Claiming His Family. Ann Peterson Voss
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shoved the bitter memories from her mind. She couldn’t waste her life being bitter. It wouldn’t change anything. And looking at Dex’s face on TV, the solemn line of his lips, the tortured squint of his eyes as he answered the reporters’ questions, bitterness was far from her reach. She felt only regret.
Alyson pushed herself up from the couch and switched off the television. Wrapping her terry-cloth robe tighter around her, she padded out of her comfortable little living room on bare feet and started up the staircase leading to the bedrooms.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she strode past her own bedroom to the closed door at the end of the hall. She paused for a moment and listened. Hearing nothing, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Though Alyson had closed the windows against the humidity, the air still smelled like the fresh June night outside. She squinted her eyes against the darkness, the full moon obscured by drawn curtains. Only a feeble light from the hall chased away the shadows and revealed the white bars of the crib in the corner. The crib that held the most precious thing in her life.
She approached on stealthy steps and peered inside. Seven-month-old Patrick lay on his back, his head turned to the side. His little chest rose and fell with each breath. As always, a wave of love and gratitude surged through her at the sight of him. His peaceful face, his clenched fists, the tiny cleft in his chin.
Just like his daddy’s.
She’d meant to tell Dex at first. Even after the blowup. After all, he’d had a right to know. She’d even telephoned him a few times, but he’d refused to take her calls. And whenever she’d forced herself to drive to his house, she’d invariably driven away without stepping from her car. She just couldn’t make herself face him.
She’d kept seeing the scorn in his eyes when she’d defended her father, when she’d taken her first wrong step. She’d kept hearing Dex’s bitter words the last night they were together, the night he refused her a second chance, the night he told her he didn’t want her anymore.
She shook her head, shutting out his words, and focused on her child’s innocent face. No matter what Dex had done to her, he still deserved to know he had a child. And if things were that simple, she would have found a way to tell him.
But things weren’t that simple.
Leaning over the crib gate, she reached a finger to touch the soft blond down on her baby’s head. He’d given her the strength to go on after Dex’s rejection, after her father’s crimes and his subsequent death from his co-conspirator’s bullet. Patrick was her little man, her love, her life. He was everything she had.
She couldn’t risk losing him.
A feeling crept over her skin. A feeling that had nothing to do with the child sleeping in the crib. A feeling of being watched by malevolent eyes.
She jolted upright. Too late. A hand closed around her throat. A sweet-smelling cloth pressed over her nose and mouth.
She held her breath. She couldn’t scream. If she did, she’d drag the fumes into her lungs, she’d lose consciousness. She wouldn’t be able to fight. She kicked back, connecting with a shin.
A guttural growl exploded in the darkness. “Damn bitch.”
She flailed her arms, trying to hit her attacker, trying to loosen his grip. Swinging low with one hand, she hit his hip, her fingers grasping something soft hanging from his belt. A rope. Oh, God, he intended to tie her up. Or just slip the ligature around her throat. Once that happened, she didn’t stand a chance. Panic bolted through her. She flailed harder. One fist connected with the side of his face.
Another curse erupted from his lips. The hand on her throat tightened, cutting off her breath. Cutting off her life.
She hit him again, trying to put more force into the punch, but he only gripped her throat harder. Her pulse beat in her ears. Dizziness swam in her mind. Her fist connected again. She needed air. She couldn’t let herself pass out.
Suddenly the grip on her throat loosened.
She gasped in a breath. Then another. She tried to twist in his grip, tried to get away, but he held her fast, the cloth clamped over her mouth and nose. The scent of chloroform tickled her sinuses and filled her lungs. Her head reeled, dizzy, slipping.
Darkness closed over her.
Chapter Two
Alyson woke, a strange smell filling her nostrils, its sweet flavor tainting her mouth. Her stomach protested and her head whirled. What had happened? She lay still, willing her stomach to stop flipping, her head resting on the berber carpet in Patrick’s room.
Patrick.
Memories rushed back. The hand gripping her throat. The cloth over her mouth and nose. The unmistakable smell of chloroform.
She jolted into a sitting position. Her stomach heaved. Her head pounded. She choked back her sickness and climbed to her feet. Two steps and she was at the crib gate, her fingers clutching the bars, her mind scrambling to process what she was seeing—and what she was not seeing.
The crib sheet glowed like pristine snow. Shadows from the mobile suspended above the crib danced across the expanse of the sheet.
The empty expanse.
Patrick was gone.
Her heart lurched in her chest. She grabbed the side of the crib to keep from toppling over. It couldn’t be. Her little man. Her baby.
She knelt beside the crib and looked underneath, straining her eyes, desperately searching the shadows. As if she believed he’d crawled out. As if she believed her seven-month-old was suddenly able to play a game of hide-and-seek with his mommy. Even in her panic, she knew he was gone. She knew it. But she didn’t want to believe it. There had to be another explanation. There had to be, however impossible.
A phone’s ring jangled above the roaring in her ears. Cold dread welled up inside her, swamping her, drowning her. She forced herself to concentrate. Forced herself to turn away from the empty crib. Forced herself to walk down the hall to her bedroom.
The telephone waited on a bedside table, its light throbbing in the shadows with each ring. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear in a shaking hand. Far away she heard her voice say, “Hello?”
“I came for you tonight, Alyson.” The voice slithered from the phone.
She gripped the receiver until her knuckles ached. “Where’s my baby?”
“Like I said, I came for you tonight, but I found something better.”
“Where’s my baby?” Her voice broke, shrill with panic.
“He’s safe. For now. But if you call the police, he won’t be safe for long.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. Her mind raced. She didn’t know what to do. “Don’t hurt him. Please. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Then what? What do you want me to do?”
A chuckle erupted over the phone. “I was waiting for you to ask that. I want you to contact the baby’s father.”
“The baby’s father?”
“You know who he is, don’t you, Alyson? Or do you need to do a DNA test to find out?”
She did her best to swallow her panic. She had to stay calm. She had to stay focused. She had to convince this man she would do whatever he wanted. As long as he didn’t hurt Patrick, as long as he gave her baby back, everything would be all right. “I know who he is.”
“Good. It’s much better when you don’t have to rely on DNA. It’s such an unpredictable science. All those double helixes running around, or whatever the hell. You never quite know when you’re going to get an inconvenient match that will ruin all your plans.”
Understanding