Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(32)

“Susan!” Richard Darden shouted. “Calm down, baby. Calm down.”

It took all her strength to pull back from the brink of despair. Exhausted, unable to move, she brushed a damp tangle of hair off her face and slowly opened her eyes.

Richard was standing over her, his expression a mixture of concern and panic.

“Susan?” he said.

The familiarity of his voice helped pull her out of it.

“The baby,” she whispered. “I just saw it on TV.”

“It’s not her,” Richard said. “It’s not our baby.” He said it slowly, enunciating carefully in his patient, paternal voice. The one he sometimes used when he was trying to cajole her.

She sat up and blinked. “Are you sure? Swear to me that you’re sure.”

“I already talked to the police on the phone.”

“They called? When?”

“An hour ago, maybe a little more. They said it’s definitely not Elizabeth Ann.” He reached out and snapped off the TV, as if to add emphasis to his words.

Susan put a hand to her heart, unsure whether to be grateful that her child had been spared, or even more fearful that Elizabeth Ann was still out there in the hands of . . . a crazy person.

“You’re sure?” she asked again.

“Positive,” Richard said. “I spoke with that agent, Don Jasper, from the FBI. He was most emphatic. It’s definitely not her. The baby they found was older, almost a year old. And it had been in the woods for several months.”

“Oh.” Susan looked around her family room with its matching cream leather sofas, swags of draperies, and antique cribbage table. After the flurry of the past two days, the intrusion of law enforcement officials with their badges and averted glances, the place suddenly looked forlorn and empty. “The FBI, the police. Are they here?”

“No,” Richard said. “I sent the one officer home a couple of hours ago.” He patted her shoulder gently. “You’ve been sleeping.”

She sat up a little more. “I had terrible dreams.”

“I can understand that you’re having trouble . . . coping. But, sweetheart, you’ve got to start making an effort.”

“I am. Really I am.” Susan fumbled for a tissue and blew her nose. “How are you holding up?”

“Terrible,” Richard said. But Susan thought there was something in his voice. He didn’t sound terrible.

“What have you been doing?” she asked.

Richard lifted both hands as if in supplication. “Nothing. Hoping. Praying, I guess.” He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Maybe you should take one of your pills. Go upstairs and crawl into bed, try to get some more rest. Just . . . zonk out.” He managed a smile. “Doesn’t that sound better than lying around down here?”

She wanted to scream at Richard and tell him that getting Elizabeth Ann back was what sounded better to her. Instead, she said, “I suppose.” After all, he was just trying to be helpful. She sighed. Men were never emotionally supportive in a crisis. Of course, she wasn’t exactly a model of female courage either.

“Want some help?” Richard offered a hand.

She stood up and gave a shaky smile. “No, I can manage.”

“Atta girl.”

Susan wobbled down the hallway and into the kitchen. She needed a sip of juice or water to soothe the rawness in her throat. But a fresh onslaught of grief came flooding over her when she opened the refrigerator. Lined up on the middle shelf were four bottles of baby formula. Just sitting there. Waiting for her baby to return.

Susan slammed the door. She couldn’t even recall mixing them. She must have simply been acting on autopilot, fixing a bottle every few hours.

For a baby that isn’t even here.

Susan stared at the refrigerator for a long ten seconds, then pulled it open again and grabbed a bottle of mineral water. She unscrewed the top and pitched it aside—she didn’t care where—and carried the bottle back to talk to Richard.

He folded the newspaper down as she came into the room. “Feeling a little better?”

She made a broad gesture. “We have, what . . . five thousand square feet of house? Four bathrooms? A sewing room even though I’ve never managed to sew a stitch? A pool table even though you’ve never shot a round of eight ball? Guest rooms even though we’ve never seen an overnight guest? What’s it all for?”

Richard stared at her, pain flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean, what’s it all for?” He was suddenly on his feet, ready to confront her. “I don’t remember you having a problem when we picked out this house. You loved the Kenwood address, said it would impress all of your friends. And you were perfectly enthralled with hiring decorators and wall mural painters, and scouring art galleries for the perfect paintings and antiques. You even ordered monogrammed guest towels, for Christ’s sake. Seems to me you were completely on board at the time. Am I right about that?”

Susan nodded slowly. “Yes, I was. I’ll admit that, I wanted the dream lifestyle, the perfect home. But now our bubble has been completely burst. I mean, what good is all this if we don’t have Elizabeth Ann?”

“Susan, I hear you,” Richard pleaded. “And my heart aches just as much as yours does. But what do you want me to do? Go outside and drive around? Look for her like she’s some kind of lost puppy?”