Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(15)
A grin split Poppy’s mischievous face. “I want to be Rapunzel!” she declared.
“Poppy Rapunzel,” Afton said, gathering her daughter up in her arms. “It has a nice ring to it. Presidential even.”
*
BY eight o’clock the kids’ eyes were growing heavy as they sprawled on the sectional sofa eating popcorn and watching a DVD of Finding Nemo. Lish was upstairs, trying out Clairol’s Ravenous Red hair color and singing along to an old Van Halen album. Afton was planted firmly in front of her computer.
She’d been curious about what Thacker had told them about Richard Darden, the missing baby’s father. Wanted to see if there was anything in the business section of the newspaper that might shed some light on the lawsuit against him. She didn’t think it possible that a reputable company would get so outraged about pilfered business secrets and that they’d retaliate by kidnapping a man’s child. Then again, you never knew. In more than a few countries, kidnapping was commonplace.
Afton found two archived articles on the Tribune website. One was a short sidebar detailing Richard’s move to Synthotech. The second was a lengthier article in which the Tribune business reporter, B. L. Aiken, interviewed Bruce Cutler, the CEO of Novamed, Richard Darden’s former company, as well as Richard Darden himself, and Gordon Conseco, the CEO of Synthotech, Richard’s new place of employment.
Cutler had only harsh words about Richard’s defection; Conseco had only praise for his new employee.
But Conseco can’t be that happy, Afton decided, especially if Richard Darden was bringing questions of impropriety down on their heads.
Afton found a few more articles, but they were just routine business press releases. A new product, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Bored now, she clicked over to her Facebook page and scanned a few posts from her friends. Ah, there were her neighbors, Deana and Bud, looking happy and sunburned on Waikiki Beach. It was difficult sometimes, to look at pictures of perfect couples. Even though it was a relief to be divorced, she sometimes felt like a screwup. Her first husband, the kids’ father, had been a disaster. Then she’d met Mickey and struggled to make that marriage work. But it had quickly become obvious they weren’t destined to be together. When collection agencies started calling, when the zone manager from GMAC came knocking on her door, she knew it was over. Slammed shut. There wasn’t anything that Dr. Phil or Dear Abby could have done. Like Humpty Dumpty, their marriage had slipped off the wall, cracked wide open, and couldn’t be put back together again.
Afton lifted her fingers from the keyboard, ready to shut it off. Then, on a whim, she Googled the word reborn. And watched in amazement as hit after hit spun out.
Curious now, feeling a tingle of apprehension, she perused the website for Marcy May’s Reborns. Then Sarah Jane’s Beautiful Babies. And then Kimberly’s Kuddle Kids. All these sites featured the extremely realistic-looking reborns that seemed to be growing in popularity with a cultlike following of doll lovers. All the dolls pictured either looked like newborns, or were a few months older. None went up to the age of a toddler.
Clicking on one of the reborn message boards, Afton read through a glut of messages. And found some of them strangely disturbing.
[email protected]
I just bought a beautiful reborn but have been unable to bond with her. Would love to trade for baby boy Berenguer.
[email protected]
Have an OOAK made by Emily K. Human hair, side-sleeping pose, simply breathtaking! Will e-mail photos.
[email protected]
Greetings all. I have 3 foreign fashion dolls for sale, but would seriously consider trading for reborn—preemie preferred.
The phone rang just as Afton was printing out a list of sites that were advertising reborns. She snatched the receiver up, fully expecting it to be Mickey, the ex, wanting to chat with the girls. Mickey was a real champ at waiting until it was too late in the evening to have more than a superficial, hey-kidlins-how-ya-doin’ type of conversation.
But it wasn’t Mickey at all. It was Max Montgomery.
“I hate to interrupt,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath, “but we just got a flash from Saint Paul Metro.”
“What?” Afton asked, her antennae suddenly up and buzzing like crazy.
“A couple of guys were jogging along West River Road, down by Hidden Falls,” Max said. “And they thought they heard a baby crying.”
“Dear Lord,” Afton said. “I’m on my way.”
8
THE room was too quiet. It should have been filled with cries, coos, and little wet gurgles from the most beautiful baby ever conceived. Now it felt hollow and empty. As if a death had taken place.
Susan Darden scrunched her knees up closer to her chest. She was sitting on the floor, crouched deep in the corner of her daughter’s nursery, wishing she could pull herself together so tightly that she’d just pop out of existence. Because the harsh reality of Elizabeth Ann being gone was simply too painful to bear. She wanted to die.
And Susan felt cold, cold as ice. She’d draped a white wool baby afghan over her knees to ward off some of the chill, but she still shivered almost uncontrollably, the tips of her fingers turning white. She knew that deep down inside herself, in the barely rational part of her being that was only just hanging on, her chill had nothing to do with room temperature. She was cold on the inside, deep within her heart.