The couple look happy. Ready. Rich. It’s painful knowing what tragedy awaited them. You’d never know by looking at this picture. They didn’t know, and there’s a lump in my throat just thinking about it. I zoom in, squinting to take in every feature on Amelia’s face. Do we look alike? Is it possible? We both have narrow noses and green eyes. Her hair is a mousy brown, the same color mine used to be. Is that coincidence, or connection? Do I look more like her, or Mom? Do I look like that young girl in the mugshot?
Two Moms, I think with a shudder.
I keep scrolling through online archives. We have so few pictures of my childhood before we moved here, but there are multitudes of Amelia’s family, the Boones, and Bruce’s, the Parkers. They were both wealthy families who, when not committed to charity, devoted their lives to leisure. There are tons of pictures from both sides of the family: picnics under trees, water skiing on lakes and horseback riding on beaches. That nugget of envy returns, the one I felt growing up, watching my friends go about life with their normal, traditional families.
They think you’re Baby Caroline.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, as though the secrets it contains are a contagion. I place my fingers against my temples, staring at the sinking sun in the sky. A mistake must have been made. An explanation must be imminent. And yet, there is a sinking feeling in my gut that I’m missing part of this story.
I need to talk to Mom.
5 MarionNow
Hours seem to pass. I’m still staring at that same stretch of sky, noticing how it changes. Streaks of orange splash against the blue as evening begins, a view that, on any other night, would leave me feeling peaceful, appreciative. Like the world is exactly as it should be.
The phone rings. It’s Carmen.
“Where are you?”
“At the beach. I needed some time alone to try and make sense of all this.”
“You can’t see your mom tonight.” She drops the news, unceremoniously. The last thing she must want is to extend the uncertainty. “You should probably go home.”
Your mom. Is she my mom? The police don’t think she is. Could she be anyone else?
“I have to speak with her, Carmen. I’ve been looking into Baby Caroline and—”
“It’s not a choice, Marion. Visiting hours are over. It’s been a long day, for her especially. She could probably use a night’s rest.”
“Did you get to speak with her?”
“A little.”
“And? What did she say?”
There’s a pause, which makes me nervous. “I think she’s still in shock. She’s not really answering any of my questions. Like I said, rest would do her good.”
I close my eyes, wondering what Mom must be going through. She should have jumped at the opportunity to speak with Carmen, given her any information necessary to prove her innocence.
“I might be able to set up something tomorrow,” Carmen says. “Right now, the best thing you can do is go home. Take care of Ava. Take care of yourself. The foreseeable future will be exhausting.”
She pauses again. It’s like we’re thinking along the same track. Police. Press. If this case is what it’s looking like, the repercussions will be huge. Insurmountable.
“Thank you for this, Carmen. Thank you for helping her.”
The research I’ve been doing into the Baby Caroline case has left me with more questions than answers. I know little about the Parkers and their daughter and the mysterious Sarah Paxton. The only person I do know in all this is Mom, and what they’re saying about her can’t be true. With Carmen on our side, I’m hoping we’ll be able to prove it.
I must have sat in that parking lot for hours. During that time, the police completed their search of The Shack. Des insisted on looking over the place, checking what, if any, damage had been done. She took Ava with her, so I go there to meet them.
I’m not sure what I was expecting the place to look like. It’s not been this bad since the renovation. I can see where they’ve pulled up the tiles in certain areas of the floor, not taking the time to put them back. They’ve moved the furniture around, sifted through every drawer and left the contents strewn on the counters. They’ve taken the computer we use to track orders and process payments. I’m sure they did more damage upstairs, where Mom lives, but I don’t think I have the energy to walk up the steps. I used what little I had left to tell Des everything I knew about the case, watching her bewildered reaction.
“The police have got it wrong. I’ve never heard the name Sarah Paxton in my life,” Des says, passionately. “I think I would know if my best friend used a different name.”
She pours a cup of coffee and slides it in front of me. To my right, Ava sways in her baby swing. It remained untouched by the police. As usual, she’s in her happy, infant daze, nearing the edge of sleep. I hope she won’t put up a fight tonight.
“Thanks,” I say, my fingertip stroking the warm ceramic before I take a sip.
“I’m putting in a pizza for us, too.”
At least the appliances work. It will take several days of labor before we’re able to open the dining room back to the public, not to mention the cost of repurchasing our computer equipment. Even then, I’m not sure how many customers we’ll have left. These accusations are severe. I wouldn’t blame people for wanting to stay clear of the restaurant right now.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat something. I bet you’ve not put anything in your stomach since the party.”
She’s right. Food has been the last thing on my mind, but I know there’s no sense in arguing with Des. I watch as she prepares the
