but she was having them more often. Nightmares where someone was taking her baby away.

She raked her trembling hands through her hair and rested her elbows on her up-drawn knees.

She wished there was someone to talk to. So many things, so many worries, so much . . . She’d talked to Lisa, brought a few things up to Jareaux, but she wanted a best friend she could tell anything to. Her friends from before, back in New Orleans, seemed a world and lifetime away.

And nothing to do about it. She’d chosen this lonely, stupid, self-righteous road, hadn’t she?

“Chin up and keep going,” she told herself.

No more naps for her. The early evening crept shadows across her room. Still shivering, she reached over and flipped on the lamp. Light flooded the room. She’d left the walls the soft taupe color but colors splashed everywhere else. Orange pillows, deep wine and red blankets and throws. Bronze lamps. She went for chic SoHo, or shabby chic. Or something.

No one stood in the corner holding a knife or a gun or scalpel or syringe. There. She was losing her mind. Like someone would be standing in the corner of her room in the shadows?

If they wanted to . . .

“Get a grip.” Taking a deep breath and trying to still her nerves, she climbed out of bed. These days her center of gravity was off. Way off.

Two and a half more months, or thereabouts. Nine weeks. Nine more Mondays.

She rubbed her stomach as the baby shifted and twirled inside. “Ballerina, are you? Thanks for waking me up.” She patted her stomach.

Her bedroom door was open, and from the doorway she could see most of the house, as it was small. But it suited her fine. Rent was cheap even though it was in a nice neighborhood, and it was quiet. The landlords across the street lived in a larger bungalow-meets-pueblo-style ranch.

The Richardsons were nice people. Mrs. Richardson had already knitted a baby blanket for her. They often invited her over for dinner. And she’d finally broken down and told them who she was, not that they didn’t have her legal name—her maiden one anyway. But none of her legal documentation had been changed, so it wasn’t a lie or a problem. For a couple that had been together over fifty years, they kept after her to call Quin. Email him or even text the man.

Calling . . . she should. She wanted to. Emailing seemed cowardly and texting cruel.
Hi! Remember me? We’re married and I’m pregnant! It’s yours. Call me.

Yeah, right. Besides, she’d written the man and she hadn’t heard from him. Granted, she hadn’t actually mailed the letters. She’d given them to Jareaux to mail because he said they had to make sure she wouldn’t give anything away with the investigation and they’d let him know she was perfectly safe.

Still . . . Maybe he hadn’t gotten them, or maybe he was so pissed at her he didn’t want anything to do with her. Maybe he’d moved on.

Calling was the way to go at this point. If she could. She could. She’d just ignore what the feds said or advised.

Call him.

Her reasons for not doing so seemed . . .

Childish now.

Stupid.

So what if he hadn’t answered her letters, or called her on her new number, so what? That didn’t mean anything. Or maybe she should contact her lawyer to contact his? That seemed cold.

If they could just talk this out, maybe . . . maybe . . .

And what if . . . what if he hadn’t gotten her letters yet? Maybe he was traveling overseas or something. She’d only sent the three, and after that, after he hadn’t answered her, she quit. Probably should have just emailed him. But that seemed so . . . so . . . impersonal. He had emailed her once not long after she moved, and then she found out and she just couldn’t email him back because what would she say . . . Rather, how would she say it?

On the one hand, he might have gotten the letters and then no longer wanted her, didn’t want his kid.

That didn’t seem like the man she knew, the man she’d fallen in love with.

On the other hand, if he didn’t know, which seemed more likely for whatever reason, regardless of the letters she’d written and given to Jareaux, then . . . then he didn’t know about the baby and now if he found out, who knew what he’d do.

. . . how would you fight a man like that? . . .
The counselor’s voice from her therapy sessions shivered through her.

Ella knew Quinlan well enough, he might not ever forgive her for this.

Hefting herself up off the couch, she walked—or waddled—to the kitchen. God, her hipbones hurt. She rubbed the crease between her thigh and torso. Perfectly normal, the doctor told her. There were lots of
normal
things about pregnancy that really didn’t seem normal at all if anyone asked her.

At the sink, she filled a glass with cool water and gulped it down.

What did she do?

Agent Jareaux was right. Something was so wrong at the Nursery. She knew it, sensed it, but had no proof. Yet. She’d get it. The girls from her dreams? What did that mean other than her hormones were wacked and giving her nightmares—again normal, or so she had read. Her nightmares, though, didn’t seem normal. Was she terrified of something happening to her baby? Yes, that was a given. The rest though?

The missing girls?

There were so many questions and no answers. Her fears grew by the day of someone taking her baby. The Nursery had started to pressure her to think about adoption. Not that they’d said that so bluntly, but she wasn’t stupid. A hint here, a dropped comment there.

Hell no. Over her dead body.

So many worries, so many questions, so many things she didn’t understand.

Who did she ask? The lights across the street lit the dining room window of the Richardsons’. She knew she could go over for dinner, but honestly, she just wasn’t hungry. She could go over and just listen to them, but she wasn’t in the mood.

She wished . . .

She wished Quinlan were here. Wished she hadn’t panicked and bolted. They could be together now. It was easy to fantasize about them together in New Orleans, decorating the nursery for their daughter. She wished she hadn’t waited so damned long. So what if he thought she decided to stay married because of the baby? Did it really matter? Really? It seemed to before in the beginning and maybe it still would if she wasn’t in this situation where it felt like a giant clock were ticking off her time. Her reasoning was before. Before. Before there were bigger worries than herself or what someone might think of her or the lack in her.

Now? Now she was just ashamed of herself for her stupidity.

Now she was scared.

Did Quin know or did he not?

Did she take the chance and contact him even though they’d told her not to?

The glass clattered as she set it on the counter and realized her hands were still shaking. Her phone taunted her from where she had it charging on the counter.

Sighing, wishing she weren’t so nervous, she snatched it up and went to the living room. The cool breeze wafted through the house from the open windows. She wished she didn’t have to leave the windows open, but there was no air conditioner in this place. Mostly she didn’t need it, but lately she was hot all the damned time.

She leaned her head against the back of her deep forest green couch. She loved this one. She’d seen it in the store and bought it that day. Still chilled, she pulled on the large soft cardigan she left on the back of the couch.

Her doctor had advised her to take it easier, as her blood pressure was up. So she’d canceled the classes she was supposed to teach tonight. She had her volunteer classes tomorrow at two separate nursing homes. But she enjoyed those. Did she want to stick to the same regimen or switch it up a bit? Not that it mattered.

She tapped her phone on her thigh.

Stalling.

Coward.

She was a coward.

Quinlan.

He was nothing like Lance, so why had she pushed him away? Really. She’d been happy with him. They’d been happy together. She was her own worst enemy. She had been scared, yes. But still. He’d come to New Orleans
every
week to try and get her to make a go of it. Not in a needy way either.

There was nothing needy about Quinlan.

Quinlan was confident, had been coming to terms with doing more with his life. He’d claimed he’d wanted her.

And she’d fallen so hard for him, he’d have shattered her if he’d left her. If he’d turned from her the way Lance had.

Too many similarities in the situations—the counselor would tell her to make a list or something.

She sniffled and realized that she was crying. Oh God. She’d
really, really
messed up this time. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her sweater.

Damned hormones.

God, he hadn’t wanted to walk away from her before, but she’d been stupid and pushed him away and then she ran.

Ran, because she had a new job with a new place to live, then she’d learned she was pregnant and didn’t let him know.

But he could have found out. Could have . . . Might . . .

Even if he had shown up at her door when she first moved, she’d still have been stupid. After she learned she was pregnant? Who knew?

Quinlan was proud and she had hurt him, she knew that now. But it hurt too that he never told his family about her, about them, about their marriage.

So you walked out on him before he could walk out on you. Really brave.

Pride. She had hers, God knew. And he did as well. Why would he keep running after her if she kept shutting him down?

“We’re married, damn it. Why won’t you give us a shot?” he’d all but yelled at her.

She’d been too proud to say what she really felt:
I’m too scared. I love you and you could hurt me.

And she hadn’t wanted to admit that either. So she ran, learned she was pregnant and didn’t let him know he was going to be a father. She’d had three weeks or thereabouts to let him know before she’d agreed to Jareaux’s plan. Then a few weeks later she’d written the first letter, and soon after two more.

Not that the letters really mattered.

Now? Now though?

“They’ll take your baby too. They always do.”
The voice from the dream floated through her mind and sent shivers down her spine. She should have let Quinlan know immediately when she knew.

Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve . . .

It wasn’t going to get any easier. She unlocked her phone and the screen image popped up. Hers and Quinlan’s cheeks smashed together, both laughing as they’d taken a self-portrait.

What if he’d moved on? What if he’d found someone else. Granted, no one had contacted her with divorce papers of any kind. Or an annulment. But then did he have to? Who knew?

The baby kicked again.

She sighed and patted her stomach. “I know. I know. I love you and your daddy will love you too. I’m sorry for keeping you from him.” She sighed and dialed. “He’ll probably kill me if he doesn’t strangle me first. But I’m pretty sure he’ll love you regardless.” Pretty sure.