Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(46)

“I can be clear.”

“I’m going to fill you in,” Eve said as she rose, “and drop you off at your house. And we’ll keep you in the loop on Covino, one way or the other.”

“We can hope she’s like Muldoon.”

“We can hope,” Eve agreed, but she didn’t see it.





10





BEFORE


While Violet nursed the baby, she stroked her daughter’s cheek with one finger. The sensation was so lovely, and if it felt oddly familiar, she set that aside.

As far as she was concerned, her life began the moment she’d opened her eyes on the road, in the dark, and seen Joe’s face.

He was her world now. He and Joella. Her family.

She was Violet Fletcher, wife, mother—and oh, how she loved being both—the caretaker of Sweetwater, the lovely old home named nearly two hundred years before.

For weeks after he found her on the road, Joe checked religiously for reports of a missing woman, but no one looked for her. She knew, absolutely, no one would, because Violet hadn’t existed before Joe.

In her heart, her mind, in every cell of her body, she believed Joe had brought her back to life. He’d taken care of her, had given her a home, and a purpose. A job at first, she thought now as the baby nursed and the sunlight beamed through the windows of the nursery.

A guest room once, one where she’d slept those first months during her recovery, during the days and nights she’d spent cleaning the house, tending the garden, learning to cook while Joe worked.

She’d learned, had worked hard, had been grateful and content to be only his housekeeper even as she’d fallen so completely in love with him.

Everything she did, the washing, the polishing, even the painting when he finally agreed to let her, she did with an open heart. She believed, absolutely, that purpose—to tend to Joe, to tend to the house—helped her heal.

Then, another miracle, he’d wanted her, and he’d loved her. She hadn’t believed he could, or would. She’d taken the last name Blank, because her life before the moment he’d saved her was just that.

But on a perfect spring day, in the garden she’d help tend, she took his name, took his ring, and pledged her life to him.

To avoid questions, they’d made up a past for her—a spotty one, but it served. But the past meant nothing, and now she was Violet Fletcher, Dr. Joseph Fletcher’s wife, mother of Joella Lynn.

When the baby slept, perfect mouth slack and milky, she tucked her in the crib in the nursery she’d painted a soft sweet green. She smoothed the downy cap of white-blond hair and thanked God or fate or the sheer luck that had put her in this place.

She vowed she’d be a good mother, a loving one, a fun one, a patient one, a caring one.

“I’ll always be there for you,” she whispered, “and so will your daddy. He’s the best man in the world.”

While the baby napped, she stripped the master bed, put on fresh sheets, started the laundry. Joe, the sweet man, had offered, and more than once, to hire a cleaning service. But she loved tending the house, loved making it shine.

She was a homemaker now.

By the time evening set in, casting its shadows so the Spanish moss dripped from the oaks like art, she sat in one of the rockers on the wide veranda, the baby once more at her breast. Inside, the house sparkled, and a roast chicken browned in the oven.

She smelled roses and magnolia as she sipped from a glass of sweet tea. And smiled when the car turned in and drove toward the house.

Her heart just swelled as he got out of the car and started toward her.

“Welcome home, Dr. Fletcher.”

“No place I’d rather be, Mrs. Fletcher.” He bent down, kissed her, then touched his lips to Joella’s head. “Has she been a good girl today, Mama?”

“Best girl ever, Daddy. Sit for a minute, will you? Dinner’s got awhile yet, and I brought out a glass for you.” When he did, poured himself a glass, she shifted the baby to her other breast.

“Tell me about your day.”

He reached for her hand, held it while they rocked on the veranda in air smelling of roses and magnolia.





NOW


Mary Kate woke in the dark. For a moment, one blissful moment, she thought she was home, in her own bed. She started to roll over, slide back into sleep. And her wrist shackle dug into her wrist as the chain reached its limit.

She remembered.

For one moment, one horrible moment, she fell into desperate despair. She was alone, held prisoner by some madman who thought he was a child about half the time.

No one knew where she was, so how could they find her?

She was supposed to be basking in the sun on a beach, romping in the ocean with Teeg, not chained up in some room by some crazy old man who wanted his mommy.

But no, no, Teeg had dumped her. The son of a bitch. And surely even if he hadn’t, even if they’d gone to the beach, she’d have been home by now. Surely she’d been in this nightmare more than four days.

It felt like four weeks. Four years.

Someone had to be looking for her by now. She had family, friends, coworkers, people who cared about her. The police were looking for her by now, of course they were. She just had to hang on until they came.

Remembering, she clapped her hands, and when the light came on, she let out a long breath. She saw breakfast—some sort of cereal in a bowl, a disposable container of milk, a cup of what would be—it always was—orange juice, another that would be coffee—probably cold now. That was fine, she never drank it because it had a hard, bitter taste she suspected came from drugs.