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‘Look, Aunt Alice!’ Mary calls.
I don’t raise my head, worried my blurry vision might spill over. I clear my throat, holding a hand to my chest. ‘One sec, sweetie.’
Blinking my vision clear, I read the last document. It’s a list of all the foster homes I ever stayed in from age six to eighteen.
And now I know that Thomas Moore’s Central Park mansion is just another for the list.
* * *
Thomas
When Mason called my office almost as soon as I arrived to tell me he found Kayla, I was apprehensive. And not at all prepared for what we found when we got there.
‘Hey, boys, welcome.’ The ponytailed waitress drops two cocktail napkins on the dark-stained, resin-covered table with a smile. ‘I’m Kayla and I’ll be taking care of you.’ She grabs a pen from her front apron. ‘Can I get you guys something to drink?’
My brain does not compute how this healthy, untroubled, clear-eyed young woman serving drinks in a tavern restaurant on Staten Island could be capable of abandoning her injured child at a hospital.
‘Kayla Rogers?’ Mason asks, sounding very much like the police officer he used to be.
Kayla’s smile fades, her eyes shifting between us. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Private Investigator Mason.’ Mason tips his chin toward me. ‘This is my client, Thomas Moore.’
I nod at her.
‘I’ll give you two some time to talk.’ He points to the bar in the middle of the restaurant where a few of the early lunch crowd are watching this past weekend’s sports highlights. ‘I’ll just be over there.’
Kayla takes a step back, as if preparing to run.
I reach out and grab her wrist, holding her in place. ‘It’s about Mary.’
She stiffens, then, as if giving in to the inevitable, sinks into the chair Mason left.
I wait while a group of men wearing polo shirts and lanyards laugh at some shared joke. While a mother lays a highchair cover down before sitting her baby into it. While a couple sit on the same side of a booth sharing fries. Still, Kayla says nothing.
She plays the silent game better than I do.
‘Aren’t you going to ask how she is?’
Concern flashes in her eyes, then fades just as fast. ‘She’s with Alice, she’s fine.’
My suit slides across the heavy wood seat of my chair. ‘How do you know?’
She gives me a look to rival that of any teenager. ‘Because Alice wouldn’t let anything happen to her.’
‘No.’ I lean forward, invading her space and wiping the smart-ass look off her face. ‘How did you know Mary was with Alice? You left before Alice arrived.’
‘Oh.’ She picks up the cocktail napkin in front of her, making small tears along the edges. ‘I listened to the voicemails she left before I cancelled my phone.’
‘I see.’ And I do. I see that she’s a woman who took the time to give herself peace of mind about her daughter but didn’t care enough to return the calls to give Alice the same.
‘Who are you anyway?’ Head still down, she peers at me from under her lashes. It reminds me of Mary. As does her olive skin and chestnut hair.
But it’s obvious in these few minutes that everything smart, caring and kind Mary got from Alice.
‘I’m Mary’s…’ I’m at a loss to explain anything. I settle for, ‘I’m Alice’s boss.’
‘Oh, that Thomas Moore.’ She smirks like she knows something I don’t.
