Where the Road Ends. Tara Quinn Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ passed. But it was a small one, although it had its share of big old aluminum-sided homes in pleasant, shady neighborhoods. As quickly as possible, Amy perused as much of the town as she could manage, stopping at Mario’s Pizza, a convenience store and a couple of motels that weren’t name brand. She gave the artists’ shops a miss. Something told her Kathy would not be in the mood for shopping.

      And then, as she turned, looking beyond the big trees that lined the town, her heart stopped. Just for a moment. But it was long enough to take her breath away. And to let panic in. There, by the lake, was a ferry. The perfect way for a woman—and her car—to disappear. Amy swore. She tried to take a deep breath to prevent the tears that threatened from falling.

      Kathy could already have left. Gone. Missing again.

      And if she had, Amy would have to wait who knew how long for the next ferry. By that time, her ex-nanny could be anywhere. Her hand came down hard on the steering wheel. Why the hell did this keep happening?

      Johnny? Are you up there? Help.

      The Butler served great steaks, a neon sign told her as she drove past to the ferry.

      And the Bayside Inn had suites with fireplaces.

      A worn wooden sign proclaimed the existence of the Singapore Yacht Club. The deserted facility did not deliver the promise of its expensive-sounding name.

      The bandstand by the ferry was completely desolate. Forlorn-looking. Not even the ducks were venturing out in this cold.

      Maybe the ferry would follow. Maybe it, too, would remain inactive, not operating on such a bone-chilling day.

      Of course, Amy wasn’t that lucky. As the cold seeped through her jeans, she stood by the dock and waited while the elderly ferry worker thought back over his morning.

      “No, miss, we’ve only had a couple of families and a few business travelers today,” he told her when she inquired about the day’s passengers.

      “You’re sure you haven’t seen a green Grand Am? Or a woman who looks like this?”

      She showed him the weathered snapshot again, just to make sure his old eyes really saw the woman depicted there. Her fingers were shaking, though from the cold penetrating her body or the stress consuming it she had no idea.

      He held the photo close to his face.

      “I’m sure,” he finally said, still studying Kathy’s image. “I haven’t seen her.”

      Amy’s cheeks hurt as she broke into a grin. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and half skipped back to her car. This time no was a good answer.

      Brad called. Three of his investigators were covering western Michigan. One was behind her. One in front of her. And one was taking the off-shoot roads. Amy was relieved to hear the news, but she couldn’t rest.

      She did, however, take the time to scout out the elementary school in Saugatuck after her visit to the sheriff’s office turned up nothing. Or rather, the elementary school in Douglas, Saugatuck’s neighboring town. They split educational responsibilities; Saugatuck had the high school, Douglas, kindergarten to grade six.

      If Kathy was living nearby with Charles, he might, at that very moment, be in Douglas Elementary. Learning to read. Or to do simple math.

      Maybe playing in the schoolyard.

      Amy hoped Charles had a warm coat with a hood. He’d always been prone to ear infections during the winter months.

      But then, Kathy would know that. She was the one who’d taken Amy’s son to the doctor, picked up his prescriptions and more often than not, administered them. It had usually been Kathy—or Johnny—who was up nights, walking with the crying toddler, soothing him, while Amy got a few hours sleep before having to face another day of high-pressure meetings with powerful men who frequently tried to get the best of the young woman doing a man’s job.

      Her father’s job.

      William they’d trusted. With Amy, during those first two years, they’d withheld judgment until she’d proved herself worthy of their confidence. William’s Amelia had always been respected, but more because William thought the sun rose and set on her than because of her MBA.

      From the time of her mother’s death in a car accident when Amelia was less than a year old, the child had been a regular at the Wainscoat offices. She and William had been closer than most fathers and daughters, enjoying each other’s company, sharing each other’s vision of life, the world and, of course, the business. When he died so unexpectedly, Amelia might have died, too, if not for Charles. And Johnny. And the sudden responsibility that had been thrust on her—to run the company her father had spent his life building.

      Amy looked at the Kid’s Stuff Park across the street from Douglas Elementary. Not a soul in sight.

      The school, a one-story brick building that took up almost an acre, was on Randolph, right off Blue Star Highway. Two white mobile units were the first thing she saw as she pulled into the almost full parking lot. Friday morning, nearly eleven. Too early for lunch. School would still be in session.

      Cut-out snowflakes adorned the classroom windows. They upset her. She was missing out on all the art projects made by tiny hands.

      Please, God, don’t let Charles be missing out on them, too.

      The playground behind the school was as empty as the bandstand had been. Empty, cold, unfriendly.

      Hoping she wouldn’t be stopped, Amy parked and headed into the building like the CEO she was. As though she had every right to be there. As though she’d never been told no in her life.

      With a competence born of habit, she scanned the hallways, determined the school’s layout and then quickly peeked into the classrooms on both sides of the corridor. It didn’t take her long to locate the kindergarten. Or to see that her son was not among the children there.

      It took her a lot longer to dispel the heavy darkness descending on her as she smiled at a passing administrator and made her way back to her car. Leaving her gloves off, she started the engine.

      Why did she let her hopes rise every single damn time? Why couldn’t she just wait until she found out the results before she even thought about celebrating? Why, whenever she came to a new town, did she have to envision her reunion with her son? Play it out in glorious detail so that each time the dream died, it was that much more painful?

      But Amy knew why she didn’t stop, why she let her hopes build. Because as soon as she quit hoping, her life might as well be finished.

      It was those images of Charles’s little arms wrapped around her that got her out of bed every morning. That kept her eyes open and her mind clear while she continued, day after day, to venture into the unknown for something that might not be there.

      She had to believe.

      It was that or die.

      4

      She made it onto Randolph before she had to pull over. Cold though she was, her body was sweating, her head light. She found it hard to think. The cycle of hope and disappointment got to her sometimes, jeopardized her equilibrium, her ability to go on. Or at least, during СКАЧАТЬ