Silent Run(8)
“No, but we were talking about it, making plans,” Jake said with an impatient wave of his hand. “We lived together for almost two years in an apartment in San Francisco. But just because we weren’t married doesn’t mean I don’t have rights as a father. I talked to my lawyer. I talked to the police in San Francisco. They all agreed that Sarah couldn’t just steal my child from me. But they couldn’t do anything until we found her.”
“How did you find me?” she interrupted. “How did you know I was here in this hospital?”
“Dylan. He’s been helping me look for you, and he has contacts in this area. Last night one of his police buddies sent him your picture and details on the accident. He recognized you immediately.”
“Who’s Dylan?” she asked.
“My brother. He’s a journalist, you know that. Why are you acting like you don’t?”
“I’m not acting. Isn’t San Francisco a long way from here? How did you get here so fast?” she asked.
“It’s a five-hour drive, but I made it in four. I was afraid you’d disappear before I arrived.”
“When did you last see Sarah and your child?” Manning interjected.
“Seven months, two weeks, and three days ago,” Jake said flatly. “I was on a business trip when Sarah disappeared with Caitlyn.”
“I left you? Why?” she asked.
His hard gaze met hers. “Your note said, ‘This isn’t going to work. Don’t try to find me. Sarah.’ That was it. That’s all I got. Haven’t heard a word from you since. You disappeared off the face of the earth.”
She thought about his statement. It didn’t make sense. She’d supposedly been in love with this man. She had lived with him, been intimate with him, and had a baby with him—why would she leave behind such a coldhearted note?
“Why would I do that?”
“Hell if I know.” He planted his hands on his hips. “You tell me, Sarah. You tell me how you decided to walk out the door one day and never come back. You tell me how you could throw away everything we had without any explanation.”
“I . . . I can’t.”
“Or won’t,” he challenged.
“I don’t remember you.”
He drew in a quick, sharp breath at her words. He claimed to hate her, but her words appeared to hurt him. Her gaze traveled down his lean, muscular body, searching for some intimate connection. He said they’d made love, created a child together. Wouldn’t she remember laying her head against his solid chest, wrapping her arm around his waist, her fingers playing with the snaps on his jeans, his long legs pressing her down against the bed?
A sudden wave of heat spread through her body, warming her from the inside out. Was she remembering or was she imagining?
When she lifted her gaze to his, she saw a myriad of emotions flash through his green eyes, uncertainty, desire, anger. . . . His feelings for her were obviously complicated.
“You will remember me,” he promised. “Before we’re done, you’re going to explain exactly why you destroyed our lives. But right now I just want Caitlyn. You want to be free of me, fine, but you don’t get to keep my daughter away from me. She’s mine as much as she’s yours, and you should have known, better than anyone, how I would feel about losing my baby.”
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to feel. He was accusing her of stealing their child. Why would she have done such a thing? Was she a horrible person? Was she ruthless, conniving, and manipulating, the way he implied?
Or did she have a good reason for leaving him and taking her baby with her?
Her dream flashed back, the warning voice—He looks harmless, with his good looks, his winning personality. Everyone else thinks he’s a prince, but you know better. You’ve seen behind the smile and the mask that he wears.
Had this man hurt her? Hurt their child? Was that why she’d run from him?
She saw Officer Manning studying Jake Sanders with the same suspicious gaze with which he’d originally regarded her. Was he wondering the same thing? Did she have a good reason for wanting to take her daughter away from her father?
“Can you prove it?” she challenged. “Do you have pictures of us together—you, me, and Caitlyn? Do you have a copy of Caitlyn’s birth certificate, naming you as the father?”
His gaze narrowed. “I have a copy of the birth certificate with my name on it, but not with me. I can get it.”
“What about pictures of us together?”
He pulled out his wallet again and handed her another small photograph. “We had this taken in one of those carnival photo booths—before Caitlyn was born.”