The midwife was checking her again. She felt practiced fingers slip halfway inside her.
“It’s coming,” the midwife said. She put a hand on Shake’s knee and squeezed. “When I say push, you bear down with everything you’ve got.”
“Push? Now?” Shake was instantly filled with panic. She wasn’t ready for this. Her heart was fluttering like a wounded dove inside her chest and all she wanted to do was run away. But there was this thing happening, right between her legs. Pain and blood, and oh dear God, what was happening to her? She was sick with fear and anxiety, and wondered in a bleary haze how things had even gotten to this point of no return.
“Are you ready?” came the insistent voice of the midwife. “Okay, now. Now push!”
Shake pushed and groaned and pushed some more. She sobbed, bit her lower lip until she tasted blood, and pleaded for the midwife to do a C-section, to cut this damn baby out of her.
Another long hour passed of pushing and pleading and screaming. And Marjorie hovering nearby, like some malevolent fairy lurking in the woods.
Finally, when Shake couldn’t bear the pain any longer, when it felt like there was a burning ring of fire that the baby could never pass through, she let loose a bloodcurdling scream. She was dying. She was being split open and nobody cared.
“One more push,” the midwife cajoled. She was panting like a steam engine herself from all the exertion. “Come on, you can do it!”
There was a rush of wet warmth and what felt like faint relief from the searing pain.
“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, a touch of pride in her voice.
Shake heard its tiny cry.
“Baby,” she moaned, and descended into a pit of darkness.
35
AFTON stared at her computer screen. Her cubicle was beginning to feel more like home than home did. Mornings seemed to be starting earlier and earlier. At least this Friday morning had. All the hours she’d logged this week made Afton worry about her girls. It wasn’t often that she had to spend this much time away from them. At least she’d taken Tess and Poppy sledding last night. That had been exactly what they all needed. Until she’d let her imagination run a little bonkers anyway.
All the noise in the office, along with the usual cop horseplay, made it difficult to concentrate, so Afton fished her headphones out of her desk drawer and plugged into her phone. Sometimes a little background music was precisely what she needed to focus.
Okay. Now . . .
Sitting atop her desk was a single case file. The name ELIZABETH ANN DARDEN, NUMBER MP2134-16, had been affixed to the folder via an adhesive label. Every day the file’s girth had grown as more notes, photos, dissertations, reports, faxes, subpoenas, and timelines were added. She’d just added the information about animal hairs and Monica Copeland’s remarks about the kidnapper smelling like a dead animal.
Now the file was filled to near busting. They’d found no resolution yet, but Afton knew that somewhere inside was the germ of an answer. Information that would ultimately lead them to the Darden baby.
Afton’s own notes, the ones she’d taken for Max, were scrawled on a large yellow legal pad. Scribbled across twenty or so sheets were names, phone numbers, addresses, and Max’s candid as well as random thoughts.
Staring up at her from the first page was the information on Muriel Pink. She’d been the first person they’d interviewed, way back last Sunday when the case was still fresh.
Waves of guilt coursed through Afton. She should have known then that Muriel Pink might be in danger. And now . . . now the old girl was dead.
Afton circled Muriel’s name with a red pen and swabbed the entire paragraph with orange highlighter. She didn’t want to forget that name ever. It was a bitter lesson learned the hard way.
A dozen or so missing person reports, some recently faxed and some still warm from the copier, lay to the left of the file. These were the reports that, per Don Jasper’s request, had been dribbling in all week long from law enforcement agencies all over the Midwest. There were a few new reports, too, ones that she had been tasked with going over.
It was sad, she thought, as she read through these new reports, that all these people—and some children, too—had simply vanished without a trace. There were families that were desperate for any word, for any information or closure, yet they’d probably never find it.
Midway through the stack of new reports, she found a missing person report on another baby. This baby was from Des Moines, Iowa, stolen from a day care center. Her name was Tiffany Lynn Matthews.
Afton worked her upper teeth against her lower lip. How awful, she thought. Stolen right out of a day care center. If your kids weren’t safe at day care, where were they safe?
She set the report aside and concentrated on the next one.