Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(44)

20


SITTING behind a battered wooden desk at the Family Resource Center in New Richmond, Wisconsin, Marjorie Sorenson was hardly recognizable. In her long black wool skirt and prim white blouse, with her hair combed neatly back and held in place with a crisscross of bobby pins, she looked like a nun. Or at least one who’d recently kicked the habit.

Not only that, Marjorie had cleverly appropriated the demeanor of a nun. No longer the caustic, tough-talking kidnapper, she spoke to the young woman sitting across from her in a measured and thoughtful tone of voice.

At the same time, Marjorie noted that the girl was clearly frightened out of her wits. She’d come creeping into the Family Resource Center looking like a tentative rabbit, all hunched over, her face a mask of pain. She’d asked to speak with one of their counselors, and Libby Grauman, the director of the center (which was really not about family resources at all, but distinctly pro-life) had directed the girl to Marjorie.

Marjorie volunteered two mornings a week. She typed (badly), filed (haphazardly), and helped counsel the pregnant, unwed teens and twenty-somethings who came tiptoeing in. The ones who had nowhere to turn, whose boyfriends had skulked off at the mere hint of a bun in the oven.

She’d been given her role at the center because of her professed belief in the sanctity of life. But Marjorie thought of herself as a kind of wolf on the prowl. Someone who was smart, cunning, and had a discerning eye for the weak and easily manipulated. In other words, those particular young women who were more than willing to put their names on a hastily produced document and sign away their babies.

“How far along are you?” Marjorie asked. She was filling out a form as she spoke soothingly to the girl.

“Three months,” said the girl, who’d identified herself as June. Just June. She wore a dowdy dress, scuffed brown boots, and a coat that was definitely of the thrift store variety.

She probably didn’t have two nickels to rub together, Marjorie thought, as she kept up her gentle patter.

“And you’re living at home?” Marjorie asked.

“For now,” June said. “After this . . .” She patted her stomach. “I’m gonna go live somewhere else.”

Marjorie didn’t ask where because the girl probably hadn’t figured that out yet. Maybe never would.

They’d been talking for twenty minutes and Marjorie suspected June was going to be one of the easy ones. She had that trapped-animal look about her. All she wanted was to be done with her pregnancy problem and get rid of the evidence.

“I’m so glad you found your way to us,” Marjorie said, giving her a smile and revealing pink gums. “If you sign an agreement to carry your baby to full term, the Family Resource Center can guarantee that we’ll find a wonderful loving home for it.”

“That sounds . . . good,” June said. Her boyfriend had already left for Afghanistan and her parents were ready to disown her. Living in a small farming community didn’t give her a lot of options.

Marjorie dug a file folder out of her desk drawer. “Let me show you something.” She pulled out a glossy color photo of an eager-looking young couple. “These are the kind of people who would love your baby as if it were their own, and give it every opportunity in the world.”

June bit her lower lip and studied the photo. “They look nice.”

“In fact, this particular couple,” Marjorie said, “own a lovely home in Evanston, Illinois. They’re both college graduates and hold down good jobs. The husband is a VP at Wells Fargo bank and the wife is currently working at an interior design firm.” Marjorie smiled. The stock photo she’d pulled out of a frame from the Ben Franklin had served her well. “But as soon as they adopt, the wife wants to quit her job and devote herself to being a full-time mother.”

“They sound perfect,” June said as tears glistened in her eyes.

Marjorie fingered a sheaf of papers, and then slid them across the desk to June. A pen followed. “Why don’t you sign this agreement right now and I’ll get things rolling.”

The young girl suddenly shivered, as if an ill wind had just swept in and chilled her to the bone. She paused, considered her predicament for a moment, and then slowly signed the papers. After all, what other option did she have?


*

MARJORIE hummed to herself as she typed up her report. Across the room, Libby Grauman stood up from her desk and slipped into her coat. She headed for the door and paused.

“I’m going to run over to the Hamburger Hut and grab some lunch. You want me to bring something back for you?”

“No thanks,” Marjorie said. “I brought a bologna sandwich from home.”

“Okay then.” The director was gone, closing the door firmly behind her.

Marjorie waited a full five minutes. Just in case Libby came back for something. When the coast seemed to be clear, she quickly dialed a long-distance number.

After wheedling her way past two different gatekeepers, her contact came on the line. “Yes?”

“I’ve got three,” Marjorie said.

“You’ve been busy. I hadn’t heard from you in a while so I wondered if maybe . . .” Then, “How old?”

“I’ve got a three-month-old girl, one that’s due any day now, and another in six months or so.”