Where the Blame Lies(21)

She’d visited schools a few times, sat in her car as she’d watched the kids in the grade he’d be in head out to recess. Once she’d spotted a little boy with black hair like Marshall’s about the same age her child would be. He’d been sitting alone, head bowed. No friends. Her heart had lurched, stomach clenching as she stared at the lonely little boy. Are you mine? she’d wondered. But then another little boy had sat next to him. They’d looked so much alike, Josie had known it had to be a twin or a brother. Her heart had sunk, and she’d driven away.

Josie stared at Marshall’s picture for another minute, annoyed with herself. Because try as she might, she couldn’t merge the two—the man in the photo, and the man in the ski mask. Her mind simply wouldn’t allow it, was branded with Marshall not as he was, but the way he’d appeared to her during the most horrific months of her life. She had to keep working on that. Apparently eight years hadn’t been enough.

It will happen when you find him, she thought. And in a way she hoped she would see at least a glimmer of his father in the way her son looked. It would serve to humanize Marshall Landish further. It would serve as a daily reminder of the light that had come from the darkness. Her baby boy. The reason she’d kept fighting, day after day, in her hellish dungeon. Her hope. She closed her eyes, picturing his face as she remembered it, the small cherubic features, the way he’d looked at her with so much trust. Pain blossomed in her chest, rising so suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. It hurt. Still. But she let it, almost relished the pain. In some ways, he was the pain, twisted in the longing she carried inside her. It was all she had of him, and she couldn’t let it go without also allowing him to drift away.

After a moment, she took a deep breath, closing the folder and choosing another. It held the lists of hospitals she’d called over the years, both in Cincinnati and the surrounding cities. She’d looked into Marshall Landish’s background and found he had some family in Texas, and so she’d called the hospitals and agencies there as well. He’d been in the Army in South Carolina for a time, so there was a list from there too. It was a long shot, but there was no avenue she wasn’t willing to travel to find him.

At one point, years before, she’d saved enough money to hire a private investigator, but his leads had all run dry, the same as the CPD’s had.

She’d visited adoption agencies in town, a few social workers who worked within the social services system, the people Marshall worked with, the few friends he had. She’d known the police were doing the same, but it couldn’t hurt, she’d told herself. And she hadn’t stopped after coming up blank. She’d revisited the names on her lists again and again over the years, praying they’d heard something, or a small memory had come back. Something. All long shots, impossible maybe, but she’d refused to give up. She’d promised him, and she would not break that promise. She was his mother.

But those calls . . . she’d let them go this last year, one at a time. The first one was the easiest—Detective Cedric Murphy—because she trusted that if anything came up, he’d get in touch with her. The others were harder. Ceasing her yearly check-ins had been difficult, but like she’d told Detective Copeland, it was time. At this point, they were only succeeding in hurting her—the inevitable negative response, the pity she heard in the voice of the contact when once again, they told her they had nothing to give to her. Plus, she reasoned, perhaps those calls were keeping her focused on dead ends. Perhaps she needed to let those go so she could brainstorm other avenues she hadn’t considered before. Those calls made her feel like she was still doing something, and she’d needed that. But in reality, maybe stopping them would fuel her to turn elsewhere, somewhere new. Somewhere that would lead to a small break.

With a tired sigh, she pushed the folders away. She’d revisit them the next day when her mind was fresh. She needed to get up early. She’d planned a yard sale where she could purge a portion of the stuff she’d cleared from the attic and basement and make some cash at the same time. She’d already printed off flyers, hung them around town. She wondered if it was too late to put up an ad on Craigslist too . . . get as many people as possible out to the property to cart off some of her aunt’s old possessions for profit.

She hated crowds . . . but, in the effort to bring in some money in order to cross a few things off her list, she’d do what she had to do.

Josie unlocked her bedroom door and went down the hall to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth and washed her face. She yawned as she emerged. God, she was tired. It’d been a long, draining day. Emotional. But as she started for her room, a small noise from downstairs met her ears. A squeak. She paused, holding still as she listened, her heart rate spiking. Another squeak as though someone was stepping slowly over the hardwood floor downstairs, pausing when he met one of the noisy floorboards. And there was a faint . . . dripping in the background.

Josie’s breath caught in her throat as she pressed herself firmly against the hallway wall, waiting. Listening. It’s an old house, she told herself. It’s just settling. As though to confirm her thoughts, the pipe from the bathroom rattled in the wall the way it did a few minutes after the sink had been run. Normal. Usual. Nothing to fear.

Still, she waited, listening for another minute, her ears perked. The squeaking stopped, though that faint dripping continued. Had she left the kitchen faucet just slightly on? She must have. When no further squeaks drifted upstairs, she gathered her courage and walked quietly to the top of the stairs, flicking on the light to the foyer below and looking over the railing. Nothing. Her breath came easier as she descended, holding the rail firmly in her grip.