“Fix this.” I’m angry now. “Mom isn’t capable of something so horrific. It would mean she kidnapped me as a child. That she murdered a man. That she’s not even my real mother. They can’t possibly think that?”
“Yes.” She looks down. “That’s exactly what they think.”
“They’ve got the wrong person.”
Carmen squeezes my hand. “I have to go back inside. Should I call Des?”
“No. Don’t.” I raise my head to look at her; my beautiful friend looks abnormally pale. My own appearance must be frightening. “Just go.”
She remains on her knees another moment, debating whether she should leave me. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more, okay?”
I nod. She stands and brushes off her thighs before walking inside the police station. I’m alone again, trying to iron out the information I’ve just been given. The woman who has raised me, shown me nothing but a gentle hand, couldn’t be responsible for such crimes. It would mean my entire existence was no more than a fabrication. It would mean my mother… was something else. A deranged woman who stole me away, leaving a dead body and decades of mystery in her wake.
Who is Baby Caroline?
They’ve got the wrong person. They’ve made a mistake. Police fumble investigations all the time, don’t they? Every documentary leads you to think so. There’s no way my mother, the only parent I’ve ever known, could have done something so heinous. My mother is caring. Thoughtful. She puts everyone before herself, me more than anyone. She’s not the type of person who could have done something like this.
A car door slams beside me. Two officers exit a vehicle and walk toward the station, their badges glinting as they pass. I take several deep breaths and stand. I’m not sure where I should go, but I know I have to leave. I need to think, list every reason why this outlandish accusation is false. They have the wrong person. That’s the best explanation—the only explanation.
I drive past The Shack. The police cars have multiplied. Inside, they are no doubt tearing apart the business and Mom’s upstairs apartment. The place where I spent the bulk of my childhood. My home. The business quadrant of my brain has a fleeting thought about what a PR nightmare this could be. Holly Dale has probably posted on Facebook by now. I imagine the confused faces of our local customers when they realize their favorite restaurant isn’t an option for dinner tonight. I imagine their horror when they learn what I’ve just been told: that their neighbor and friend stole a child and raised her as her own.
Who is Baby Caroline?
I park my car in a vacant lot by the pier. I can’t deal with Ava’s needs or Des’ questions right now. I just can’t. I have to grapple with my own understanding of these allegations first. Besides, the beach has always been my personal place of refuge. I remain in the car, watching as the sun sinks into the water in the distance. It has always been so beautiful here in North Bay. There’s rarely a scandal; now my mother is immersed in one.
The crime itself is so unnerving. I can’t quite grasp the horror of it, of walking into the nursery and finding an empty crib. My own heart leaps into my throat when I think of Ava being part of such an ordeal—it would be every parent’s worst nightmare. To one minute have your child safe at home, the next having that security ripped away from you. Being helpless to prevent it.
I lean back the seat and pull out my phone. Baby Caroline. Already, there are articles being published—forty-five minutes ago, thirty-eight minutes ago—about the arrest, although Mom’s name hasn’t been released. Looking back further, I see several stories have been written about the case. There are numerous thirty-year anniversary features from a few years back. I begin reading, taking it all in.
Baby Caroline, born Caroline Parker in 1987. An infant abduction. A woman named Sarah Paxton broke into the home of Amelia and Bruce Parker. Amelia was attacked, Bruce was murdered, and Baby Caroline was taken. Paxton’s whereabouts remain unknown. It was one of those cases that had a dozen different theories, breadcrumbs leading nowhere. Were the parents responsible? Unlikely, considering one of them was murdered and Amelia Parker was able to name a suspect. Was it human trafficking? An attempted ransom gone wrong? Endless possibilities, all fruitless and forgotten, until a slow news day brought the story back into the spotlight. Never any solid leads. Never any answers.
At the end of the article, there is a picture of Sarah Paxton; it’s the only known picture of her. It was taken when she was seventeen, after she was arrested for a previous crime. I pinch the screen, zooming in on the girl’s face. The girl in the photo has a different hair color and a bitter scowl. Could it be Mom? Even I’m not sure. There is limited information about Sarah Paxton. In the few articles I’ve read, most of the information focuses on Baby Caroline’s parents.
Amelia and Bruce Parker. I can’t imagine their heartache, and yet, I feel compelled to attach faces to their names. They are real people after all. Real victims of an unspeakable tragedy. Most of the pictures are of Amelia post-attack. She is wearing structured dresses, sitting in front of interviewers or standing behind a podium. In some photos, she is crying, yet somehow she appears stoic and calm. A determined woman on the hunt for answers, guided by hope.
Finally, I find a photo of Bruce and Amelia together. It seems to have been taken on their wedding day. She’s not wearing the frivolous layers of the time, but her hair has just enough height to let you know it’s the eighties. Her décolleté is exposed, the hem folding beneath
