love you.” The words flowed freely, as though he’d said them often in his other life, a life he now desperately wanted to remember for entirely different reasons.
A life he wanted to remember not just with his head, but with his heart.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed before his father returned. He only knew the peaceful time with his son was disrupted before he was ready.
Masking his anger and keeping his voice calm, he said, “I’ve been here for two days—at least two days that I remember. Why is this the first time you’ve mentioned that I have a son? Who’s been taking care of him?” He frowned. “Where is his mother?”
“Thomas, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take that tone with me.” The old man peered at him disapprovingly. “We were attempting to manage your unfortunate mental state. The doctor felt it best not to overwhelm you with information.”
Pulling his gaze from his infant son, Thomas stared at his father. He refused to acknowledge the reprimand.
“His mother is dead. She died in an accident shortly after he was born.”
Color drained from his face. “My wife is dead?”
“Heavens, no!” Alistair snorted. “You weren’t married to the boy’s mother. She was some tramp you slept with. Don’t worry, though, DNA tests assure us the boy is yours.”
Thomas gathered the baby closer to his chest and asked, “How old is he?”
“Almost five months old.” Alistair thumbed through information on his phone.
“Five months? He seems small…” His words drifted off. He knew the baby was small, but didn’t know how he knew.
“Yes, well, he was born early.” Alistair scowled and slipped the phone into his pocket. “It was his mother’s fault, but he’s a strong boy. Thankfully there appear to be no permanent complications.”
It was all too much to take in. Thomas focused on the most important thing, his son. “What’s his name?”
“Alistair Thomas Forrester III. We call him Alistair, after me, his grandfather.” The old man beamed with pride as he patted himself on the chest.
Thomas felt something churn inside him.
…
The police left the Weston home on the third morning after Zach and Daniel disappeared. The WIC investigation had revealed nothing. The letter, the missing funds—both indicated Zach had left willingly. The fact that he hadn’t taken all of the cash reserves, but left enough to ensure the company’s ongoing operation, further suggested he’d left of his own volition, taking funds to start a new life, but leaving enough to safeguard his remaining family. The missing persons investigation remained open, but the case was no longer treated as a likely kidnapping.
The authorities dismissed Lizzie’s argument that Zach had been sending a message when he left the lamb playing merrily in the crib. They refused to understand that Zach would never willingly leave the goalie bear behind.
Not only were the resources dedicated to finding Zach and Daniel lessened, but she was certain those resources were looking in the wrong places.
After asking everyone to leave so she could be alone to think, she put Sam down for a morning nap and curled up alone on the couch, wrapped in her husband’s jacket. She’d dreamed of them last night, heard Zach’s voice calling for her, and woken up weeping to the sound of Daniel’s cry. They needed her, and she would not let them down.
She just didn’t know where to start.
The doorbell rang, and her heart raced as she hurried to open it. The deliveryman handed her a telegram.
She stared at the succinct message.
Sisters of Mercy. Atlanta, Georgia.
Chapter Seven
The police placed the telegram in the queue with the myriad other tips they’d received, warning her that it was likely the work of a prankster who followed the news and wanted to be part of the excitement. Well, to hell with law enforcement. She’d follow this clue herself—she was going crazy just waiting. She needed to act.
After forwarding