“So you’re leaving?” I ask, my tone neutral as Regina suggested.
Savannah's lips crimp before she faintly nods her head. "I don't want to, but this isn't just about me anymore. Rylee's safety is all that matters. It comes before anything."
Her eyes relay the words she will never say: “Even you, Ryan.”
Her unspoken pledge doesn't bother me in the slightest. Savannah's daughter should come first. I would have given anything for my mother to put me and Damon above anything just once in our lives. Who knows how differently our lives could have panned out if she had the same dedication Savannah gives her daughter?
I cough to eradicate the lump in my throat before asking, “Your daughter’s name is Rylee?”
Although my questions aren’t directly associated with Savannah’s case, they are just as important. If a victim is unaware they are under investigation, they are more likely to talk. Asking simple questions like “Do you have animals?” or “What did you eat for lunch today?” can open doors that were previously closed. Making victims feel comfortable in your presence is of utmost importance.
And, if I’m being honest, I’m also eager to discover if the similarities in Savannah’s daughter’s name and mine are a coincidence or not. The extra thump my heart got when she revealed her little girl’s name answers my question on her behalf, but I want Savannah to admit it.
Savannah smiles a traffic-stopping grin before gesturing to her tiny kitchen. "Yes. I think it has a nice ring to it.” She lifts her eyes to mine; the pain they held mere seconds ago now cut in half. “Sometimes I call her Ry. But that's only when she's being mischievous. Which is more times than not lately."
I wait for her to spin away from me before fist punching the air.
She named her daughter after me.
If that doesn’t prove I’ve been on her mind as much as she’s been on mine the past decade, I don’t know what will.
After taking in numerous deep breaths to settle my manic heart rate, I ask, “How old is Rylee?”
Savannah gathers two mugs from a cupboard above the stove top. “She’ll be four next month.” The happy glint in her eyes switches to sadness as she murmurs, “I can’t believe it has only been four years. When you’re hiding, every year feels like ten.”
Most detectives would see this as an in to drill her for information, but I’m not most detectives.I’m the best Ravenshoe has ever seen.If I bombard her with questions now, she won’t leave tomorrow morning. She’ll flee now.
“Rylee looks like you. Did she get any of her dad’s features?”
I gather a picture of Savannah and Rylee off the fridge to inspect it more diligently. I've asked that question many times when interacting with victims of domestic violence, but this time it is genuine. Rylee's similarities to her mother are uncanny.
"No. Thank god," Savannah murmurs under her breath. She places a dash of milk in the coffee mugs she's preparing. "Other than the leaf-shaped birthmark on her neck, Rylee doesn't have any of her father's traits."
I nearly lose my train of thought when I place their picture back on the fridge. There is a faded Polaroid sitting next to the photo of Rylee and Savannah. It is so old the faces are no longer recognizable, but I don’t need identifiable marks to unearth its origin. The dimples expose who the fair-haired newborn baby is. It is Savannah. She is being cradled by a woman I’d guess to be mid-forties wearing a nurse’s uniform. Since she has angled Savannah toward the person snapping the picture, her name badge dangles over Savannah’s knitted blanket. Her name is Ruth.
Even the tenseness of our situation can’t stop me from smiling. That is why Thorn called Savannah “Ruth.” His brain got a little muddled, but his memories of his newborn daughter remained strong.
After returning their photo to its rightful spot, I sit in the chair Savannah nudged her head at. Although excited about my discovery, there are much more pressing matters I need to face first.
“Rylee has a birthmark?” I ask, getting back to business.
If I weren’t staring into a pair of eyes that have graced my dreams every night for the past twenty years, I’d pull out my notepad and jot down all the little tidbits of information Savannah is unknowingly giving me. Mercifully, I have no issues retaining important information. And this is as important to me as it comes.
Smiling, Savannah nods her head. "Yeah. It’s shaped like a maple leaf. Hers is just one-tenth the size of Keifer's."
Savannah’s eyes rocket to mine, curious if I picked up on her slip of name. I act unaffected, even though my brain is working overtime. Not only do I have an identifiable mark to work with, but I also have a name. I’m tempted to fist pump the air for the second time. I just hit the detective jackpot.
“Has Regina been watching Rylee long?” I ask, operating like the cool cat I am.
Savannah doesn't buy my nonchalant approach. She has always been as beautiful as she is smart.
"I didn't invite you into my home to investigate my case, Ryan. I just didn't want to leave with you still being disappointed in me."
“I’m not disappointed in you, Savannah.”
Savannah raises her mug to her mouth, hoping it will hide the roll of her eyes.
It doesn’t.
