Nervously, he picked up the phone from the computer desk. Sighing again, he entered the phone number. His heart raced as his finger hovered over the green ‘call’ button. He could feel a bead of sweat run down the side of his face. What’s wrong with me? he thought. It’s only a phone call.
“Are you going to be long on the phone?” Nicky asked from the doorway, causing him to drop the phone in fright.
“Bloody hell, Nic,” he yelled. “You scared the life out of me.”
Sniggering, she reached down and picked the phone up from the floor. “You’re such a wimp, Rich.”
“What do you want?” he said, abruptly.
“Don’t be like that. I only asked you a question.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap—I just had a fright, that’s all.” He took the phone from her. “Can you give me five minutes? I won’t be long.”
She nodded and then left, clearly a little disgruntled.
Shoving the door shut with his foot, he unwillingly pushed the ‘call’ button and held it to his ear. The wait for the call to go through was excruciating. But then, to his relief, the phone gave off a dead-tone, indicating that the phone number had been disconnected. “Thank God for that,” he said under his breath. He then opened the door and called out to Nicky, “You can use the phone now, I’m finished!”
“Thanks!” she shouted up from downstairs.
Back to the drawing board, he thought as he ran a hand through his hair.
Pulling out a pen from a drawer, he proceeded to jot down the address of the farmhouse on a Post-it note. He slipped the note into his pocket and left the office.
Richard was sitting on the couch, deep in thought. Nicky had her legs over his lap again, still chatting on the phone with one of her friends.
The idea of driving to St. Clears constantly popped up in his conscience. How could he ignore this? Christina had clearly revealed what she wanted of him, what she longed for. And now he, Richard Gardener, had both the power and knowledge to help her. He had to at least go to the police and tell them what he knew, tell them about the missing baby. But how could he? How on earth could he explain to them how he came across the information without implicating himself, or seeming psychotic?
Stroking Nicky’s leg, he glanced at her. He smiled tightly to see her so happy, so carefree. A million miles away from the torment Christina had endured—still endured. He had to at least visit the farmhouse, just to see for himself. No heroics. No contact. Simply to gather enough information to be able to go the police with something solid, something believable. If the baby and Peter were there, at the house, then there would no longer be any doubt of Richard’s sanity, no coincidences. He would be certain. And if he were able to somehow help take back the baby, then Christina Long would surely leave his house for good.
The prospect made him beam.
Nodding, as if convinced, he gently pushed Nicky’s legs off his lap and stood.
“Hang on for a sec, Deb,” she said into the phone, then moved it away from her ear, redirecting her attention to Richard. “If you’re going to the kitchen, will you get me a cranberry juice?”
“Yeah, no prob. Do you mind if I pop out for a few hours?”
Giving him a look of confusion, she asked, “To where?”
“Just over to Neil’s house in town. He’s back from Oz. Haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Okay. But don’t be too long, I thought we could do something tonight.”
“I won’t.” He started for the door. “Just a few hours.”
In the kitchen, he prepared the cranberry juice, all the while trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming at him to stay here with Nicky, to avoid St. Clears. But he had to. And looking at the dreaded chair, he had to do it now if he was ever going to take back his house.