there were any two-year-old boys who had only a father listed.
A little face had been staring back at her from a photo on one side of the case as her mind wandered...and then Tabitha was grabbing Johnny’s shoulders, leaning against his back, thinking she might actually be going down.
He turned, his arm sliding around her, and although she was still leaning heavily on him, the dizziness passed as quickly as it had come.
“That photo of the kids who were on the winning team in the Easter egg hunt...”
“As I said, we find ways to get everyone into the showcase,” Mallory said. “We have to be a bit creative with the littles, but at The Bouncing Ball, every single one of our children is a winner.”
Mallory’s voice faded in and out. Tabitha didn’t turn around, didn’t look at the photo again. Didn’t need to. She had a cropped copy of it in the purse she’d left in the car. It was the photo the mother had posted on the internet of her little girl at school this Easter.
“...not everyone wins all the time,” Mallory Harris was saying. “And there are some who think that teaching kids that everyone’s a winner is not preparing them for real life. But I believe that every single person on earth has the potential to win at something, whether it’s at being a parent or being good in a sport, at a job, good at cooking or growing flowers. Or good at smiling and making others feel happy. We all have something special to offer the world, and I like to think that after spending their first four years with us, our kids are better prepared to look for whatever that something special is—in themselves and others.”
Tabitha was nodding vigorously. She could feel tears pressing at the backs of her eyes. Jackson’s team had won an Easter egg hunt. The picture on the internet had just shown the top halves of the children’s bodies, not the entire scene out in the daycare yard.
“That little boy in the front of the photo... He’s holding the basket...”
“Jason, yes. He was the team captain and got to carry the basket,” Mallory was saying. She didn’t give a last name. Didn’t reveal any information. But...
Jason. Close to the Jackson the one-year-old had known as his name. Jason. Now they had a name to offer the police in Mission Viejo, who would get in touch with the San Diego department. She’d learned how it would work if she ever got any information regarding her son’s case. Not that she’d told anyone besides Johnny and the investigator he’d hired what she was doing.
The FBI had been called in when Jackson first went missing; they had a special team that had been particularly helpful during the critical first hours—but local police had also stayed involved.
Jackson was still on file as a missing person, but law enforcement had seen many other cases come and go since his disappearance. There was only so much they could do without more to go on. There’d been virtually no new leads.
Until she’d found one.
Jason.
“His parents must’ve been really proud of him,” she said, still leaning on Johnny although most of her strength had returned, for the moment, anyway, as she addressed the other woman.
“His dad was,” Mallory said casually as she led them back to the daycare’s entry. “Jason’s mom passed away, died of liver disease a year after his birth.”
Jason’s dad had been a single father for the past year. Jackson had been stolen away from her by his father a year ago. Jason’s mother had supposedly died a year after his birth. Jackson had been stolen from her a year after his birth.
Johnny held her up. They were at the door and she couldn’t make her feet move to get her out of there. Jason’s supposed mother had died of liver disease the year before. Mark’s mother had died of liver disease a year ago. It was something he’d be able to talk about in detail, having nursed her to the end of her life. That would have given credibility to his lies.
Jason was Jackson. She’d known. She’d hoped she was right. She’d thought she was.
Now she knew she’d known.
After twelve long, excruciating months, she’d found her son.
Johnny understood life, particularly his role in it. He worked hard enough to be the best at whatever he did. He took satisfaction from that. He did what was expected of him, expected by himself and others. He went with the flow.
Strong urges, other than the normal sexual ones a guy got, didn’t play a significant role in his life. He wasn’t driven. Had no great passion. He was a mind guy all the way.
Which was why that Monday night in July, the evening of his daycare visit with Tabitha, would remain with him forever. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t walk away from her—the steps it would take to get him to his room in their suite. His mind told him to leave. Something unfamiliar held him rooted to the spot.
“Go have your shower,” he told her. “I’ll order some dinner and open a bottle of wine.” They’d picked up a couple of bottles down by the beach the evening before from a shop selling local wines. They’d bought a limited-production white that had won an award at San Diego’s Toast of the Coast Wine Competition.
They’d talked about having a glass. He’d been thinking about it on and off all day. A glass of wine with Tabitha. But she’d been quiet on the ride back from the daycare. The kind of quiet that meant she needed some time alone. Some space.
Usually they talked after a visit, but when she got quiet like that, he was supposed to leave her alone in her world, knowing she’d be back when she was ready.
He was supposed to go to his room.
That was their way, and it had been established from the very beginning—by deed more than conversation—and neither of them had ever deviated from it.
So what the hell was he doing? More crucially, why?
It wasn’t the first time she’d thought she found her son. He was quite certain it wouldn’t be the last. He only wished he was as certain that she would find the child someday. And that this boy, Jason, was her Jackson...
He’d rinsed off quickly, dressed in a newish pair of tan shorts and a black polo shirt, and was pouring the wine by the time Tabitha’s bedroom door opened. He hadn’t been sure she’d come back out.
She’d put on the tie-dyed, spaghetti-strap, calf-length sun dress she wore at home a lot on her days off. It had reds and browns in it, offset by gold. The casual red Italian sandals she wore with it struck him as odd, since they weren’t going anywhere. He was barefoot. Just as he always was around the house these days.
He kept looking at the curves of her calves, finding them erotically attractive—calves. Tabitha’s calves.
One look at her face, though, and erotic thoughts fled. This was Tabitha. And the unfamiliar light in her eyes, as though she was bursting with secrets and ready to fly off her rocker in some kind of desperation, or so his imagination told him, called to him in an entirely different way.
He
