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Brett Hedges, dead or alive, still owed her a quarter of a mil.
Someone was going to pay up. Either him, if he was yet among the living, or that miserable rich old man of his.
And this time it would cost them more.
CHAPTER 7
From her bed, Remmi stared at the bedside phone—actually, the cordless extension she’d grabbed from the living room. It had been about twenty-four hours since the events in the desert, and Remmi was still undecided about what to do.
If only Noah would call.
Where was he?
What had happened?
She had so much to tell him.
Biting her lip, she considered calling the police. Again. Just as she had considered confronting her mother for the kabillionth time.
She glanced to the doorway when she heard Didi’s distinctive, fast-paced walk along the hall. Her mother rapped softly, then pushed the door open. A bright, false smile was pinned to her glossy lips. “Honey, I’m going out.”
Remmi had already gathered as much from the frantic way Didi had gone to her room and started stripping clothes from hangers, tossing her designer costumes onto the foot of her king-sized bed after eyeing each item. It was a routine she went through every night before a performance or a big date. Remmi, or sometimes Seneca, was expected to return the discarded outfits back to the closet. “Stay here, with Adam; wait until I get back,” Didi said as she peeked into Remmi’s room.
Remmi had spent the rest of last night wide awake and the day dozing off and on; her dreams, when they came, were of fiery blasts and babies crying and Remmi finding herself lost in the desert.
“But you’re not going to work?” Remmi asked, sliding into a sitting position against the headboard.
“No . . . not tonight. This is a private appointment.” Again, Didi was dressed up in the Marilyn getup. A different dress, tight, black, and cut low enough to show significant cleavage, but the same wig and exaggerated makeup. The spark of excitement that had been with her the night before was replaced by a wariness and a deeper sadness, both visible beneath her forced smile.
“And you’ll bring Ariel back
?” Remmi knew she was pushing her mother, but she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t have the guts to admit the truth, to say she’d been there in the desert when all hell had broken loose. She hadn’t been able to bring up the fact that she’d been hiding in the Caddy’s cargo hold.
Because she was afraid of her mother’s reaction.
You’re as bad as she is. Just confront her, damn it!
She’d tried, twice, and failed. Had ended up back in her bedroom chewing on her fingernails.
All day, Didi had been wound up, angry, barking orders at Seneca and her daughter. Seneca was used to Didi’s moods and secrets, and the tall midwife kept her thoughts to herself, went about her business and questioned nothing. It was so weird. If Seneca thought it odd that Ariel was missing, she didn’t question Didi.
Maybe she was in on the plot all along.
With Seneca, you never knew. She kept to herself, especially her opinions. Her hair was long, dark, and curly, tied loosely at her nape, her skin a soft mocha color, her eyes a gold that burned with intelligence. She’d said her grandmother was Jamaican, and that she’d grown up in New Orleans, and she did have a slight accent that Remmi couldn’t place. Cajun? Islands? Remmi didn’t know. In fact, Remmi knew little about the woman who spent a lot of days and some nights at their house. Seneca had helped birth the twins and never let on to anyone that Didi had borne more than one child. Seneca was ever-patient, and Didi had remarked cryptically once that Seneca “was in it for the long game,” whatever that meant.
Now, Seneca didn’t question what Didi was up to, just got Adam ready for bed.
It was Remmi who was upset. She’d spent the night worrying about what had happened and the day watching the news, trying to find out what the police knew. Nothing, as far as she could tell. She’d called Noah’s home over and over again. No answer. She felt as if she were surely going out of her mind.
She followed her mother into the living room.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Didi insisted, and she swept her clutch purse from the table and snagged the briefcase from a closet where she’d stashed it the night before. Remmi had sneaked down the hallway a couple of times during the night to peer into the living room and observe her mother’s distress. She’d spied the open briefcase and the bills littering the table. It looked like a boatload of money, but it had infuriated Didi, and Remmi had caught the words “son of a bitch” and “bastard,” so obviously it wasn’t the amount Didi had requested.
For Adam.
She’d sold Adam—that’s what it was.
That’s why she’d dressed him in Ariel’s clothes and put the little girl in her brother’s blue outfit. Didi hadn’t just picked up the wrong onesie in the dark. Nope, it was all part of her sick child-selling plan.
