Unbreakable Bond & The Missing Twin: Unbreakable Bond / The Missing Twin. Rita Herron
Читать онлайн книгу.
Cramped, dark, filthy, bug-infested, the stench, the human wastes…
And the blood from the soldiers who’d died trying to save him.
He inhaled a deep, calming breath, the summer air filling his nostrils with the scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers, chasing away the demons from his past. He had a job to do now, and he’d focus on that. Get through the day.
One hour at a time.
He spotted the bottle of whiskey on the counter, and the temptation to reach for it, to pour himself a mind-numbing shot seized him. Just one drink to erase the images in his head.
No… He was done burying his pain. He’d have to learn to live with it or it would destroy him. Then he couldn’t atone for his sins.
Instead, he strode to the workout room he’d created off the garage, yanked on boxing gloves and began to pound his punching bag. The faces of his bleeding and dying men haunted him, and he hit the bag harder, the rage eating his soul, chipping away at his sanity.
He had to learn to control it. Focus. Forget.
No, he couldn’t forget. Forgetting would mean dishonoring the sacrifices they’d made.
He wished to hell they’d just left him to die and saved themselves.
And their wives and families…three wives left alone now because of him.
His sister dead.
His mother gone.
He’d failed them all.
He would not fail Nina Nash.
Her story echoed in his head as he punched and slammed his fists into the bag, over and over, venting his anger over his own past and the anguish he’d heard in her voice.
But you might fail her, a voice taunted. You might because she wants you to find her daughter alive.
And you might discover she really is dead.
He slammed the bag so hard it swung back wildly, then came toward him and he punched it again. Again and again and again until sweat poured down his back and face, until his body ached and blood oozed from beneath the gloves.
Finally, when he’d purged his anger, he ripped off the gloves, went to the bathroom, showered then booted up his computer. He nuked a slice of leftover pizza and wolfed it down with a bottle of vitamin water while he searched news reports regarding infants’ and children’s deaths reported during the past eight years.
He specifically searched for any cases regarding premature births or babies found dead following the hospital fire.
Three different cases caught his eye, one baby who’d been found in a Dumpster two weeks to the day after Peyton had gone missing.
* * *
NINA JERKED AWAKE, the sound of the little girl’s singing echoing in her head.
The angelic voice… A song from Mary Poppins…
It had to belong to her daughter.
Or was she imagining it as the therapist had said? Creating a voice that she thought her daughter might sound like and playing it in her head because she couldn’t bear to let her go?
She closed her eyes and burrowed beneath the quilt, willing herself to fall back asleep so she could hear the voice again. Sometimes, the little voice sounded so close that it seemed the child was in the room with her. Sometimes, she knew that if she slept long enough, she would see her face in her dreams, that maybe Peyton could tell her where she was so she could find her.
Instead of the beautiful little girl’s song though, William’s threat reverberated in her head. Dr. Emery had wasted no time in calling him. He’d probably phoned her father, as well.
They’d probably all sighed and made sympathetic noises and lamented over her mental state. For all she knew, they were planning another intervention to convince her to check herself back in to the loony bin.
She would not go back there. She wasn’t crazy or demented.
She was simply a mother who needed to find her child.
A noise startled her, and she clenched the covers, certain she’d heard someone outside. The wind whistled, a tree limb scraped her window and an animal howled somewhere in the distance.
She sighed, willing herself to calm down.
She couldn’t lapse into paranoia again, not the way she had after she’d lost Peyton.
But another noise, a creaking sound on the front porch, sent her vaulting up from bed. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the trees shook violently, the sound of rain splattering the windowpanes, making a staticky sound like drums beating in the night.
She grabbed her robe, tied it around her waist and tiptoed to the den, shivering as the air conditioner kicked on. Darkness bathed the room, but a streak of lightning flashed in a jagged line and she froze, her heart pounding.
Had she seen someone on her porch? The silhouette of a shadow?
Fear surged through her, and she reached for the phone.
But the times when she’d called the sheriff flashed back. The way he’d dismissed her fears and ordered her to get some help, then claimed she was inventing shadows in the night.
His calls to her father…the never-ending cycle of his disdainful looks…
She dropped the phone in its cradle, grabbed the umbrella from the stand by the door then slipped the edge of the curtain sheer aside and searched the darkness.
Rain pounded the roof and porch, running in rivulets down the sides of the awning, and down the street a car’s lights floated through the fog, disappearing into the blur.
The streetlight in the cul-de-sac on the other end of the street illuminated wet pavement and another house but its lights were off.
Holding her breath, she listened for signs of someone outside, but the storm raged on, the sound of a cat screeching echoing above the rain. Her heart squeezed, and she slowly unlocked the door.
Keeping the umbrella poised in case someone had been on the porch, she pulled the door ajar and the dripping cat darted down the steps.
Then her eyes widened and a sob gurgled in her throat.
God, no…
A small rag doll lay on the porch in front of the door, a knife sticking through its heart.
A doll just like the one she’d found right before she’d had her breakdown, a doll her father and the psychiatrist had insisted she’d put there as some sort of manifestation of her grief and guilt.
* * *
SLADE RARELY SLEPT and this night was no different. When he did, the nightmares came.
He’d choose fatigue over the memories haunting him any day.
Antsy to get started, he brewed a pot of coffee and was at the phone by six.
The reporter, a guy named Hewey Darby, had quoted a Detective Swarnson from the neighboring county as the lead detective on the Dumpster case, so he punched in his number, anxious to hear what the man had to say.
When the receptionist for the police department answered, he asked to speak to Swarnson. “I’m sorry, sir, but Detective Swarnson is no longer with us.”
“Where can I get in touch with him?”
A moment of hesitation. “I’m afraid you can’t. He was killed last year in a random shooting. What is this about?”
He explained that he wanted information on the Dumpster-baby case. “Oh, then you can speak with his partner, Detective Little. I’ll connect you to her office.”
“Thank you.”
A minute later, a woman’s voice echoed back.