Famished, Meghan O'Flynn [free ebooks romance novels .txt] 📗

Evans’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, thank God. I thought someone had died.”

“She did, ma’am.”

Evans covered her mouth with her palm.

Morrison stepped forward, touching Petrosky’s elbow. “Do you think we should do this in private?”

Her hand dropped to her chest. “Why?”

“Because it concerns Mr. Keil,” Petrosky said.

Evans shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but there are no secrets between me and my husband.”

“Then let’s jump right in,” Petrosky said. “Ms. Evans, were you with Mr. Keil the night before last, between the hours of twelve and three?”

“In a manner of speaking—if you count him lying passed out in the hallway and me trying to wake him every twenty minutes as being together. I finally got Isaiah around three, and he helped me get him into the house and onto his own couch. Though I think he slept through that part.”

“Mr. Keil seemed more than a little concerned about me coming over here today.”

“I can take this one,” Isaiah said. “The one time we spoke, I told him that he needed to get his shit together and stop worrying my wife before I came after him. I wasn’t…serious. I just hate to see her upset. She’ll sit up all night, thinking he’s going to die of an overdose outside our door.”

“Did you know Meredith Lawrence?”

Isaiah shook his head. “Not at all.”

Darcy sighed. “Not really, just in passing. We talked occasionally, in the laundry room, but it was mostly complaining about the laundry machines not working and stuff. She was usually coming in when I was going out to work.”

“And you work where?”

“I’m a photographer. I keep weird hours sometimes. Just ask my poor husband. He usually comes home for lunch so we can spend some time together.”

Isaiah put his hand on the small of her back.

“What do you do, sir?”

“Molecular biologist.”

Petrosky glanced around the apartment.

“You want to know why we live here? With guys like Keil? Student loans. We’re saving for a house. And Darcy wants to write a book.”

“Anything else you can tell us about Meredith, Mr. Evans? Mrs. Evans?” Petrosky watched them as the silence stretched, but there were no sudden shifts in movement, no alterations in breathing, no wandering eyes. Only slouched shoulders and furrowed brows—worry, but not defensiveness.

“The only thing I can think of that was different is that she seemed…sad,” Darcy said finally. “Not a normal life stressor kind of thing, but real, deep sad. Something in her eyes. I take lots of pictures, so I notice that stuff. I just wish I knew why.”

Isaiah wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

Petrosky held out a card. “If you think of anything else-”

“Thank you. I hope you find who did it,” she said.

Isaiah opened the door for them.

“We’ll do our best, ma’am,” Petrosky said.

Two more hours of door knocking gave them nothing new. Apparently, Meredith Lawrence had been invisible. Hopefully her baby wouldn’t be so elusive. If they could find the baby’s father, all the better, particularly if he felt that Lawrence took his child from him. If Petrosky ever found the person who took his little girl, he’d do worse than slice them open and paint the walls with their blood.

Morrison clicked his seat belt. “So, anyone can just drop off a baby and leave?”

“Safe Haven laws. You leave a baby in a safe place, like a fire station or a church instead of a dumpster, and you’re not under obligation to answer questions. After a few months, your parental rights are terminated, and they set the kid up for adoption. Don’t they have those laws in California? You’d think surfers would be first in line to drop off kids so they could get back to playing ukulele or whatever the fuck you people do.”

“Yeah, they have the laws. But I never played ukulele, so I never paid much attention.”

Petrosky ignored the smile in Morrison’s voice and watched the sky roll around them, the clouds heavy and dark. He glanced at the temperature gauge on the dash. Forty-two. No snow today. Rain. Tomorrow was supposed to be warm, and when the sun came out, everyone would grin and talk about how glorious the weather was for October as if this didn’t happen every goddamn year.

Beside him, Morrison tapped on his phone as the church came into view. Through the windshield, gargoyles reached for the sky on stone spires above church doors that looked too massive for human use. Petrosky wondered if maybe you had to build ‘em big to invite God in, but he wouldn’t know anything about that; God had abandoned him a long time ago.

Petrosky pulled into the parking lot and took a space in front of the main door. Their footfalls crunched against the grand stone stairs. Above them, stripes of stained glass arched toward the thunderclouds, reflecting muted blues and greens and pinks. Morrison pulled the front door open with a whoosh, and Petrosky followed him in.

The air inside burned with the sickly sweet aroma of incense. Walls and windows repeated their footsteps back to them as they walked between the rows of pews toward the altar.

A door opened and shut behind the pulpit. A bald, rotund man with white eyebrows approached them, shoving his glasses up his bulbous nose, a white robe and long purple scarf swishing in his wake. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” His voice was whisper quiet, perhaps a testament to years of sitting in a confessional.

Petrosky flipped his badge and stuck it back in his pocket. “I’m Detective Petrosky, and this is Detective Morrison. We’re looking for information on a child that may have been dropped off here three years ago.”

“Dropped off?”

“Part of the Safe Haven law.”

The man pushed his glasses up his nose. “I see. Why don’t you gentlemen follow me to my office and we’ll see if there is any way I can help you.” He turned, and they followed him through a back hallway, past ornate bronze and gold fixtures and oak walls glistening with furniture polish. At the last door, he stopped, unlocked it, and waved them in.

An intricately carved oak desk dominated the red-carpeted room. On the top corner of the desk sat gold-plated wax stamps, blotters, and sheets of rolled parchment. Stained glass windows bounced chartreuse light off a gilded Jesus crucified on the back wall, wrists bleeding gold, mouth agape in an eternal scream.

“Quite the place you have here,” Petrosky said.

The priest lifted one corner of his mouth and settled behind his desk, pressing his fingertips together. Petrosky and Morrison sat in red wingbacks across from him. The chairs felt like satin. From the roof above, the muted rattle of rain began and intensified until it rang through the room like buckshot on tin.

“As you surely know, gentlemen, those who leave their children with us are not required to give information, and often don’t.”

“Understood. We’re just hoping.”

“For what exactly? Most of these children have gone on to successful placements with adoptive parents, some within this very congregation.”

“We’re not looking to take the child back,” Petrosky said dryly. “His mother was slit open from end to end, and we have reason to suspect that the father may be responsible.”

The priest’s jaw fell open, and his hands dropped into his lap.

“Your name, sir? For our records,” Petrosky said.

“Ernest Bannerman the third. Father Bannerman to our parishioners.”

“Mr. Bannerman, can we get a look at those records?”

The priest pushed himself to standing and walked to a squat file cabinet in the back corner of the room. He slid out the bottom drawer, retrieved several thick folders, and returned to the desk where he flipped the top one open.

“We haven’t had many, that’s for sure. We’ve been lucky, I suppose. Only about twenty since the law came into existence.” He scanned the top sheet, turning it over on the desk. “Do you know if you’re looking for a boy or a girl?”

“A boy. Jessie. About three years ago, late summer, or early fall.”

“Ah.” Bannerman replaced the page, closed the top folder, and slid it and the second folder onto the desk. The bottom folder rasped as he pulled the top cover off. One page turned. Then another.

“Hmm.”

“Got something, Mr. Bannerman?”

“No, no, not yet. We had two girls come in three years ago October. Another in December.” He flipped a page. “I don’t see anything else from that time. No boys; no Jessie. Are you certain of the year?”

Petrosky looked at Morrison, who nodded.

“Let’s do a quick check of the other years,” Petrosky said. “Four years up to two years ago.”

Bannerman paged through another file, opened a third, and paged some more. He shook his head. “Most of these are older boys, winter or spring, a couple more girls.”

Petrosky scowled. “We’ll need a copy of that information for our records.”

Bannerman’s eyes went steely.

“I can get a warrant, but taking all that extra time won’t help me find a killer who is still on the loose.”

“I’ll jot the information down for you.” Bannerman pulled a sheet of stationery from his desktop and a pen that appeared to be made from an animal tusk. All God’s fucking creatures. Apparently, that one wasn’t worth saving.

“Any other