That day almost nine months before, when Johnny Brubaker had moved into the tiny house next to hers a mile from the beach in Mission Viejo, had been the second-best day of her life. Following Jackson’s birth, which had been the best.
The absolute worst had been the day Jackson’s biological father had failed to return him to her...
Johnny had purchased the little house as step one in his attempt to bring his murdered wife’s dream to life. Angel had wanted to leave their elite, moneyed, always-in-the-spotlight life behind and live like a “normal” person.
Looking up into Johnny’s clear blue eyes calmed Tabitha unlike anything else. His easy acceptance of...everything somehow made life seem more manageable. “You ready?” she asked.
“Whenever you are.” His voice held the usual note of confidence, leaving her with the feeling that he’d stand there in front of the directory all day if she needed him to, no questions asked.
But she knew he’d need a break. Johnny wasn’t good about missing his meals—not that you’d ever be able to tell he had a voracious appetite by looking at him. All six feet of the man were rock solid.
He waited for her to lead the way. She’d chosen her outfit carefully—a flowing summer skirt, brightly colored with small flowers, a ribbed T-shirt to match and sandals. She’d chosen his, too, because he’d asked—casual dark shorts and a light green button-up shirt—also with sandals. Johnny’s real life, the one he’d be going back to when his sabbatical was over, required suits and ties.
But for running a food truck...not such a good idea. Early on in their friendship, he’d asked her to go with him to buy a more casual wardrobe.
She’d laughed out loud that day for the first time since Jackson had been stolen away from her.
“I think this is it.” Johnny spoke just behind her.
While the daycare took up a lot of the first floor, the door leading into it was one panel with a small window at the top. Nothing there to invite strangers into the midst of the children. And no windows through which she could look from the outside. She knew the place had windows, plenty of them. She’d pored over the establishment’s website. First, so she’d seem like a parent who really was interested in a place for her child. And second, so she’d be fully prepared for whatever she’d have to come up with to gain access to one particular child. Hers.
Legal access, of course. The police would help when she had something valid to bring them. Detective Bentley, her contact back home in Mission Viejo, had assured her that no matter how much time passed, he’d keep looking. He just needed something to go on.
“You have to turn that knob there for the door to open.” Johnny’s droll tone was completely lacking in the sarcasm his comment might have suggested. The steady kindness she’d come to associate with him was out in full force.
“I know,” she told him, afraid to turn around, afraid she’d be tempted to hide in the warmth of his gaze, put her head on his shoulder and cry. Because she was afraid that when she opened the door, the hope that had been keeping her going all week would be dashed.
And because... What if Jackson was behind that door and she’d finally, after over a year, hold her baby in her arms again?
It wouldn’t happen immediately. There’d be red tape. Still...her heart felt as though it might burst at the thought of seeing him and she consciously moved on, thinking of the nursery she’d changed into a bedroom for a toddler over the past year.
She’d done it with Johnny’s help, when he had the time and was alone in the evenings, too. She’d made wall hangings, a comforter and furry stuffed pillows in the shapes of animals.
She finally turned the knob, recalling the photo she’d found on Pinterest, the one that had started this particular quest. She looked on the internet every single day. Studied daycare pictures on many different internet sites—those that posted photos with parents’ permission. She searched social media sites, too. And any time she saw a child who even halfway resembled the age-progressed photo she had of Jackson, within the distance parameters she’d set, she and Johnny would plan an Angel’s Food Bowls trek to the area and visit daycares while they were there. All daycares on her list that also fit the parameters she’d figured Jackson’s father would choose, not just those with pictures.
Always on her days off from the hospital. Working three twelves had its advantages.
The police were looking for Jackson, of course. But their jurisdiction was only in Mission Viejo. He was also on the FBI’s list of missing children, but apparently no one had the staff to check out every single daycare in every city in California, searching for one missing boy—especially when said child was known to be with his father who’d never given indication of being dangerous. That unfortunate truth, that her case wasn’t top priority, had become obvious to her almost from the beginning.
Johnny had very generously insisted on paying for a private detective, who was in contact with the police and would follow up on any leads when the police had done what they could, but it wasn’t enough for her. She had to do all she could, too. Even if that meant systematically visiting daycare after daycare. Jackson needed her to be out there looking for him. Tuned in the way only a mother could be.
The room just inside the daycare door was painted in primary colors and held plastic chairs and big boxes for sitting on in the same colors. There were some books scattered about and a wire-and-bead maze toy on a little table. A small reception window was cut into the far wall. And, in the middle of that wall, was another heavy wooden door with a dead bolt.
A sign indicated that no one was allowed beyond that door other than certified employees and the children for whom they cared during business hours. For the safety of the children.
She and Johnny would have to return after hours if they wanted a tour. She’d already known that and they wanted a tour.
His hand on her elbow drew her attention, and he pointed to the window where a woman stood, smiling expectantly.
She’d opened the window.
“Ms. Jones?” The woman’s shoulder-length brown hair was trimmed stylishly around her slender face. Dressed in a brightly colored tie-dyed short-sleeved shirt, she could’ve been at a beach fashion shoot. Her name badge, complete with a dotted rendition of a bouncing ball, read Mallory.
The owner! Good.
“Yes.” Tabitha stepped forward. She’d called to say they were stopping by. To make sure it was okay. “This is Johnny,” she said, gesturing at the man beside her. She was there under false pretenses, but wasn’t going to out-and-out lie any more than she had to. And no more than an undercover officer or PI would have done to rescue a little boy from a man who had mental and emotional issues.
Clearly issues that went far, far beyond what she’d known or she’d never have let him take Jackson to visit his sick mother.
“I emailed you about looking at The Bouncing Ball as a possible spot for our daughter?”
She was the one who’d come up with the idea of making their imaginary child a little girl. She needed to do that to keep her emotional distance. Talking about a boy would’ve been much harder without revealing anything.
Forcing herself to look the woman in the eye, she left it to Johnny to see as much of the inside of the place as he could, not that there was much. According to The Bouncing Ball website, part of the allure was that the privately owned daycare facility took great measures to protect the security of their children. Which was why they’d have to take their tour after hours. But there could be pictures on the wall beyond the receptionist window, maybe. She’d have her chance to check it out, later, if all went well, but she had to do this right.
She had