Finding Christmas

She opened the box again and pulled out more of the photographs. Tonight she had time to study them. The same dark-haired woman appeared in numerous shots. One showed Carl with his arm around her. She had to be his first wife. The child appeared again, and Donna knew she wasn’t Connie. The features were wrong. She dropped the photos back into the envelope and set it on the floor.

Petrified by her thoughts, Donna delved into the metal box, rifling through old receipts, car registrations, and the restraining order envelope. Then she saw another legal-size envelope. She pulled out the document, and her heart stopped. Stella Rose Angelo, Plaintiff. Peter Carl Angelo, Defendant. Divorce papers. Peter again. She’d seen that name used in the restraining order. Donna skimmed the contents. His wife agreed to forgo some of her settlement in trade for his agreement to never see her or their daughter again.

And then she died?

Her hand shook as she stuffed the paper back into the envelope. Her mind spun with questions and fear swept over her. She knew Carl was abusive. He’d treated her badly, but so far, he hadn’t hurt Connie. Would he?

As Donna lifted the documents to place them back in the metal file, she spotted a newspaper clipping near the bottom of the box. Her tremors grew as she reached in to pull out the paper. Fingers fumbling, she unfolded it, and the headline flared before her eyes: “Attorney and Daughter Drown in Lake St. Clair.”

Below the article, Donna saw the grainy photographs—a man and a blond toddler. She gazed at the photo. Donna clasped her face, gasping for air. Black spots peppered her eyes, and an unbearable hum roared in her ears. She lowered her head and clung to the wall, fearing she would faint.

Donna stayed there until she regained control of herself. Then she inched upward, still grasping the closet wall for support. Her breath came in gasps as she scanned the text of the article.

Gregory Fuller and his three-year-old daughter Mandy drowned when Fuller’s car accidentally skidded into Lake St. Clair last night during a snowstorm. Fuller works for the law firm of Saperstein, Fuller, Drake and Welsh.

Donna skimmed the rest of the article with disbelief. Fuller had left his wife, Joanne, behind. Gregory Fuller. The name rang in her ears. Where had she heard it? She lowered her gaze to the envelope at her feet and gaped at the return address: Saperstein, Fuller, Drake and Welsh, Attorneys at Law. The divorce papers.

She eyed the restraining order sent by the same firm, then unfolded the document. The truth struck her. The plaintiff’s attorney was Gregory Fuller. Carl’s wife had hired Fuller to represent her, and a year later he died.

Joanne Fuller? According to the article, she lived on the east side in Grosse Pointe, about twenty miles from Dearborn.

Donna returned her gaze to the photos beneath the article, studying Mandy Fuller. Her head swam. Could it be? She lifted her eyes toward the basement ceiling. Connie was sleeping upstairs—Connie with blond hair. It couldn’t be. Donna loved Connie—she couldn’t be someone else’s child. Donna couldn’t live without her.

But what if—

“What are you doing?” The voice bellowed from the staircase.

Carl. Donna jerked and dropped the restraining order, then spun around.

Carl loomed in the doorway. “I told you to stay out of there.” He grabbed her arm and jerked her from the closet.

“What’s wrong, Carl?” Donna panicked, struggling to find an excuse. “I was looking for luggage to store some summer clothing.”

Carl clung to her with one hand and leaned in to grab something from inside the closet. Then he stepped back, hurling a piece of luggage across the basement. It struck his tool bench, and metal tools clanged to the concrete floor. With a swift move, he grasped her by the throat and pinned her to the wall.

Donna felt her breath leave her. She tried to speak, but choked. Color drained from the room. I have to get away. Connie must get away. The hum filled her head as her knees buckled.

Chapter Four

Joanne pressed the telephone to her ear but heard only silence on the line.

“Hello,” she said again.

Nothing. She lowered her gaze to the caller ID. Blocked. She hated crank calls, especially now that she’d become so nervous.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice rasping with irritation. She listened for a second more until a faint sound like a moan wavered along the wire, making her neck prickle. She closed her eyes, then dropped the phone onto the cradle and sank into a kitchen chair.

The desperate moan reverberated in her ears. Voices and silent callers. How much more could she take?

She let her frustration subside, then rose and headed for the coffeepot to make coffee for Benjamin. Joanne spooned in the grounds, added water, then wandered into the living room. The clock on her cable box showed 7:47. She had expected Benjamin earlier. Uneasiness filled her, but then she laughed at herself for being so jittery.

The phone rang again and for once she didn’t jump. Joanne knew Benjamin well enough to realize he’d call if something was keeping him. She strode into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

“Hello,” she said, expecting Benjamin’s rich, baritone voice.

Distant unclear sounds drifted over the line, but no one spoke.

“Benjamin?”

Then she heard it again—the emptiness.

It grated on her senses like nails on a chalkboard. Her knuckles turned white against the dark beige of the phone. “Either say what you want or stop calling.” Her own determined voice startled her. As she yanked the telephone from her ear, she finally heard something, and brought the receiver back to listen.

“I—I…” A woman’s voice.

“What do you want?”

Only a sigh wrenched the silence.

Breath shot from Joanne’s lungs like air from a pricked balloon. Anger fired within her. “If you’re not going to talk, then leave me alone.”

She heard a click, then an empty line.

Joanne slammed the receiver onto the cradle.

Sick people. They had nothing better to do than harass people. Play the jokester. But it wasn’t funny. Not at all. Then her thought shifted. She recalled the voice and the foreboding. The coincidence seemed too great.

Benjamin? Was he on the way? She called his numbers and got his answering machine. She hung up. The police. She needed someone. She grabbed the telephone book from a drawer, found the number and punched the buttons. Her body trembled as she waited.

“Grosse Pointe Department of Public Safety. Officer James. May I help you?”

Joanne opened her mouth and choked on the words. “I—I’ve received some strange telephone calls.” She sounded foolish.

“What kind of calls?” the officer asked.

She gave her name and tried to explain, but the more she said, the more insane she sounded. The officer obviously didn’t see the connection between her daughter’s death three years ago and two anonymous calls. Right now, neither did she.

“Was the caller abusive or obscene? Or were you threatened in any way?”

“They were hang-ups,” she said, realizing how trivial it sounded.

“Ma’am, two hang-ups doesn’t really warrant police action. You’re welcome to call your telephone company, but unless the calls are threatening or abusive, we can’t take action. After three telephone calls from the same caller, you can contact the telephone company and then we’d be happy to take your report.”

Frustration charged through Joanne. “Thank you for your time.”

“If this continues, call your phone company and then give us a call.”

“Thanks,” she said again, and hung up feeling mortified. He’d explained twice, as if she were stupid.