“Jesus, Bree, I know your mom’s name.” He and Bets had practically lived at Bree’s house back in high school. Shelly Ann had served the punch at his wedding. What was wrong with her?
Bree talked over him. “She’ll come down and sign them in. Don’t scare her. It’s just a stomach flu, but I don’t want the girls to get it.” She was lying. She was way too upset. Peyton was staring through the little square window in the door, her eyebrows anxious, as if she, too, knew her mom was lying. Out in the hall, he could hear Cara and Anna-Claire singing in harmony, some doowop thing from the play. Bree added, “And don’t call my husband. I’ll call him.”
As if he would call his boss to inform him that his wife wasn’t feeling well. “What’s going on? You sound—”
She cut him off again. “I think you fucking owe me this.” She almost snarled it. “Help me, or you can goddamn well explain to Trey why you wouldn’t.”
He’d been worried; now he was shocked. Bree almost never cursed, and even stranger, she was threatening his job, which was insane. He was very good at what he did. Two or three times a year, he turned away headhunters who wanted to shop him to other firms or corporations. It was partly loyalty to Bree that kept him at this firm. All this over a car-pool ride, something he would do every day if she needed it.
“Of course I’m going to help you.” He meant it gently, but his surprise made it come out clipped.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she added.
“Don’t tell anyone what?” He was confused again. A secret stomach flu?
He heard a slapping sound, one, two, three times. It sounded like she was banging the flat of her hand into her forehead.
“Anything. Jesus, anything,” she said, so wild and high and crazy that her voice cracked.
“Bree, are you—”
She hung up.
4
I’d called Marshall from my car on instinct, even though he lived so far and our girls were not close friends. Greer’s mom was probably in the parking lot right now, and she’d have happily taken them.
But I didn’t want Peyton and Anna-Claire to ride off with some mommy. I wanted fierce, smart Betsy. Marshall was the next-best thing. They were the only cops I’d ever really trusted, and like most ex-policemen, Marshall owned guns. I hoped he had a gun on him right now, breaking every single zero-tolerance school rule. I hoped he had a hundred guns, because he knew how to use them. I wanted him and all his guns and knowledge and training to escort the girls to my mother’s secure building.
I pressed a shaking hand to my heart. It felt swollen, huge. It thumped and wheezed against the closing walls of my rib cage. At least the girls were with him. I’d heard their voices in the background. I didn’t care if he resented me or thought I was cashing in as if he owed me, as long as they were safe.
I looked down at the watch Trey had given me last Christmas, the delicate gold links so real and solid, and it seemed like someone else’s memory strapped to someone else’s shaking hand. It was 5:03 now. I was halfway to my house.
The note was on my passenger seat. My vision was too blurry for me to read it, but it didn’t matter. I knew exactly what it said.
If you ever want to see your baby again, GO HOME.
Tell no one.
Do not call the police.
Do not call your husband.
Be at your house by 5:15 p.m.
Or he’s gone for good.
At first I’d thought it was a joke. Had to be. Any second, someone would pop out holding Robert, laughing, and then I would snap that person’s neck. But I’d been all alone.
Then I’d found myself in the parking lot. I’d run down the stairs and out the back door, heedless. I’d spun in a circle, seeking a swirl of dark dress, the flash of sun on silvery gray hair. She was old, and the infant carrier was heavy; she could not have been moving fast. But she’d been nowhere in sight.
I’d known, hadn’t I? From the moment I’d seen her peering in my bedroom window. I’d thought she was an omen. I’d hoped she was a dream. But she was real.
My logical brain kept saying I could not know that it was this specific woman who had taken my baby. Not for certain. The witch peering in my window still could have been a nightmare. The little old lady on the street could have been someone’s nice nana, running errands.
But I did not believe it. I almost didn’t want to believe it, because then anyone could have Robert. Any kind of monster.
GO HOME, her note said. Was she going to meet me? Was Robert with her? I was on the fastest route, speeding down a narrow road through a neighborhood, the street tightly lined with Craftsman bungalows. Most of the houses had pop tops and additions, making them too large for their lots. They loomed over me, crowding close, as if the world itself were squeezing in on me. I caught up to a slow-moving Lexus and braked. I wanted to peel into the bike lane and go around it, running up on the curb, tearing up the manicured grass.
I couldn’t risk being pulled over by the police, though. I had to be home by five-fifteen.
I met my own eyes in the rearview, and I was shocked to see that I’d been crying. Black mascara streaked down my face. My breasts ached and pulsed like they were heavy with milk, the way they had when the girls were little and I went too long without nursing. It was a phantom pain, because Robert was a bottle baby. He’d been three weeks early, and his suck reflex had been poor. Nursing had burned up more calories than he was getting, so I’d had to supplement. My lazy baby liked the bottle so much better. He started fussing and turning away when I offered my breast. It hurt my feelings, trying to get him to latch while he struggled and squalled. When I offered a bottle, he snuggled close and smacked and cooed.
“You could just give him formula,” Trey told me, and we had, though it made me feel weepy and, in the swamp of my postpartum hormones, like I was failing at motherhood. Trey said I was too hard on myself. “Bottle-fed babies do just fine. Why not enjoy him? He’s our last one.” That was Trey, always on my side. God, I wanted him here now, confident and decisive, helping me know what to do. But the note said not to call him. I was too afraid to disobey.
It was my turn at the stop sign. I was sweating so hard the salt stung my eyes. Next I’d turn onto a four-lane road, and then I could go faster. I was bare minutes from my house.
I put one shaking hand up to wipe at my eyes. I’d come this far on such a wave of adrenaline I could barely remember the drive, but now my brain was beginning to work again. That woman, she had taken his diaper bag. Did that mean she meant to keep him? She had extra formula, diapers and wipes, a change of clothes, and a blanket that smelled like me. Surely she didn’t mean to keep him? GO HOME, the note said, but I was finally asking, why take the diaper bag if she was going to meet me now? And, looming larger, why Robert? Of all the babies in the world, why mine?
The answer was obvious. It was money. Had to be. Trey made so much of it. His family had even more. She’d taken Robert because he was worth a lot of money.
I should call the police. Trey would have already. Any of the Cabbats would have. But—the note said not to. It said to GO HOME, and I was almost, almost there. I would see if she was waiting for me, meeting me now, because once I called them, it couldn’t be undone. I had to think, be careful, do everything right. She had Robert.