Woman on the Edge(8)

“Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Greg said, holding the card for her to see.

Amanda Markham.

Fighting the unbearable heaviness in her chest, Nicole turned away and lay back against the pillows. She put her fingers to the baby’s neck. Thump, thump, thump. Every beat reassured her that her child was breathing, was alive, was hers. Her own breathing slowed, and she kissed her daughter’s velvety cheek. She reveled in the softness and newness of her.

“I’ll keep you safe. I’ll love you forever. Nothing bad will ever happen to you,” she promised her baby. Then she looked at Greg. “Sorry. I’m all out of sorts after the surgery. Quinn is her name. That’s my decision. My mom would have been the best grandmother in the world. It means a lot to me that she takes her name.”

Greg approached the bed and gently sat beside his wife and daughter. “You deserve whatever name you want. Quinn it is.”

Before she could think any more about the name card, she heard the click of heels near her room. Expecting Tessa, she looked to the doorway and saw a woman outside. At first, Nicole couldn’t process the flash of flaming-red hair, the exact color of Donna’s hair, nearly twenty years ago.

Greg stroked his fingers along Nicole’s temple. “What? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Who was that?” she whispered.

“Who was who?”

“The woman at the door.”

He observed her, saw her getting nervous again. “Well, it wasn’t Tessa. I don’t think she’d be back that fast.” He glanced at the door. “There’s no one there, babe. You’re coming out of surgery, that’s all. The meds are playing tricks on you. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.” It was a lie. A red-hot lie. “I’m just anxious for Quinn to meet her auntie.”

She had so much more to be anxious about.

You don’t deserve a baby girl. You’re a murderer. You can’t keep her safe.

Nicole looked out the door again, but the redhead was long gone.





CHAPTER FIVE MORGAN




I shove the purple Post-it in my purse before I follow the officer up the concrete steps out of Grand/State, holding carefully onto the sticky black railing. Amanda. Is that the baby’s name or the mother’s? A cool gust of wind slaps my cheeks when we exit onto West Grand Avenue. Dusk has started to fall, and the sun is an orange ball of fire behind the station. Media vans and police cars by the dozen are parked carelessly in the bike lanes.

The officer stops at a police car, and I finally get a good look at him. He’s short and wiry, and I realize we’re almost the same height. Still, he’s intimidating.

“I’m Officer Campbell. Can you tell me your name, please?”

“Morgan Kincaid.” I whisper it because my throat is raw, as if sandpaper is grating against it.

He helps me into the back of the police car, his hand on my head as I slide in. I want to tell him not to touch me, but I don’t. I feel like a criminal.

My grief engulfs me during the ride, and I stare out the window. But it quickly evolves into dismay when Officer Campbell turns onto North Larrabee. The trees transform from lush, emerald canopies to sparse and sad-looking branches, hunched over as though they sympathize with me. Brown-brick industrial buildings line both sides of the street, with parking lots and run-down shops leading the way to the dull gray concrete imposition that is the 18th District.

My dress sticks to the cracked black leather seat, and I unpeel myself before pulling my phone out of my purse. I shoot off a quick text to Jessica Clark, my attorney. She’s the one who protected me when my entire world caved in, when Ryan was gone, and all my friends and family turned their anger on me. Maybe I don’t need her this time. I did nothing wrong. But I don’t trust the police.

I text her quickly.

Only a few seconds pass before she texts back: On my way.

I feel faint, and I’m afraid to collapse on the back seat. I should have pushed through that crowd and run away from that woman. But what would have happened to the baby? I wind the ends of my hair around and around my finger, letting the strands cut into my flesh.

Love her for me, Morgan.

I couldn’t have gotten away.

Officer Campbell pulls into the police garage, and I unclasp my seat belt and then trudge behind him through the sally port, where he says my name into the speaker on the concrete wall. We ride the elevator to the interview rooms, and I avoid looking at the thick metal bars behind us that block potentially dangerous prisoners from the police. I don’t want to be here.

“Ms. Kincaid, will you follow me, please?” Campbell’s uniform strains against his biceps as he takes a paper from a sergeant manning the front desk.

I cringe at the thin layer of grime covering my dress and skin, but when I run my hand across my face, I smell the scent of the baby—powdery and fresh—and I hope she’s okay.

I follow him through the station, the repetitive drone from the fluorescent lights making my head pound. The last time I was here was eighteen months ago. I was in a stupor of raw grief, my clothes and hands drenched in Ryan’s blood.

Don’t let anyone hurt her.

I will tell Officer Campbell everything. I’ll simply recount every word the mother said. I’ll tell him about the note, too, once he takes me wherever we’re going now. How I have no idea how she did it, but that the mother stuck it to my purse before jumping.