for their daughter. Just as Tabitha was helping him with the truck. It was the deal they’d made.
That thought came with an involuntary glance in her direction. She was leaning over the counter to hand his most recent creation—a bowl with only rice, onions, meat and dressing—out the window, putting her butt right before his eyes...again. Her jeans had jewels on the pockets. He’d never noticed jewels on her pockets before. Must be new. And that had to be the reason he was suddenly liking a part of Tabitha he had no business noticing.
Yep, had to be the jewels.
Weak, at best, but the explanation was all he had, so he was going with it.
* * *
The Bouncing Ball Daycare was located on the ground floor of one of San Diego’s nicer professional buildings. There was nothing opulent or ostentatious about the place, but judging by the placards on the walls and the cars in the lot on a Monday morning, the various small businesses and law firms that occupied the space were successful. One company, Braden Property Management, took up the entire top floor, according to a sign out front.
Tabitha homed in on the immaculate green grass and colorful flower beds that greeted them as they approached. Went inside.
“Didn’t you say the daycare owner’s name is Mallory Harris?” Johnny asked.
Fighting the tremors that assailed her any time she thought she might be close to Jackson, Tabitha stood in front of the directory in the building’s lobby and tried to focus on Johnny’s words.
Something about the daycare owner. Her name. Mallory Harris.
“Yes,” she said, equally grateful for and bothered by his innocuous interruption. Suspecting he’d done it on purpose, to distract her from the emotions assailing her, she was mostly grateful.
That day almost nine months before, when Johnny Brubaker had moved into the tiny house next to hers a mile from the beach in Mission Viejo, had been the second-best day of her life. Following Jackson’s birth, which had been the best.
The absolute worst had been the day Jackson’s biological father had failed to return him to her...
Johnny had purchased the little house as step one in his attempt to bring his murdered wife’s dream to life. Angel had wanted to leave their elite, moneyed, always-in-the-spotlight life behind and live like a “normal” person.
Looking up into Johnny’s clear blue eyes calmed Tabitha unlike anything else. His easy acceptance of...everything somehow made life seem more manageable. “You ready?” she asked.
“Whenever you are.” His voice held the usual note of confidence, leaving her with the feeling that he’d stand there in front of the directory all day if she needed him to, no questions asked.
But she knew he’d need a break. Johnny wasn’t good about missing his meals—not that you’d ever be able to tell he had a voracious appetite by looking at him. All six feet of the man were rock solid.
He waited for her to lead the way. She’d chosen her outfit carefully—a flowing summer skirt, brightly colored with small flowers, a ribbed T-shirt to match and sandals. She’d chosen his, too, because he’d asked—casual dark shorts and a light green button-up shirt—also with sandals. Johnny’s real life, the one he’d be going back to when his sabbatical was over, required suits and ties.
But for running a food truck...not such a good idea. Early on in their friendship, he’d asked her to go with him to buy a more casual wardrobe.
She’d laughed out loud that day for the first time since Jackson had been stolen away from her.
“I think this is it.” Johnny spoke just behind her.
While the daycare took up a lot of the first floor, the door leading into it was one panel with a small window at the top. Nothing there to invite strangers into the midst of the children. And no windows through which she could look from the outside. She knew the place had windows, plenty of them. She’d pored over the establishment’s website. First, so she’d seem like a parent who really was interested in a place for her child. And second, so she’d be fully prepared for whatever she’d have to come up with to gain access to one particular child. Hers.
Legal access, of course. The police would help when she had something valid to bring them. Detective Bentley, her contact back home in Mission Viejo, had assured her that no matter how much time passed, he’d keep looking. He just needed something to go on.
“You have to turn that knob there for the door to open.” Johnny’s droll tone was completely lacking in the sarcasm his comment might have suggested. The steady kindness she’d come to associate with him was out in full force.
“I know,” she told him, afraid to turn around, afraid she’d be tempted to hide in the warmth of his gaze, put her head on his shoulder and cry. Because she was afraid that when she opened the door, the hope that had been keeping her going all week would be dashed.
And because... What if Jackson was behind that door and she’d finally, after over a year, hold her baby in her arms again?
It wouldn’t happen immediately. There’d be red tape. Still...her heart felt as though it might burst at the thought of seeing him and she consciously moved on, thinking of the nursery she’d changed into a bedroom for a toddler over the past year.
She’d done it with Johnny’s help, when he had the time and was alone in the evenings, too. She’d made wall hangings, a comforter and furry stuffed pillows in the shapes of animals.
She finally turned the knob, recalling the photo she’d found on Pinterest, the one that had started this particular quest. She looked on the internet every single day. Studied daycare pictures on many different internet sites—those that posted photos with parents’ permission. She searched social media sites, too. And any time she saw a child who even halfway resembled the age-progressed photo she had of Jackson, within the distance parameters she’d set, she and Johnny would plan an Angel’s Food Bowls trek to the area and visit daycares while they were there. All daycares on her list that also fit the parameters she’d figured Jackson’s father would choose, not just those with pictures.
Always on her days off from the hospital. Working three twelves had its advantages.
The police were looking for Jackson, of course. But their jurisdiction was only in Mission Viejo. He was also on the FBI’s list of missing children, but apparently no one had the staff to check out every single daycare in every city in California, searching for one missing boy—especially when said child was known to be with his father who’d never given indication of being dangerous. That unfortunate truth, that her case wasn’t top priority, had become obvious to her almost from the beginning.
Johnny had very generously insisted on paying for a private detective, who was in contact with the police and would follow up on any leads when the police had done what they could, but it wasn’t enough for her. She had to do all she could, too. Even if that meant systematically visiting daycare after daycare. Jackson needed her to be out there looking for him. Tuned in the way only a mother could be.
The room just inside the daycare door was painted in primary colors and held plastic chairs and big boxes for sitting on in the same colors. There were some books scattered about and a wire-and-bead maze toy on a little table. A small reception window was cut into the far wall. And, in the middle of that wall, was another heavy
