The Only Witness Page 9

  The display on the front of the phone lit up: WA Cell Phone. How helpful. "Hello?"

  "Brittany."

  Finally! "Charlie? Oh, Charlie, isn't it awful? I'm so glad you finally called; I just can't-"

  "Britt, what the hell have you done?" he asked.

  Her voice caught in her throat. "What?"

  "The police grilled me in Cheney and tore up my car and my dorm room, and now they're trashing my bedroom here."

  "You're here, in Evansburg?"

  "Yeah, thanks to you. Look, my parents said they'd get you some money if that baby's mine. Where's the damn paternity test?"

  "You know Ivy is yours." How could they be arguing about this again now?

  "How would I know that?"

  "Because you were the only one, you know that."

  "There are reporters standing outside our house; what the hell do they want? And the FBI just ordered me to report for a lie detector test tomorrow. What did you tell them?"

  How could he be so angry at her? "Charlie, didn't you hear? Someone took Ivy. Kidnapped her, right out of my car at the Food Mart."

  "Really?" he said.

  Did he sound sarcastic? She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a second, wishing she could see his face instead of just his phone number.

  "Really, Britt?" his voice repeated from a foot away. She pressed the phone back to her ear and heard him say, "Because a lot of people say you had something to do with this."

  "What people? I wouldn't make that up; someone stole my baby. Someone kidnapped Ivy. Kidnapped our baby girl!"

  "Don't try to drag me into this, Brittany. Whatever you did, you did on your own. And you better make that clear to the police and the FBI, you hear me? You better tell them I had nothing to do with this!"

  How could he be so cold? Ivy was his daughter, too. Did he really believe that she could hurt Ivy?

  "Because, I swear, Brittany, if you ruin my—"

  She punched End. How could Charlie talk to her like that? She pushed the phone back into her pocket, thinking about the perfect couple they were only a year ago.

  It's all your fault, he'd say as he slid his hand down the front of her jeans. You're so hot, you set me on fire. You make me crazy.

  In public, he went out with Diana Bluett, one of the country club girls. She's as boring as history class, he told Brittany, but it's the only way to keep my folks off my back.

  I'm not telling anyone about us because I don't want to share you.

  You're my burning secret, babe.

  And then he'd touch her in all the right places, set her aflame. He rocked her body; he rocked her soul. For three months, they'd done it almost every day. In the equipment shed behind the soccer field, in the hayfield north of town, and a couple of times at her house when she'd skipped school. Their lovemaking was awesome.

  But then, because he was a senior, Charlie got busy with the stupid college tests and applications and track, always the damn track team, and weeks would go by before they could connect. She didn't even get the chance to tell him she was pregnant until she was four months along. Well, to be real, she didn't even know for sure she was pregnant for the first three—who knew there could still be blood if you were knocked up? And she couldn't tell anyone before she told Charlie.

  She'd dreamed about how he'd say Now I'm going to tell the world how much I love you. Let's go to Hawaii for spring break to celebrate.

  Instead, he just stared at her for eternity. Then he finally said No way, slid out of his car, and left her sitting alone in the school parking lot. She got moved into the Sluts program and they never even passed in the halls. Then he graduated and left town early to go to summer session at the university.

  Brittany wiped a tear from her cheek. So she was alone. She'd been alone since Ivy was born, hadn't she? She'd find her baby by herself. She hadn't walked all over this neighborhood yet. Riverside, they called it, although it bordered only a little creek, not a river. Here and there, she heard Spanish floating out through the open windows. Beat-up pickup trucks full of landscaping tools or construction equipment crowded the curbs.

  A working class neighborhood, her dad called it. That sounded snotty and it didn't make a lot of sense—everyone worked, so the whole town was working class, wasn't it? But maybe he meant that these people worked hard, sweating outside instead of sitting in some air-conditioned office. Planting bushes or building a house in the sun sounded a lot more useful than filling out forms all day, which was pretty much what her mom did at the bank. She didn't have a clue what her dad did at the recycle plant. Maybe she could get a job at a landscaping company instead of Sears. She stopped walking, looked up, stared hard around her. How could she be thinking about a job?

  Up ahead was a van with dark tinted windows. But instead of Talking Hands Ranch, it said Primero Painting on the side. It was white instead of gray, and the windows were only dark, not mirrored. Inside, she could see cans of paint, rollers, and several buckets.

  "Brittany?" A woman dressed in a matching top and pants approached her on the sidewalk. "Brittany Morgan?"

  Brittany stopped. "Yes?" she said hopefully.

  "You poor thing." The woman spread her arms wide, and then, when Brittany didn't move, threw them around her. Brittany stiffened and tried to pull away, but the woman squeezed her so tightly that she wanted to scream. "You poor, poor thing."

  The hug hurt. Her boobs felt like soccer balls, like how she imagined soccer balls would feel if they were so tight-full of air that they could burst under pressure. She had to use hot compresses to keep them from sealing shut like giant pimples. The refrigerator was full of bottles of breast milk and her mother told her there was no more space, but how could she just throw it away? That was like she was throwing away her baby, throwing out motherhood.

  The woman smelled like onions. Had she been at home in one of these houses, cooking dinner for her family, and saw Brittany walking by and come out to hug her? It was weird, the way strangers acted like they knew her now.

  "Thanks," she murmured, pulling back. The woman finally opened her arms, but her hands stayed on Brittany's shoulders.

  "My name's Barbara Sultana, and I live right there." She let go of Brittany long enough to point a manicured finger toward a blue house on the corner. "If there's anything I can do to help, sweetie, just say the word."

  Tears blurred Brittany's vision and it felt like she swallowed a peach pit, her throat hurt so bad. The kindness of strangers—that was a famous slogan from some ancient movie or book. The strangers meant to make her feel better, but they always made her want to cry more.

  "Just watch out for my baby," she finally choked out.

  "I'm praying for you, honey," Barbara said. "Praying for you and Ivy Rose, day and night."

  "Thank you." Why couldn't Barbara think of something to do instead of just praying? But then, she couldn't think of anything useful to do right now, could she? Maybe she should start praying, too. If she prayed for all she was worth, would it make a difference?

  Barbara was staring into her face. "Would you like to come in? Maybe have something to eat? A glass of milk?"

  "No, thanks." She looked down at the sidewalk. Blades of grass poked up through the crack between the squares of cement. "I need to walk."

  "I bet you do, sweetie. Just be careful. And remember that Jesus loves you."

  Right. That's why he let Ivy get kidnapped. Oh yeah, God and Jesus were definitely rooting for her. And the dinosaurs died for our sins.

  "Well, if I can do anything, you know where I live."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  Barbara turned toward her house. Brittany walked on. Praying for her and Ivy; a lot of people had told her that in the last few days. Like that would help.

  Her family had never been religious. Her mom and dad said that people who wanted to bring religion into school were small-minded. Could losing Ivy be some sort of revenge from God for not being religious? What if she became really devout? Would
it bring Ivy home? She stopped and closed her eyes. God, she thought in her head, if you bring Ivy back I'll go to church and I'll pray and I'll even vote with the Virgins on Ice for teaching creationism in biology. OK? Bring Ivy back now and I'll do it.

  She opened her eyes. It didn't look like anything had changed. She turned around to look behind her.

  That blue car, parked at the curb a little ways back. She'd noticed it when she'd first started walking, because it had a dent in the front bumper like the driver had driven it into a tree. She'd parked on a different street than this one, and she'd walked at least two blocks. And now the same car was here. A man sat behind the wheel, studying a map that said SEATTLE in great big letters across the front. That didn't make any sense. He looked up. Their eyes met for a second, and then his gaze quickly dropped back to the map.

  Her heartbeat sped up. Who the fuck was he? He couldn't be a reporter; if he was, he'd be out on the sidewalk asking her questions. Why was he following her? She stared at him. Should she call 9-1-1?

  Down the street, a man and a woman walked toward her, holding hands. The man tilted his head and murmured something to the woman. She'd tell them about the creep in the blue car, see what they said.

  When she was nearly up to the couple on the sidewalk, she started, "Hi, maybe I'm crazy, but—"

  The woman hissed, "You should be ashamed of yourself, Brittany Morgan. You didn't deserve that sweet baby."

  "Aren't you afraid you're going to hell?" the man asked, loud enough for the whole block to hear.

  "You'd better pray for forgiveness," the woman added. Then she pulled the man by the hand and they continued on.

  Oh god. Her head was ringing. Where had she left her car? Baker Street? She started jogging, but that made her boobs hurt even more, so she slowed to a walk as she approached the corner by the thrift store.

  She glanced behind her. The go-to-hell couple was halfway down the street. The blue car was pulling away from the curb. The man stared right at her as he drove in her direction. Was he coming after her? Maybe he'd killed Ivy and now he was going to kill her.

  She dashed into the thrift shop and stopped behind the first set of shelves, watching the window through the jumble of toys on the top shelf. She pushed a robot toy to the side for a better view. A princess doll in a ballet tutu fell to the floor.

  "Can I help you?" A gray-haired woman positioned herself beside Brittany.

  Brittany watched the blue car slide by out front. The man glanced in their direction as he stopped at the four-way stop before driving on. "I think that car's following me," Brittany said.

  The clerk turned to the window, but of course the blue car was gone. Brittany stooped to pick up the ballet princess, and then she saw it—her old beige baby carrier, on the floor against the wall. A baby doll sat in it, dressed in a little yellow romper.

  Brittany walked to the carrier and jerked it up from the floor, dumping the doll onto the table at her elbow. The clerk turned back to Brittany with an annoyed expression, which Brittany completely got because why was she standing there holding a baby carrier after running into the store like that? She felt like Alice in Wonderland after she fell down the rabbit hole. What was real? The clerk edged around the shelves, barring Brittany from the door. Probably thought she was a shoplifter about to make a run for it.

  "This is mine," Brittany told her.

  The woman frowned. "We received it in the donation bin yesterday."

  "It was stolen from my car."

  "Lots of baby carriers look alike."

  "See these little stick-ons?" Brittany pointed to a wavy line of green leaves and tendrils that marched down one side of the carrier. "It's ivy. I put those there so it wouldn't get mixed up in class. Ivy—get it?" How could she have forgotten to tell the detectives about the ivy stickers?

  Surprise crossed the clerk's face. "Goodness. You're Brittany Morgan, aren't you?" She took a couple of steps backward. So she was probably in the go-to-hell group instead of the praying-for-you group.

  And then Brittany saw her blue diaper bag, too, on a table behind the gray lady, with a bunch of other old bags and packs.

  "Stay right there. I'll call the police." The woman retreated to the checkout desk.

  Brittany picked up the diaper bag backpack. It was empty. Where was Ivy's ducky dress, her socks and diapers? She put the pack inside the car seat and set them down on the floor. She rubbed her hands against the goosebumps on her arms. Who was that creep in the blue car? What did finding the car seat and the backpack mean?

  It felt scary to find these things without finding Ivy. But finding the backpack and the car seat had to be a turning point, right? There'd be fingerprints or DNA. Maybe her prayer had worked after all.

  Chapter 10

  Three days after Ivy disappears

  Agent Foster was attractive in a buttoned-up way, wearing a lightweight pantsuit with her dark brown hair captured in a plain clip at the back of her neck.

  She thrust out her hand to Finn. "Alice Foster, FBI Crimes Against Children unit. And this is Special Agent Dean Maxwell."

  "We're here to proceed on the—" Maxwell referred quickly to a notepad—"Ivy Morgan case."

  Maxwell's handshake was less firm than Foster's viselike squeeze. Finn chalked that up to the woman overcompensating for being petite and female.

  "Proceed in what way?" Finn asked. It came out sounding a little more belligerent than he intended, and he chided himself for letting his frustration show. What he really wanted to say was Good luck with that.

  "You do know that kidnapping is a federal offense," Maxwell said.

  Finn folded his arms. "Of course. I've followed all the required procedures."

  Foster stepped in front of her colleague. "Yes, we have all your information. We do understand, however, that it's not yet clear whether this is a kidnapping. We need to consult with you about what you've learned so far. And we can provide services that your small department cannot." She pointed to the wheeled case on which Maxwell rested a proprietary hand. "Agent Maxwell is a trained lie detection expert, and we brought a polygraph."

  Finn relaxed a bit. "That would be helpful." He'd requested polygraph services from his Captain, but they were still awaiting budget approval from the city council to bring in an outside contractor. Although the tests were not conclusive, at least maybe he could finally get a hint about whether or not Brittany had killed her baby.

  "I'll make a list of interviews to do," he told the agents.

  "We've got it handled, Detective." Maxwell's gaze met Finn's over Foster's head. "The entire Morgan family will be here at ten thirty a.m.; Charles Wakefield and parents at one fifteen."

  "Now, ladies, let's return to the poem. Do you think that Robert Frost was only describing a sleigh ride through the snowy woods?" Mr. Tanz's gaze flitted from girl to girl around the room, skipping Brittany.

  Mrs. Taylor hadn't said much to her this morning, either, when she found Brittany standing in front of the photo display. She'd gotten stuck there, mesmerized by the photos of her and Ivy behind the glass. Mesmer-iced was really the right word; for a minute she'd felt frozen in front of the picture of her and Ivy. Like the smiles on their faces, frozen in time.

  She felt Mrs. Taylor's hand on her elbow, leading her to her desk, and all the other Sluts had murmured things around her and maybe even to her, but nobody really looked at her before class began. It was like she was one of those giant unicorn-horn pimples that polite people pretended they didn't see. She was the girl who lost her baby.

  We have to carry on, Brittany's mother said, try to get back to normal. Was this normal? Feeling like a swollen zit and being invisible?

  Beside her, baby Ruben made sucking noises as he nursed, hidden under a blue blanket slung over Joy's shoulder, the way they'd all been taught to breast feed in public.

  "The woods are lovely, dark and deep," read Mr. Tanz in his low poetry voice. "How do those words make you feel?"

  Brittany thought that word
s might never make her feel anything ever again. How could words compare with real emotions? Joy switched Ruben to her shoulder and tried to fasten her blouse one-handed under the blanket while patting him on the back. He let out a soft burp, but his brown eyes were already half closed. He was entering the Cuddle Zone—that's what they all called that stage where babies were content and sleepy.

  Brittany stretched out her hands. Joy's eyes met hers for a second, and then she handed Ruben over. He was three weeks older than Ivy and heavier, but he was warm and so, so sweet in her arms. She bent her head and pressed her lips to his black wavy hair, choking back a sob. She hoped Ruben would win the modeling contest; if she and Ivy couldn't win, she wanted one of her friends to get the prize. And Joy and her husband had even less money than her family did.

  "But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep. Do you think America's favorite poet was simply talking about being tired?" Tanz sounded frustrated now. Most of the teachers thought the Sluts were a little slow. They hated the distracting babies and hated even more how the teachers had to come to the Sluts' room instead of having all students come to them. "Ladies! What other meaning do you think this could have—miles to go before I sleep?"

  No response came from the students. Her father was into poetry and that was one of his favorite poems. Brittany knew the answer Tanz wanted, but she wasn't about to say it. Ruben's baby breaths fluttered against her throat like butterfly kisses.

  Tanz said it for everyone. "Death! Robert Frost was talking about death!"

  The class bell rang, and Ruben jerked but didn't wake. Tanz shut the English book with a sigh. "For tomorrow, read the instructions on page seventy-four and create a haiku poem. You can choose any subject you like." He strode out of the room.