The guy behind the counter looks fresh out of the academy, even younger than the cop back at The Shack. He sees me standing, but purposely ignores me for a few seconds. When he finishes writing, he looks up. “Help you?”
“I need to see my mother. She was brought in earlier today.”
“Name?”
“Eileen Sams.” Or should I say Sarah Paxton? I don’t even know what name I should use.
“Your name?”
“Marion Sams.” I look past the cop. There are a few more uniformed officers standing around, chatting. No one seems to mirror my state of rush.
A door to my right opens, and Carmen walks out. I turn, no longer seeking assistance from the deputy at the desk.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask her.
“She’s still being processed. It’ll be a while before she can have visitors,” she says.
“I want to see her now.”
“Marion, you’re going to have to wait.”
“Have you at least figured out what’s going on?” My voice is louder than normal, almost a shriek. “Can you tell me anything?”
Carmen yanks my arm, leading me outside. A cement bench rests to the left of the door. She forces me to sit.
“I understand you’re upset right now, but from this moment forward you need to keep your emotions in check. Everything you say and do should be to help your mother’s case. You’re a big part of this, which means you’ll have to listen to me.”
“I’m a part of this—” I can’t even form a question. There are too many antagonistic thoughts at the forefront of my mind, fighting for priority. “Please, just tell me what’s going on. Who do they think she kidnapped? Who do they think she killed?”
Carmen takes a deep breath, looking over her shoulder before she continues.
“Back in the eighties, there was an infant abduction. A rich couple out of New Hutton. A woman broke into their home, attacked the mother and killed the father. Their three-month-old daughter was kidnapped. The press has aired several stories about it over the years. It’s known as the Baby Caroline case. Any of this sound familiar?”
Some of what she says connects, in the same way any high-profile mystery would. I’m not sure of the details. I don’t follow much media coverage, and anything on the crime channels gives me the creeps, especially after having Ava.
“I don’t know. What does any of this have to do with Mom?”
“A woman named Sarah Paxton is considered the prime suspect. The police are alleging your mother was responsible for that kidnapping.” She swallows hard, failing miserably at disguising her dread. “They think you’re Baby Caroline.”
3 EileenThen
Dear Marion,
I’m writing this letter in the hope you’ll never have to read it. I know that’s selfish, as many of my decisions must seem to you in this moment, but I hope that by reading this you’ll understand some of the selfless choices, too.
Today you are ten years old, and you’ve come to me just now, asking a question. You wanted to know about our family. I assured you the term only applied to the two of us. In a selfish chamber of my heart, it’s true. But you’re becoming so bright and curious. You’re exactly as I always imagined you’d be, and that ushered in the realization you might one day be confronted with the truth. That’s why I want you to hear it from me, in my own words, and I’m writing everything down, in case I’m no longer around to tell you myself.
Before we get started, you must understand why the idea of family is so important to me. I’ve avoided telling you about my upbringing because one child shouldn’t have to live through it, let alone two. But now you need to know. To understand.
My father was a violent man. There wasn’t a deputy in our county who couldn’t recall some run-in with him. A bar fight they busted up. A high-speed chase down the narrow dirt roads that snaked around our house. But most often, they knew him from when they’d get a call from the neighbors. He was either beating on Mama or me, sometimes both.
Living like that, it wasn’t a family. Not a good one, anyway. From the time I was a little girl, I promised myself I’d have better. I wouldn’t cower in the corner, like Mama, or take out my anger on those smaller than me, like Daddy.
Of course, I stumbled a few times along the way. Being a screw-up is genetic, I think. It is as hereditary as any other trait. I come from a long line of screw-ups, and although I was able to persevere, I had my missteps. Like Mama, I fell into the trap of believing that maybe a man could solve my problems. I started dating Albert Crawford when I was sixteen. He convinced me to drop out of school and move into his apartment in New Hutton. I did it, mainly because I finally had a roof over my head that wasn’t owned by my father. But I also did it because it felt, in a sad, convoluted way, like I was one step closer to getting that family I’d always dreamed about.
As you’d expect, things with Albert didn’t last. He gave me more trouble than anything. He was the one who convinced me to rob that convenience store. Beer and smokes, he said. No one cares about beer and smokes. But once we got in there, he was reaching for the cash register. I didn’t know until the police showed up—turns out the lady behind the counter had one of those buttons that silently made them aware—that Albert was carrying a gun.
Screw-up.
Like I said, it was in my genes. I took that moment to evaluate where my life was headed if
