“I thank God he isn’t worse. But I keep praying he’ll improve, that by some miracle he’ll get better.” She shut her eyes for a brief second. “That’s a pipe dream, I know. But hope is all I can cling to. And I won’t give up on my son.”
“No, no, of course not.” Lyle gestured for her to get back inside. “Go and be with your child. I’ll be in touch.” He started to leave.
“Uncle Lyle?” Amanda stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. “Thank you. Not just for dropping by or for offering to help pay Forensic Instincts, but for having yourself tested. I know this isn’t your thing. But it means the world to me that you’d try.”
Briefly, he smiled. “It was hardly a sacrifice. I have more than enough blood—and money—to spare.” Another awkward pat on her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
Once her uncle had gone, Amanda went through the ritual of sterilizing her hands and donning the necessary gloves, hospital gown and mask. Then, she reentered the reverse isolation unit where her infant was fighting for his life.
“Go on home to your family,” she said softly to Melissa. “And thanks so much.”
Melissa rose and squeezed her friend’s gloved hands with her own. “Call whenever you need me.”
“I will.”
Amanda approached the crib, relieved to be back, happy to be alone with her son.
She could never get over how small he was. Or maybe he just looked that way in his crib with a central line IV in his three-week-old chest and a blow-by of oxygen perched on his crib to enrich the oxygen content of the air around him. He’d been born full-term, a respectable seven pounds one ounce. Maybe that’s what made it even harder. The preemies down in the neonatal ICU looked so much more fragile, so much more like they had the fight of their lives ahead of them. And yet, none of them was as sick as Justin, who faced a grim prognosis.
The middle-aged nurse who’d most recently checked Justin’s vitals walked in behind Amanda.
“Ms. Gleason,” she greeted her. “I’m glad you got out for a little while.”
“Thank you.” Amanda gestured at the medical apparatus, then at her baby, who had started waving a tiny fist and whining. “How is Justin? Is there any change?”
“No. The little guy is a fighter, though. And he obviously knows his mommy’s voice. He was quiet until you walked in. Would you like to hold him for a while?”
It was a routine question—one that, in this case, the nurse already knew the answer to. Amanda held her baby every chance she could. It was one of the few things she could offer him at this point—the warmth of her body, the soft lullabies that soothed him, plus her constant prayers and love. Holding him was a bittersweet experience. The joy of cradling him close, having his tiny fingers curl around hers—the feeling was indescribable. But the guilt of knowing why she couldn’t nurse him, why he couldn’t even be bottle-fed, but instead had to get his nourishment from an IV catheter, why his breathing was raspy, and why he had an infection—an infection she’d given to him—ate at her like the vilest of poisons.
Now she gathered him close, being careful to avoid his IV, and rocked him as she began singing him the lullabies he seemed to love. He stopped fussing, his tiny body relaxing as he experienced the security of his mother’s embrace and the melodic sounds of her voice. At that moment, all was right with his world—and Amanda’s.
If Paul really were alive, he couldn’t help but fall in love with this little miracle.
Tears welled up in Amanda’s eyes, slid down her cheeks beneath the mask. Between the pain, the worry and the hormones, she cried at the drop of a hat. She’d even wept in front of Marc Devereaux, although he’d seemed to understand. He’d taken her case. He’d been confident. He’d reassured her. And she believed in him.
But would they find Paul? Was Paul alive to be found? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?
She’d mourned him for so long. More so after she found out she was carrying his baby. They’d never talked about having children, nor about settling down together. It was too soon. They’d only been together for five months. But they were five intense months, filled with a love and a passion Amanda had never before experienced. Justin was the culmination of that. And Paul would never be able to share in the miracle that was his son.
Finding out that Paul might truly be alive had been a devastating blow to her gut. Disbelief, hope, confusion, betrayal, and most of all, anger had rushed through her, one sharp emotion at a time. But, with Justin’s diagnosis, all that emotion channeled into desperation to find Paul. The fact that he might have been lying to her since day one and that he’d done a dump-and-run was insignificant. All that mattered was Justin. She had to save her baby. Even if it meant pleading at the feet of a man who’d made a fool of her.
Justin gave a little cough, then screwed up his face and kicked his legs. Amanda didn’t like the sound of that cough. And she didn’t like the way his nose was running. He looked paler than before. And he seemed fussier. Was that normal baby behavior or was it the pneumonia getting worse? She’d have to find Dr. Braeburn and ask him.
She stopped singing and kissed the top of Justin’s silky head. Please, God, she prayed. Please let Forensic Instincts find Paul. And please let him be a healthy match for Justin. Please.
But Amanda was a realist. And she knew that prayers alone wouldn’t be enough.
Ryan McKay’s lair, as the team called it, took up the entire basement of Forensic Instincts. Usually, he was down there by his lonesome, with only his servers, his gadgets and his workout equipment to keep him company. But, at the moment, things were different. Even though it was after two in the morning, Marc was pacing around Ryan’s space like a hungry lion.
Finally, Ryan swiveled around in his computer chair and faced Marc, hands folded behind his head.
“Nothing jumps out at me,” he pronounced. “Our client is just who she says she is. A thirty-four-year-old photojournalist who lives in an apartment over a café in Westhampton Beach. Her only family is an uncle, Lyle Fenton, who’s a rich business tycoon serving on the Southampton Board of Trustees. He put her through school after her parents died and used his influence to get her some high-profile jobs. Doesn’t look like he’s subsidizing her, though. She’s on her own financially.”
Marc nodded. No surprises there. Not about the information itself nor the scope of it. He didn’t ask how Ryan had accessed Amanda’s finances. Ryan could access anything.
“I also checked out Amanda’s photojournalist friend,” Ryan continued. “She’s as legit as Amanda.”
“Yeah, she’s also cooperative,” Marc added. “She didn’t hang up on me when I woke her up in the middle of the night. She confirmed that she’d taken the photo, and when and where it was taken.”
“Okay, so that takes care of those preliminaries.”
“What about Paul Everett?” Marc demanded.
“Again, he seems clean enough on the surface. A real-estate developer, like Amanda said. Had some decent-size prospects, most of which are underwater, thanks to the economy. I can check around in the morning, see what I can find out from the people he worked with—assuming I can find them. Apparently, he owned a wharf and marina out
