20. Declan #2
"I don't know. The apartment was empty. The front door was unlocked. There's no one here, Mr. Hale. Just the baby."
The room tilted. My chair scraped the floor. I was on my feet.
I looked at Nolan, then Julian, then Graham — still seated, his hands still folded, his expression still reading the room. "Handle him." I pointed at Graham. "Don't let him leave this building."
Nolan's eyes went to Graham. Graham's eyes went to me. For the first time in a decade, I saw something move behind his glasses. He knew what we'd found.
I was out the door.
The elevator. The lobby. The car. I drove myself. I ran a red light on Fifty-Seventh. A taxi honked. I didn't care.
My phone sat in the cup holder. I called Thea, but it went to voicemail. I hung up and called again. Same result. The recording. The beep. The silence.
My heart was pounding by the time I reached the door. The penthouse door was unlocked. I pushed it open.
Mrs. Parrish was in the nursery, standing beside the crib, holding Lena against her shoulder. The baby was sniffling and hiccupping. Mrs. Parrish's hand moved on Lena's back in small, firm circles.
Relief. That’s what I saw when she looked at me, and with it, the most expression her face had ever shown — the tight line of her mouth, the crease between her brows.
"How long?" I asked.
"I don't know. I arrived fifteen minutes ago. She was awake in the crib, crying. No one was here."
I took Lena from her. The baby came to me easily — both arms reaching, her face pressing into my neck, her fist finding my collar. The grip was tight. She was shaking, small, full-body tremors.
I held her close to my chest, my chin against the top of her head. Her heartbeat was fast. "It's okay. I'm here. Daddy's here."
I stood in the nursery, holding my daughter, my heart hammering, trying to piece together what happened. Thea was here this morning, watching Lena. Mrs. Parrish was off. The night nurse wasn't scheduled until evening. Where was Thea?
I called her again. Voicemail.
I was pulling the phone from my ear when the intercom buzzed.
The concierge said, "Mr. Hale, a Lorraine Calloway here to see you."
Lorraine. Thea's mother. I buzzed her up.
The elevator opened. Lorraine walked in. Her eyes found me — standing in the hallway, still in my suit, Lena against my chest — and her face flooded with enormous, visible relief.
"Oh, thank God, you're here!" She pressed a hand to her chest, out of breath, her purse sliding off her shoulder.
"I had to run out for just a minute. Ray called.
He needed me. You know how it is." She waved her hand.
"But Lena was fast asleep. She was absolutely fine.
I was only going to be gone a little bit, and then it took longer than I expected, but I came right back.
" She smiled. "You're here now, so everything's fine. "
I held her gaze. The smile stayed on her face, waiting for mine to match it.
"How long was she alone, Lorraine?"
"Not long." The hand waved again. "Fifteen, twenty minutes? She was sleeping, Declan. Babies sleep. She was fine."
Fifteen or twenty minutes. A baby alone in a penthouse, forty stories up, with an unlocked front door. Fifteen or twenty minutes where anything could have happened, and the woman responsible was somewhere else because Ray called.
I didn't say what I was thinking. I didn't trust myself to say it without breaking something — the politeness, the composure, the thin agreement between me and this woman that existed only because her daughter loved her.
"Where's Thea?" I asked.
"Oh, she had to go to work. Some emergency at the nonprofit. That's why I was watching the baby." Lorraine adjusted her purse on her shoulder. "I told her to go. She works so hard, that girl. You know how she is." She reached out and touched Lena's head. "Give her my best when she gets back."
She kissed Lena on the crown. "Bye-bye, sweetheart." She turned, walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and got in. The doors closed.
I stood in the penthouse. Lena was quiet against my chest, her fist still tight on my collar, her trembling finally slowing. Mrs. Parrish was in the kitchen, putting away the groceries she'd come to deliver — bags rustling, the refrigerator opening and closing.
I walked to the couch and sat down. Lena shifted against me. I loosened my grip enough that she could move, and she did. She pulled back, looked at my face with those blue eyes, my eyes, then grabbed my finger and put it in her mouth.
I sat there, my daughter chewing on my hand, the penthouse quiet, the late afternoon light falling through the windows in long amber bars.
Then the front door opened.
Thea.
She stood in the doorway, her bag on her shoulder, her hair escaping the bun, her face flushed from moving fast. Her eyes found me on the couch, then Lena in my arms. She scanned the room — the kitchen, the hallway, the empty nursery doorway. Her face changed. I watched the color drain from it.
Her bag slid off her shoulder and hit the floor. Her hands were shaking.
I looked at her. She looked at me. Lena chewed on my finger between us, the only calm person in the room.
"Where were you?"