A Daughter's Story

She had to start living her own life—and she wasn’t even sure what that meant. To date, her life consisted of responsibilities and “shoulds” and protecting Rose. She had to be free from some of that—free to take a chance or two. To be spontaneous in spite of dangers.

Free to want.

Rob had been naked in their bed, her bed—on sheets she’d purchased and laundered—with another woman.

Because Emma was so lacking? She’d never had an orgasm. Was that her fault? Or his?

“Emma?”

Rose’s brow was wrinkled as she glanced her way. “What?” Thank God Rose couldn’t read her thoughts.

“You said you’d had a call. I asked who from.”

Back on track. Not that the coming conversation was going to be any easier than the silent one she’d been having on and off with herself since noon that day. “From a detective. Here in Comfort Cove. His name’s Ramsey Miller.” None of which mattered. Get to the point.

Was she not woman enough to hold on to a man? Not adventurous enough? Not wild enough?

Rose wasn’t moving. Her hands, holding part of a roasted chicken breast and a knife, were suspended in midair. Midcut. “Tell me.” When she finally spoke, her tone was biting.

Emma knew she shouldn’t have started this. Not tonight. There was no reason to put her mother through more days and weeks of anguish while hope battled with reality. Reality always won. They knew that.

And yet, she really should tell Rose about Miller’s call. At some point, the detective might need to speak with her mother.

“No one knows anything about Claire,” she said quickly.

At the sink, she turned on the cold water to rinse the lettuce.

“What, then?” Fear entered Rose’s tone. Emma had known it would. That happened to a woman when her baby was stolen out of her home in broad daylight.

She thought about the box of forensic evidence that had gone missing from the police station. It was the reason for Miller’s initial call more than a month before. The last time Emma had seen the box containing her and Cal’s and Claire’s belongings, she’d been four years old.

Miller had no idea who’d taken the evidence or why.

But Rose would draw her own conclusions. And she would inevitably get her hopes up. Emma knew how it worked. Not just because she’d lived close to her mother all these years, but because she lived with the same ups and downs.

If someone had stolen the evidence from her sister’s case, could it mean that Claire was still alive? Still out there?

Or, conversely, did it mean that her baby sister was dead and buried and her abductor wanted to make certain she stayed that way?

“Emma, you’re scaring me.” Her mother still held the chicken and the knife.

Emma had moved on to mixing the oil and spices for the dressing, putting them together just the way they liked. Soft scents from the loaf of fresh Italian bread warming in the oven wafted around them.

She wasn’t up to this conversation. As a good daughter, she had to let her mother know what was going on because she couldn’t guarantee that Frank wouldn’t call. She didn’t think he would. But he knew where Rose lived. He could send her a letter.

Emma didn’t want to sit and eat. Didn’t want to do what she always did. She wanted to go somewhere. Do something.

She wanted to escape. From Rose. Claire’s memory. Frank and Cal Whittier. Rob.

She was twenty-nine. If she didn’t start living life now, it could all be over before it even began.

Taking the knife and chicken from her mother’s lifeless hands, Emma started to cut.

“Cal Whittier wrote a book.”

“What?” Rose’s brows drew together and she sank down into the chair at the head of the table—ironically, the one that had been Frank’s during the time he and his son, Cal, had lived with them.

Back when they’d been a real family.

“He published a book?” Rose asked.

“No.” Dropping the knife in the sink, Emma left the salad and went to sit next to her mother. “He gave it to Detective Miller, who works cold cases. Miller read it and noticed a piece of information that Cal had put down that wasn’t in any of the recorded testimony.”

“What information?” Rose’s tone was suspicious. Did she think Cal would lie? He’d only been seven when Claire had gone missing.

Although Emma had only been four at the time, she could still remember the anguish in her almost-brother’s eyes when he realized that, because of him, the police thought his father had done something to Claire.

“Do you remember that meat delivery truck that used to come here?” Emma asked. She’d remembered it, as she’d told Detective Miller when he’d asked her.

“Of course. They stopped three doors down, every Wednesday morning. Delivered to the Bryants. Why?”

“Cal mentioned the truck in his book. He hid behind it the morning that…that morning when he left for school. He sneaked from there to hide behind another car and then made a dash for the backyard so he didn’t have to go to school.”

“He’d thrown up in gym the day before,” Rose said, her tone softer. “He was so embarrassed he begged us to let him stay home. We hated to make him go, but we knew that if we didn’t the problem would only escalate.”

“Like falling off a horse,” Emma said, the words coming to her from long ago. “I remember Frank telling Cal about falling off a horse and getting right back on.”

“I remember that.” Emma couldn’t see Rose’s expression. Her mother’s head was bent.

“Apparently Cal didn’t tell the police that part back then,” Emma said, choosing her words carefully so her mother wouldn’t get her hopes up. “When Detective Miller read about the truck, he remembered another unsolved abduction where there’d been mention of a delivery truck, so he followed up on it.”

Rose’s head shot up, her gaze stark. “He found something? Did…is Claire…”

Shaking her head, Emma squeezed her mother’s hand. “No, Mom. I told you. There’s been no word of Claire.”

“But there might be. That’s what you’re telling me? They have a lead?”

“No,” Emma said emphatically. “It turned out that the other abduction Detective Ramsey remembered reading about was unrelated. Since then he’s found two other abductions in Massachusetts that both took place more than ten years ago, on delivery routes, but they haven’t turned up any connection to us. Or her.”

Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, Emma plowed on. “Detective Miller found the driver of our truck, though. He talked to him, and—”

“He knew something? What did he say? What does he—”

“Mom, please. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Emma, for God’s sake, she was my daughter. I’m never going to stop caring, or hurting, and so I react strongly, but that’s no reason not to tell me.…”

Emma could have reminded her mother about the times Rose had shut herself away for days, the times her mother had cried for so many hours on end that Emma’d had to fend for herself, about the times she’d had to beg her mother to eat so Rose would have the energy to get out of bed.