But now…now, I had too much to lose.
My eyes met Della’s. “We need to leave. Right now.”
Della didn’t speak, just nodded and immediately turned to the backpacks we’d unpacked by the dresser.
Cassie stood by the door, watching as we prepared to pack up any hope of staying here for winter.
John was right when he sent us away.
We shouldn’t have come.
“You-you can’t leave. Not again,” Cassie murmured. “Dad needs you, Ren. We all want you to stay.”
“We can’t.” I grabbed a bag from Della and wrenched open a drawer where we’d stuffed our clothes, fighting a cough. “I won’t lose her. Not now. I didn’t do anything wrong—”
“Stop.”
Everything inside me slammed into a brick wall.
My head shot up, eyes locking onto the two shadows behind Cassie. They morphed from the stable gloom, two uniformed officers who I recognised from selling a couple of hay bales to on and off over the years.
Della froze, dropping her bag. “Wait. No.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The older of the two with a greying moustache stepped closer, scanned all three of us, then said, “Ren Wild, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping of Della Mclary and you’re coming with us.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
REN
2020
I’D BEEN TRAPPED before.
It was so long ago now that time had healed me from a lot of it, but sitting in a brightly lit room with a locked door, two-way mirror, and handcuffs that had been removed from my wrists glinting silver on the table, shot me straight back to a different type of captivity.
Here, I wasn’t expected to work until I passed out or eat scraps before the pigs could get them, but I was expected to give them something.
Something I didn’t know how.
The door opened, depositing a visitor into my tiny prison. The officer with his greying moustache and skinny frame sighed wearily as if working through the night was about as fun for him as it was for me.
He scuttled into the spare chair on the opposite side of the table.
The manila folder in his hands slapped against the table, and he gave me an exasperated smile.
I didn’t buy it, but I did buy his exhaustion and the fact that he was old, tired, and wasn’t out for a witch hunt…just doing his job as an upholder of the law and protecting his town’s citizens.
“So…” He cleared his throat and splayed his hands flat on the table on either side of the folder. “I know we asked you before, but you have to give us something.”
I leaned back in the chair, stiff and slightly chilled from sitting there for so long. My lungs ached and the slight rattle in my chest pissed me off. “I’m not evading your questions. If I knew the answers, I would give them.”
He frowned. “So, you still don’t know where the Mclary’s farm is? You don’t know your mother’s name? You can’t prove anything of what you told me? That you were bought for labour and ran away when you were ten?”
“I have no evidence. I don’t even know my real last name. All I know is I didn’t cut my finger off—Willem Mclary did. I didn’t brand my hip—Willem Mclary did. The only crime I’m agreeing to is I did take their daughter, but not by choice. I was a kid running for his life. The last thing I wanted was a baby.”
I chuckled, remembering the juvenile hate I’d had for her when I’d first found her in my bag. “She’d squashed all my rations and drained me of all my strength. If I wasn’t so sure they’d have killed me, I would’ve gone back and dropped her off.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
He tapped the table with a fingernail. “But that was nineteen years ago. You could’ve dropped her off at any other point. To any police station in any town.”
“I tried.”
He sat up taller. “Ah, yes. In the town you didn’t know with a family you can’t name.”
“That’s right.”
“You left her for a couple of days?”
“Yes. Like I told you, I only went back because I saw her on TV. Some news reporter said she’d be put in foster care if no one claimed her. I might’ve hated her back then, but she didn’t deserve to be lost.”
My heart pinched a little with memories. Of her blistering joy when I’d gone back. Of my profound connection knowing I would never leave her again. That I would do anything it took to give her the life she deserved. That I was in love with her as deeply and as truly as anyone could love another—regardless of age.
Silence fell as the cop stared at me. His name was Martin Murray and he was a good man. Honest and hardworking and I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t afraid of being coerced into confessing something I didn’t do. I was only afraid of the repercussions that I legitimately deserved for taking something that wasn’t mine.
I wasn’t trying to deny that fact.
I was merely trying to make them see that I’d never hurt Della. I’d done everything I could to raise her right. And just had to hope that that offered some leniency for my crime. And I also had to hope that Della forgave me if I ended up in jail and left her on her own.
At least she had the Wilsons again.
At least she was safe.
Is she thinking about me?
What sort of panic was she going through since I’d been marched from our bedroom and stuffed into the police cruiser?
I coughed, missing her so damn much.
Finally, Martin Murray laughed with a thread of frustration. “You know, I’ve seen you grow up. Not that often, but I walked the beat when you were busy picking up Cassie Wilson so she didn’t drive home drunk. Wherever you were, Della was by your side. It was stranger seeing you two apart rather than together. I know you treated her well. And I know in your mind, it wasn’t kidnapping. I’m not trying to throw you in jail, Mr. Wild. I’m only trying to solve this case.”
“You know my name is Ren. Use it.”
He nodded once. “You have to understand how difficult you’re making this investigation.”
“Not my intention.” Sitting still, I waited for the next question—yet another thing I couldn’t answer. But he sighed again and opened the file. “I have something to show you.”
“Okay…” I shifted forward, leaning closer. My eyes locked on the typed front page of whatever document he had. A bunch of numbers decorated the top, along with the words unsolved and a date and then a name.
Della’s name.
Missing Case of Della Donna Mclary.
She had a middle name.
I never knew.
My mouth went dry as he flicked over the page and slipped out a glossy photo of the place that haunted my nightmares. “Is this their farm?”
Words vanished down my throat, leaving me mute.
I nodded around a harsh cough.
The same dilapidated farmhouse with its rotten veranda and haphazard shutters. The same barn in the distance where I’d slept with other stinky, starving kids. The machinery and tractors and animal feed all scattered uncared for in the muddy yards.
I hadn’t forgotten anything about it.
Not a single thing.
Not the sweat on my back or the pain in my muscles or the fever in my blood.
Not the soul-crushing feeling of abandonment and abuse.
Martin held up another image. “This them? Willem and Marion Mclary?”
Again, I hadn’t forgotten a single thing.
From the dirty dungarees Willem wore to the faded sundress his wife preferred. Everything was grimy and unloved and held an aura of perpetual greed.
I nodded again.
“And this?” His third photo showed Della.
A rosy cheeked baby who didn’t belong. A baby with inquisitive blue eyes and a ribbon twisted around her chubby fist. All she wore was a diaper and a food splattered purple bib.
She sat in her highchair in the same kitchen where I’d scurried like a cockroach and stolen crumbs from the floor when they weren’t looking.
My voice returned, its volume restored thanks to the baby who taught me how to read and write. “That’s her. Della Mclary.”
“Why do you call each other Wild now?”
“Because she chose that for us to share.”
“But it’s not a legitimate name?”
“No.”
His forehead furrowed. “How have you gone this long in life using a fake name with no documentation?”