Woman on the Edge(50)

“I will,” Nicole said. “Tomorrow.”

Tessa brought her own cup to her lips and took a sip. Then she smiled at Nicole placidly.



* * *




Over the next few days, though, instead of calling Tessa or Lucinda, she messaged Morose. Besides when she bathed Quinn, who loved the water, and rocked her to sleep in her arms, Morose in Chicago was the highlight of Nicole’s life.

They bonded over their shared losses, their guilt over their pasts. Nicole didn’t tell her about Amanda and Donna, because she couldn’t bring herself to write their names, but they talked about their parents. Morose’s father had recently passed away, and she’d grown apart from her mother. Nicole didn’t want to talk about how her own parents died, but she understood the pain of losing parents. Their conversations went deeper and deeper. Morose’s mother shared many of the same traits Nicole’s father had—judgment, blame, and a total lack of understanding of who their children really were. Eventually, Morose admitted that her husband had been a fraudster who’d bilked people out of money and had then committed suicide. She felt so much sympathy for this woman. Morose was a social worker at a shelter for abused women and their children. She did so much good for the world, and yet she was all alone.

Now she felt they were friends. Real friends who’d met in a virtual space. They accepted each other.

Morose in Chicago: I think you’re the only person I can really talk to these days. Thank you.

Lost and Confused: I feel the same way.



And Nicole wanted more. With Quinn snug in the wrap, Nicole steepled her fingers under her chin and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she typed.

Lost and Confused: What’s your real name?



She waited for the three dots to alert her that Morose in Chicago was typing a message. Nothing. She moved the mouse to the woman’s user name. She was offline.

“Please come back,” she whispered to the screen. She waited, anxiety chewing at her insides. But Morose didn’t answer her.

Nicole yearned for the warm feeling the woman gave her. Her kindness and understanding. She wanted to find her and sit face-to-face. She wanted to know who she really was.

With the information Morose had given her, Nicole scoured the Internet for newspaper articles, editorials, anything that might lead her in the right direction. She searched shelters, and even tried adoption forums. She keyed in: “man; social worker wife; Chicago; fraud; suicide” and found something.

Hedge Fund Manager Ryan Galloway Found Dead of Suicide



The article outlined his embezzlement and sudden, tragic death a year and a half ago. The bottom line read:

He is survived by his wife, social worker Morgan Kincaid. They have no children.



Morgan Kincaid. Was she really the woman Nicole felt such a bond with? Such an instant, deep connection?

Now Nicole remembered the case. Some former board members of Breathe had invested their shares in Ryan Galloway’s hedge fund and lost everything. She typed in “Morgan Kincaid; social worker.” Nothing came up. She kept scrolling until she found a nasty headline in Chicago-at-Large.

Suspected Fraud Accomplice Morgan Kincaid Scales Down from Her Sprawling Gold Coast Home



There were photos of a run-down, brown building on North Sheridan Road, and one shot of Morgan, head bowed, as she headed inside the front doors. Her shoulders were hunched; her back curved like she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

Morgan really had lost everything. Nicole understood.

Quinn began to suck on her shoulder.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I’ll feed you right now. Then I’m going to make everything better for you. Mommy’s going to make it all better.”

She spilled the formula on the counter before finally getting enough into a bottle to satisfy her daughter, who gulped hungrily. Nicole held her close. “I love you, baby girl.”

Voices rang in her ears.

What have you done?

You’re so irresponsible.

She shook her head back and forth to get rid of them. She conjured up Morgan’s posts in her mind. Serendipity. Kismet.

Nicole entered the pantry and added new Post-its to the wall, now a dizzying array of purple.

Shelter. Widow. Morgan Kincaid. Help me.

Morgan Kincaid was a social worker. She’d offered to listen if Nicole needed to talk. They’d connected on a deep level. If Nicole could actually speak to her face-to-face, unburden herself to the one person who might understand, she could clear her heart chakra and be the mother her daughter deserved.

Then Quinn would truly be safe. And Nicole might finally be free.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN MORGAN




I can’t believe we’ve lost Quinn. Why now? What does Greg really want? And how much can I trust Ben? These thoughts swirl through my mind as he goes to sit on the couch in the living room, his face a picture of misery.

I walk over and gingerly sit near him. “Ben?”

He looks over at me. “That’s it then. I won’t have a chance of getting Quinn back from Greg, and you certainly can’t. You’re a damn suspect.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, and before I can ask who he’s calling, I hear Martinez’s raspy voice on the line.

“Greg just took Quinn. I think he might have done something to my sister. I never trusted him.”