“Nadine, Riley has every right to see her baby book.”
“I don’t care about the baby book,” Riley said, louder than she intended. “I want to know about the birth certificate. This birth certificate.” She slapped the paper on the table and felt like she was being punched in the stomach when she saw her mother’s eyes go to it and immediately start to tear up.
“Glen,” she whispered.
“Riley,” her father started, “this birth certificate is not important. You don’t need to bother with Jane Elizabeth.” He reached out and began to slide the birth certificate toward him.
Riley’s arm shot out like a cobra attacking. She smacked her palm on the table, on the birth certificate, stopping her father, surprising even herself.
“Who is she?”
Her father swung his head. “Riley, just trust us. It’s nothing you need to bother with.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?” she exploded. “If it’s nothing, if it’s just some birth certificate you found, why won’t you tell me?” Her heart hammered and leapt into her throat as she locked eyes with first her mother then her father. “Is it because it’s mine?”
She hadn’t meant to say the last part but it was there now, out. A sob choked in Riley’s throat.
“Did you kidnap me?”
EIGHT
The silence was palpable, and Riley’s mind was racing. What will happen now? Will they admit it? Will I be reunited with my “real” parents? Will these parents go to prison?
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want a new family; she didn’t want to live with anyone else.
Riley’s heart started to thud. Her father ran a printing store. He helped giddy brides pick out wedding invitations and donated a banner to the Crescent City Little League team every year. She couldn’t imagine him caged, like an animal, with all those criminals.
But if he kidnapped me, he is a criminal.
She thought about her mother, now sitting primly at the table. She was an elementary school nurse who wore horrible, holiday-themed turtlenecks underneath her sterile white smock. She had a whole drawer stocked with Sponge Bob and princess-themed Band-Aids. She got cards and drawings from the kids at the school and tacked them up on the fridge, right next to Riley’s stuff.
Not criminals…
“Oh, Riley,” her mother said finally, breaking the silence. “Honey.”
Riley began to shake her head, fear like she had never felt crashing through her body, making her break out in a cold sweat.
“Did I have a family? Are they looking for me? Did they ever come looking for me?”
Her mother started to shake her head and her father opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it. Instead, he looked to his wife, to the tears flowing down her cheeks.
Riley’s palms were wet. Her stomach folded in on itself.
I just accused my parents of kidnapping.
And her mother was—laughing?
Riley swung her head, incredulous. Tears flowed over her mother’s cheeks, landing with tiny little thuds on her bare plate. But her shoulders shook, and she was pressing her hand against her open mouth, trying to stifle the giggles.
“No, Riley,” her father said, resting his hand on her mom’s shoulder, “we didn’t kidnap you. You’re our daughter. We’re your parents.”
Relief washed over Riley and suddenly she felt light, silly. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at her hands. “It’s just that I couldn’t find any information about the baby and the parents and—who does it belong to, anyway? Who’s Jane?”
Her mother immediately stopped laughing and her father’s eyes went wide. “Did you ask anyone about Jane?”
“Well, no. I mean, I—”
“Riley, this is very important. Did you talk to anyone about Jane? Or about the O’Leary’s?”
Riley’s nerves kicked up again. “Well, Shelby was with me when I found the birth certificate.” Riley bit her lip, considering. There was no reason to tell her parents about JD. No reason to tell them about her visit to the hospital or the hall of records. She shrugged, hoping it came off nonchalant. “That’s it.”
“How did you conduct your search?”
“What do you mean—?”
Her father hung his head, pressing his fingers against his temples. His tone was stern, impatient. “How, Riley?”
“Just on the Internet, geez. But I couldn’t find Jane O’Leary. Who is she?”
Again, her parents exchanged a glance. This one was clearly stern, clearly questioning. Her father gave a short nod and pressed his chair away from the table, standing. “I’m going to call Mr. Hempstead,” he said before leaving the kitchen.
“Mom, what is Dad—?”
Her mother put her hand on Riley’s shoulder and turned her chair to face her. “Ry, you are Jane Elizabeth O’Leary.”
Someone sucked all the air out of the room. Riley wanted to cry, to scream, to question, but all she could do was sit there, stone-faced, staring at her mother. After what seemed like hours, she was able to get her lips to move.
“My parents?”