“Adoption records.”
The word adoption made Aubrey squirm. Somewhere deep inside, she’d always hoped someone would come forward to claim her, to give her a history, a family, a home. It never happened. As was required by the State of Tennessee, she’d gone to the monthly “adoption days” in Nashville, sat at a lunch table while eager couples walked past her without a second glance. She was cute, with her dark eyes and curly blond hair and long, coltish legs, but she had a fatal flaw: she wasn’t a baby. The couples who came to these events were looking for someone little, someone still impressionable, who could be molded in their image; kids who didn’t remember their real folks, who wouldn’t cringe when they were asked to call their new strangers mom and dad.
Those Saturdays had been among the worst in her life. Every fourth Saturday of the month, they were prodded into the showers, dressed in the finest handoffs they had, and bused to the school, where they were lined up like show ponies. Or slaves. Eager children with one goal in life: to be loved.
She desperately wanted to be saved from the hell she was living in, and being adopted again would make everything okay.
It never happened, but soon enough, she was loved. By Josh.
Meghan caught that something was wrong. She was watching Aubrey with her little pixie head cocked to one side and her lips pursed, but let the moment go without inquiry. She smiled and patted Aubrey lightly on the shoulder.
“Come on, sugar. Let’s hit the courthouse. See what we can dig up.”
“Wait. I need to show you something.”
Aubrey reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. She’d printed out the photo, was carrying it around like having it on her would make it disappear from the world.
She handed it to Meghan. “Someone emailed me this last night. The subject line was ‘He’s alive.’ ”
Meghan unfolded the paper. Aubrey could see the faint outline of Josh’s body through the back. Even prepared for it, the pain sliced through her.
Meghan folded the paper, anger etched on her features. She was pale, and looked furious.
“Are you okay?”
Aubrey choked back a sob. “Of course I’m not okay. Someone’s playing with me, trying to manipulate me. But I can’t sit back and pretend nothing’s happening.” She grabbed the photo. “Clearly I didn’t know him as well as I thought. What if he’s been out there this whole time, living it up with some strange woman? I’m just his wife. Why let me know he’s okay?”
“If this photo is even real. It could be something doctored up to make you doubt him.”
“But who would do that? Who would want to torture me like this?”
Meghan gritted her teeth. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”
PART THREE
Years of love have been forgot in the hatred of a minute.
—EDGAR ALLAN POE
CHAPTER 45
Josh
Six Years Ago
“So, Dr. Hamilton, what made you want to get into medicine?”
Josh was across the table from Derek Allen at Jimmy Kelly’s Steakhouse, eating hot corn cakes and drinking an incredible glass of wine, waiting on the most expensive filet he had ever ordered. Allen didn’t seemed fazed by the prices, ordering filets and lobsters and the $180 bottle of Nickel & Nickel cabernet sauvignon -casually, as if he did it every day.
Josh was impressed. Someday soon, that would be him.
“I want to help people. I know that sounds cliché, but it’s true.”
“And what kind of doctor are you training to be?”
“Well, interesting you should ask that. Today was my first day of surgical rotation. I thought I wanted family practice, but now . . . there’s something special about surgery. Though it means more schooling. More money. More everything.”
Allen was looking at him with the same small smile on his face, almost like he’d known what Josh was going to say.
“And your wife? What will she think?”
Josh shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Their meals arrived. Josh cut into the steak; it was perfectly done and smelled like heaven.
“Another three years of school will be very expensive. What if I could find a way to help you along?”
Josh stopped eating, fork poised over his plate. “What do you mean?”
“A little side job, to make ends meet.”
“I was thinking of taking a position at the morgue.”
“Oh, this would be much more fun. And much more lucrative.”
Josh put his fork down. “What is it you do, exactly, Mr. Allen?”
Allen put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. His smile was crooked, and he leaned in so he wouldn’t be overheard. “I’m a bit like you, actually. I make people feel good.”
? ? ?
Josh walked out of his dinner with Derek Allen halfway through his very expensive filet, panic driving him back to his Audi.