“So damn selfish,” she murmured.
“Yeah, I was,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Me. Giving you such a hard time. I issued an ultimatum. You told me. I bit your head off, Wicked Witch of the West. I’m really sorry, Marty.”
He squeezed her arm. “Me, too. For hiding him from you so long. Truth is, I was scared.”
“Of losing me?”
“Of losing us,” he said.
She kissed his chest.
“Losing that, too,” he said. “Anyway, to finish the earlier story, Alice took off. Her family, our son, everyone. One week after the birth.”
“Did you try to track them down?”
“No,” Marty said, reddening a little.
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I was sixteen. Had no interest in playing house, and my folks sure didn’t want me saddled. Seemed a blessing in disguise at the time. Now it’s a dull ache in the back of my head. Never hurts, but never goes away. Alice’s phone call turned it into a full-blown migraine, worrying about a boy - well, a man, now - I only know from a photograph.”
How could you give this man up, Alice? “What’s your son’s name?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” he said.
That startled her. “Didn’t Alice name him at birth?” she asked, sitting cross-legged.
“She wanted to wait, see what sounded good. Then they disappeared.”
“Huh,” Emily said, marveling at the coldness of that act. I should talk. “Did you ever think of a name for him?”
“Me?” Marty said. “No.”
“Want to now?”
He blinked, pulled back a little. “What purpose would that serve?”
“None,” she said, the idea warming her. “Just think it’d be nice, that’s all. I don’t want to keep calling him ‘Baby X.’“
“Huh. Well, I don’t know.” He dug whipped cream from her ear. Licked it. “Maybe. Let me think on that. If we give him a name . . .”
“He might become real. Not just a photo anymore.”
Marty nodded. “I don’t want that causing a wedge. You’re too important to me.”
Emily kissed him full on the lips. “It won’t,” she said. “Not ever again. I promise.”
They fell silent.
Comfortably.
“You did a great job on that powder room,” she said. “It was exquisite.”
“Course it was. Thought of you while I did it.”
She squeezed his arm.
More silence.
“Wonder if the boy has brothers and sisters?” he mused. “If he likes beagles . . .”
Another thought occurred as he talked. She debated bringing it up. Decided honesty wasn’t just the best policy, but the only.
“Is that why you beat Corey Trent so viciously?”
“Come again?” Marty said.
“Think about it,” Emily said. “He murdered a newborn in front of you. A newborn boy. The reaction you had was so out of character for you, maybe your own boy was on your mind. Remember what you said during our fight?”
He shook his head.
“‘That’s right, Emily, a son,’” she quoted. “‘That’s why I’m a witness Friday. That’s why I’m a hypocrite. And that’s why I’ll happily dance on Trent’s melted face. Because I couldn’t save that dead little boy.’“
“Have I mentioned how distressing your memory can be?” he grumbled.
“Useful, though,” she said. “So?”
He considered it. Blew out his breath.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “It was the rottenest thing I’ve seen on the job. Even those psychotic bikers I lived with never did anything that inhuman.”
She took his hand. “Want to tell me?”
He nodded, settled back in the pillow.
“We were out in the sticks to see an informant,” he said. “Me and Branch. One of those joint investigations you cook up. I’d drunk a lot of coffee, had to take a leak.”
She moved closer.
“Branch was driving. He found a boarded-up gas station. I hopped out, did my business. Peeked inside as I zipped up, saw a butchered young woman.”
“Whose baby had been stolen.”
“Didn’t know that then,” he said. “Just that she was dead and her end of the umbilical cord was ripped out. We looked around. Heard a wail. Spotted a shadow running for a car.”
“Corey Trent.”
“Yup. We chased him. Younger then, so we moved lickety-split. We were closing in fast, so he took the kid by the ankles and swung for the fences. Figured we’d have to stop.”
She knew that from the reports. Hearing it firsthand made her ill.