cookies to her endearing pleas. She's as close
to my child as she could be and not be of my blood. I guess what I'm saying
is...this hit too close to home."
Daniel stood abruptly and walked to the windows overlooking downtown
Savannah, making himself concentrate on the traffic and not the fear in the
man's voice, because it made his own far more vivid-and too real. For a while,
he'd almost convinced himself that he and Mary had overreacted last night. But
this put a whole new color on the incident. If Reese Arnaud was interested,
Hope might really be in danger.
'Just tell me what you want and it's yours," Daniel said.
'I need to talk to Hope, but I don't want to scare her. Do you think it
would be all right if I came over after school? I want to bring a's ketch artist with me. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s
more than we’ve had in days.”
“Yes, sure. I’ll call Mary”
“Good, I’ll be there around four, OK?”
'We'll be waiting."
'Don't say anything to Hope about my coming by," Reese added. "She
left a jacket at m ,. house the last time she spent
the night. I'll just bring it by and then go from there."
'Yes, okay ...I see what you mean."
'This may be nothing," Reese said. "You need to know that at the
outset. But I've got two sets of grieving parents who want to know where their
babies are, and if Hope can help, I can't pass it up."
"I didn't sleep last night, either. I kept going into Hope's room time
and again, just to make sure she was safe in bed. I can't imagine the horror of
not knowing where she was or what had happened to her. Bring your sketch
artist. Stay as long as you need."
*
Howard Lee stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel to dry himself
off. He'd just gotten home from his shift at the hospital and not for the first
time, it occurred to him that working the midnight shift was not conducive to
parenthood. He didn't like leaving the girls alone after dark, but at the
present time he had no choice. And, until they settled down into the adoption a
little better, he could hardly send them off to school and trust them to come
home.
He finished drying and then reached for his pajamas. anxious to get in bed.
Even though the sun was up and the day was promising to be wonderful, he had to
get his rest.
He walked out of the bathroom, then paused, staring down at the throw rug
beside his bed. He thought of his girls and wondered what they were doing. His
eyelids burned from lack of sleep, but his conscience tugged. A parent should
spend quality time with the children, no matter what the cost.
With a heartfelt sigh, he kicked the throw rug aside and then unlocked the
padlock on the cellar door.
The hinges squeaked a bit as he raised it up, and he made a mental note to
oil them. He heard a series of scuffling noises and then nothing.
'Girls ... do you want Daddy to come down and play for a while?"
There was a long and pregnant moment of utter silence, then what sounded
like a muffled sob. He frowned.
'Stop crying, damn it!" he yelled, and slammed the door shut with a
bang, then locked it and kicked the throw rug in place.
He yanked back his covers and crawled into bed, too tired to deal with the
situation. The sheets were clean and cool, just like his mother had always
insisted they should be. It prided him to know that he'd kept the house in the
same condition it had always been when his mother had been alive.
Despite the sunlight beaming through the curtains, he closed his eyes and
slept.
Justine Marchand had turned seven two months ago,
but she was small for her age. She had straight, dark hair, big brown eyes and
a slight pout to her rosebud mouth. There were exactly four tiny brown freckles
on the bridge of her nose and she liked Mickey Mouse and the Power Puff girls.
When she grew up, she wanted to be a nurse.
And somewhere between the morning she'd left for school and before she'd
gone home, she'd been thrust into hell. She didn't understand exactly what was
happening,
to my child as she could be and not be of my blood. I guess what I'm saying
is...this hit too close to home."
Daniel stood abruptly and walked to the windows overlooking downtown
Savannah, making himself concentrate on the traffic and not the fear in the
man's voice, because it made his own far more vivid-and too real. For a while,
he'd almost convinced himself that he and Mary had overreacted last night. But
this put a whole new color on the incident. If Reese Arnaud was interested,
Hope might really be in danger.
'Just tell me what you want and it's yours," Daniel said.
'I need to talk to Hope, but I don't want to scare her. Do you think it
would be all right if I came over after school? I want to bring a's ketch artist with me. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s
more than we’ve had in days.”
“Yes, sure. I’ll call Mary”
“Good, I’ll be there around four, OK?”
'We'll be waiting."
'Don't say anything to Hope about my coming by," Reese added. "She
left a jacket at m ,. house the last time she spent
the night. I'll just bring it by and then go from there."
'Yes, okay ...I see what you mean."
'This may be nothing," Reese said. "You need to know that at the
outset. But I've got two sets of grieving parents who want to know where their
babies are, and if Hope can help, I can't pass it up."
"I didn't sleep last night, either. I kept going into Hope's room time
and again, just to make sure she was safe in bed. I can't imagine the horror of
not knowing where she was or what had happened to her. Bring your sketch
artist. Stay as long as you need."
*
Howard Lee stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel to dry himself
off. He'd just gotten home from his shift at the hospital and not for the first
time, it occurred to him that working the midnight shift was not conducive to
parenthood. He didn't like leaving the girls alone after dark, but at the
present time he had no choice. And, until they settled down into the adoption a
little better, he could hardly send them off to school and trust them to come
home.
He finished drying and then reached for his pajamas. anxious to get in bed.
Even though the sun was up and the day was promising to be wonderful, he had to
get his rest.
He walked out of the bathroom, then paused, staring down at the throw rug
beside his bed. He thought of his girls and wondered what they were doing. His
eyelids burned from lack of sleep, but his conscience tugged. A parent should
spend quality time with the children, no matter what the cost.
With a heartfelt sigh, he kicked the throw rug aside and then unlocked the
padlock on the cellar door.
The hinges squeaked a bit as he raised it up, and he made a mental note to
oil them. He heard a series of scuffling noises and then nothing.
'Girls ... do you want Daddy to come down and play for a while?"
There was a long and pregnant moment of utter silence, then what sounded
like a muffled sob. He frowned.
'Stop crying, damn it!" he yelled, and slammed the door shut with a
bang, then locked it and kicked the throw rug in place.
He yanked back his covers and crawled into bed, too tired to deal with the
situation. The sheets were clean and cool, just like his mother had always
insisted they should be. It prided him to know that he'd kept the house in the
same condition it had always been when his mother had been alive.
Despite the sunlight beaming through the curtains, he closed his eyes and
slept.
Justine Marchand had turned seven two months ago,
but she was small for her age. She had straight, dark hair, big brown eyes and
a slight pout to her rosebud mouth. There were exactly four tiny brown freckles
on the bridge of her nose and she liked Mickey Mouse and the Power Puff girls.
When she grew up, she wanted to be a nurse.
And somewhere between the morning she'd left for school and before she'd
gone home, she'd been thrust into hell. She didn't understand exactly what was
happening,
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