The Littlest Target. Maggie K. Black
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was probably a couple of years younger than he was, but she’d lived.
Not that it really mattered what he thought of her. He’d be gone from her life in an hour.
She waited until he seemed lost in thought, slid her rucksack open and ran her thumb slowly over the stack of hundred-dollar bills, tilting her bag so Max couldn’t see in. They were wrapped together so tightly she could barely wiggle one out with her fingers. Why would Gerry have that much money just lying around in his car? Was it emergency money? Did he know she’d have to run with Fitz?
She pulled out the cell phone that she’d found with the money and turned it on. It asked for a password. She turned it off again, dropped it back in the bag and leaned back against the seat. So much for her idea of using it as a backup phone.
Gerry had texted exactly twice on the phone he’d given her when she’d fled. The first was a very long text, telling her that Anna had died, but that he was fine and recovering from smoke inhalation in a Montreal hospital. He added that she should be very cautious but that he was hopeful he’d get a good and trustworthy cop to meet up with her en route. His second text was just two words long: How’s Fitz?
At the time, she’d texted back that he was fine and that she was making good time. But that was before the accident. Now she wasn’t sure what to tell him or when.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning now. Surely, Gerry would be asleep. Either that or dealing with enough other worries. But the guilt of worrying him with the news that his son had been in an accident was less than the guilt of not telling him. Her phone was down to just one bar of cell signal that kept flickering in and out.
She wrote him a very short text, with the bare minimum of information and the repeated assurance that Fitz was fine. The message-sending symbol circled before finally giving her a bright red alert that the text hadn’t gone, but the phone would try to send it again when it got a better signal.
She leaned her head back against the seat and prayed she’d be able to text him that they were back en route soon.
She glanced at Max. His brow was crinkled.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Fitz’s mother,” Max said. He frowned. “I’m sorry, it’s an occupational hazard. Your comment raised a medical question, and now I want to know an answer. I promised I wouldn’t pry and I mean it. But you told me that she died in childbirth. And the statistical likelihood of that happening is about one in ten thousand babies born in Canada. I’ve delivered my fair share of roadside babies, and I’ve never lost one yet. So I’m wondering what her specific complications were or if they’re congenital.”
“I have no idea,” she admitted. The phone Gerry gave her buzzed. She glanced at the screen. It was a new text from an unknown number.
Hello, Daisy.
A friendly word of warning. Do not underestimate the people who are out to steal Fitz or what they’ll do to get their hands on him. Trust no one. Anna Pearce intentionally sabotaged your work-visa paperwork. That means you’re here illegally. If you go to police, you will be arrested; you will be deported; Fitz will be taken and you’ll never see my little boy again.
Jane.
Daisy’s hand rose to her lips as horror swept over her heart. Jane was Fitz’s birth mother.
And she was dead.
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