Woman on the Edge(28)
“Did you take the photo album from my bookshelf for some reason?”
“No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Sorry. Forget it.”
“Are you sure you don’t have mommy brain?”
Nicole laughed, but it was thin. “Yeah, that must be it.”
She hung up. Nicole picked up the album, then lay Quinn on her back on the animal play mat in the living room. Nicole laughed as she sat beside her daughter, who cooed and swiped at the lion above her head.
“If my mom were here, she would spend hours playing with you. She was so patient.” Nicole opened the album to a photo of her and her older brother on Halloween. She was five, skinny arms crossed over her chest, scowling in her princess dress; he was eight, a lanky vampire with a gap-toothed grin. She quickly flipped to the next photo. “There’s your grandma.” Nicole pointed to a photo of her mother crouching beside a three-year-old Nicole in her stroller. She was so young and beautiful, her long, thick cocoa-colored curls tied in a low ponytail, her hand on Nicole’s pink snowsuit-clad leg. “Her maiden name was Quinn. That’s how you got your name.”
She wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she turned the page. And her heart stopped.
In the middle was a single loose Polaroid. Nicole’s hands shook uncontrollably as she picked it up by the corner, as though it were a snake about to strike.
Little Amanda sat on the green shag carpet Nicole remembered so well. She was wearing a pale yellow dress with a ruffled bodice and tulle skirt tied with a pretty bow. Her face beamed with glee at the Playskool popper in front of her.
How alive and healthy Amanda looked in this picture. How cold and still she’d been when Nicole last held her.
Nicole didn’t remember ever having a copy of this photo. She wouldn’t have saved it. She would have been too scared Greg would ask who it was.
Her head spinning, she removed the photo from the album before putting it back on the bookshelf where she’d last left it. She needed more pills. She didn’t know how many she’d taken today, but they weren’t working. She slipped the photo into the waistband of her yoga pants, the sharp edges digging into her skin. Then she picked Quinn up from the play mat and tucked her into the carrier, holding her close so she could feel her breathe against her.
She took Quinn to her bathroom, swallowed two more tablets. Her baby gnawed on Nicole’s shoulder. She was hungry and would need a bottle soon. Nicole opened the bathroom drawer to hide the photo, the photo she was sure that Donna had brought into her house. How and when, she didn’t know, but it was the only explanation.
And it terrified her.
The danger was getting closer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN MORGAN
The Prius is still right behind me. My exit is just up ahead, so I yank the wheel, screeching over to the shoulder, rocks spraying from under the tires, then pinging off my window. I lurch onto the ramp, my knuckles white with the force of my hands clamping the wheel.
The woman follows.
“What do you want?” I shout, a fireball of alarm shooting through my veins. “Please, please go away.”
I hear the roar of an engine revving, and the Prius speeds past me.
Then it’s gone.
I drive to a quiet block where I can pull to the curb. My seat belt is cutting into me, and I wrestle to undo it and lock my doors just in case the redhead in the Prius finds me again. I could have been killed just now.
I grapple in my purse for my phone. I dial Jessica. I’ve kept her in the dark about a few things, but this is more serious than I thought. I need to tell her that someone is after me. I make the call, but she doesn’t pick up.
“Damn it,” I say, pressing end and slamming the phone back into my purse. I’ll call her later, after I try to get some answers myself. I should also file a police report, but right now, I just want to get away from here.
I pull my hair back from my face, start the car, and drive to West Evergreen Avenue, Ben Layton’s house. I roll up to a beautiful yet imposing two-story Victorian. I park right across the street. I wipe my palms on my leggings. Butterflies flit in my stomach. I know I’m acting rashly, but I can’t stop myself. My gut tells me this is the right thing to do.
The thin beige curtains covering the bay windows are closed, but there’s a car in the driveway, so I reason Ben might be home. I look down at myself and cringe. I look like hell and feel even worse. I didn’t even brush my teeth this morning. I pop a stick of gum from my purse into my mouth. My skin is wan, deep purple grooves are etched under my usually bright green eyes, and the skin on my collarbone is so inflamed I worry it might be infected.
I take a deep breath. “You can do it,” I tell myself. I’m about to step out of my car as a very tall, slim man in a white V-neck T-shirt and gray board shorts emerges from the front door. He’s carelessly handsome, as though he’s not aware how good-looking he is. This is Ben Layton. I recognize him from his photo. He pushes his wavy brown hair off his forehead as he heads toward the black Altima. In his arms is a baby. Quinn.
I can’t help but gasp, my relief springing out of my throat. She’s in a pale pink onesie, and she’s crying, the sound punctuating the lack of noise on the street. But she looks secure in his arms. I feel a physical pull toward the baby girl I held for such a short time. I have to stop thinking about the fact that I’ve been entrusted to protect her. It can’t be. It’s too much to hope for. It doesn’t make any sense.