“Right? I mean, why would my boyfriend do that to his own baby?”
“Because men can suck,” said the nurse, whose nametag read Cecile.
“Not my boyfriend.” Tabitha’s voice was firm. “He’s going to come pick us up, and we’re going to live on a boat and sail around the world and homeschool Cosette.”
“Is that what you’ve named her?” Molly asked, reaching up to touch one of the baby’s tiny pink toes. She couldn’t help it. The little foot was dangling out from beneath the baby’s blanket just a few inches away, looking so soft and sweet and innocent that Molly had to touch it. “Cosette?”
“Yes.” Tabitha had the dreamy look that all women got while nursing, Molly’s sister included. But Tabitha’s was especially pronounced, because she was a teenager thinking about the boy she loved. “From Les Misérables. That’s my favorite book. Cosette knows tremendous hardship, but she’s a survivor, not a victim. I want my daughter to be just like her.”
“Not including the hardship, I hope.”
“Of course not!” Tabitha looked at Molly like she was crazy.
“Well, she’s so young, I doubt she’ll remember the rough start she got in life. I’m sure you and your boyfriend will give your daughter a wonderful upbringing. Has he called you?” Molly couldn’t believe she was sitting there, gently interrogating the new mother while she was nursing. What was wrong with her? “I suppose you’re getting discharged soon.”
“Well, no.” Tabitha looked ever so slightly troubled. “But I mean, he’s busy.”
“Sure he is,” said Cecile in a flat voice.
“No, really, he is. He’s getting the boat. We talked about this. He said it would take a few days to get a good one.”
“You mean steal one,” said Cecile.
“It’s not stealing,” Tabitha insisted. “It’s wrong to own property or people.”
Molly exchanged a glance with the nurse, who was adjusting Tabitha’s IV. The nurse suppressed a smile and turned away. It was clear she’d heard Tabitha express similar sentiments.
Suddenly Molly understood why John had insisted that Tabitha was “bananas.”
But Molly had a different opinion. Tabitha wasn’t mentally ill. She was simply young . . . young, naive, and in love.
“Well, of course it’s wrong to own people,” Molly said carefully. “But you might feel differently if someone took something that belonged to you—if it was your boat, for instance.”
“Not if they really needed it,” Tabitha said, shaking her head. “I’d give anyone anything I had that they really needed. I’m happy to share all that I have with those who have less.”
“Yes, but what if what they took was Cosette?”
Tabitha’s arms tightened protectively around her daughter. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that someone took your baby away from you. You weren’t okay with that, were you?”
“Of course not! But I’m talking about material things, not babies.”
“You said it wasn’t okay to own people.”
“I don’t own Cosette. She’s my daughter. I’d never let anyone take her away.”
Molly nodded. “Okay. I was just checking. Here, I brought something for you.” She rose and reached into her tote bag and pulled out the books, then handed both to Tabitha.
Tabitha gave the book of poetry only a fleeting glance, but she gasped at the picture book. “The Snowy Day! Oh my God, I used to have this book when I was a kid. It was my favorite. How did you know?”
“Everyone had that book when they were a kid,” Molly said. “It’s everyone’s favorite. It’s our most checked out book in the library, even though it’s never snowed once in Little Bridge. I think that’s why the kids here like it so much. I thought you might like to start reading it to Cosette.”
“Oh, I will.” When she was smiling, as she was now, Tabitha was a very attractive girl. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Miss Montgomery!”
It was on this scene—a rosy-cheeked Tabitha flipping through the pages of her favorite picture book as she nursed her newborn daughter, Molly and the nurse standing beside her bed—that a well-dressed man and woman walked in a few seconds later, wheeling suitcases behind them, bringing with them the unmistakable scent of air travel and money.
“Tabby?” the woman said, in disbelief, nearly dropping her suitcase.
Tabitha looked up from the book, and her jaw dropped in shock. “Mom? Dad?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
John
“The phones have been ringing off the hook” were the words with which Marguerite greeted John as he stepped into the office. “Everyone—and I mean everyone—on this island has seen Dylan Dakota.”
“His name is Larry Beckwith.”
“You know who I mean.”
“Great.”
John couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired. He felt weary down to his bones. All he wanted to do was crawl back into his bed, pull the covers up over his head, and sleep for eight hours. Maybe ten.
But unfortunately he couldn’t, because he had a criminal to catch.
Dylan Dakota had been seen at Frank’s Food Emporium buying beer.
Dylan Dakota had been seen at Ron’s Place drinking rum.
Dylan Dakota had been seen at an art gallery opening Thursday night admiring a watercolor by Bree Beckham and had even asked its price, though in the end he hadn’t bought it.
Dylan Dakota had been seen near the bight admiring city planner Randy Jamison’s yacht, and a few people had even thought he might try to steal it, but by the time deputies arrived, he was gone.
Dylan Dakota had been everywhere and seen by everyone, and yet no one seemed to know where he was right now.
John sat at his desk and rubbed his face. He wondered what he’d done to deserve a thorn like Larry Beckwith in his side. He wondered what he could do to get Molly Montgomery to like him again and to put Larry Beckwith in jail forever. He wondered if he was too old to quit law enforcement and go pitch for the Miami Marlins.
Marguerite knocked on his office door then opened it without waiting for him to say “Come in.”
“Chief, I’ve got Dorothy Tifton on the phone, the lady whose house got robbed?”
John regarded her wearily. “I know who she is, Marguerite.”
“Well, she says she has to talk to you, and you only. I told her you were busy, even though it doesn’t look to me like you are, actually. But she said it was important. I bet it’s something about her insurance. What do you want me to do?”
John waved a hand. “Put her through.”
“Right, Chief. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like crap, Chief.”
“Why, thank you, Marguerite. That is so kind of you.”
“Just letting you know, Chief.”
Marguerite closed the door on her way out. The call from Mrs. Tifton came through a few seconds later.
“Hello, ma’am,” John said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible and knowing he was failing. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”
“Sheriff.” Mrs. Tifton’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “I want you to know, I’ve got him.”
“I’m sorry,” John said. “I can barely hear you, Mrs. Tifton. Can you speak a little louder?”
“No, I can’t. Because I’m on the tail of that animal who broke into my house, and if I speak any louder, he might notice me.”
This caused John to sit up a little straighter in his chair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tifton. Did you say—are you—are you with Dylan Dakota right now?”
“If you mean the High School Thief, that’s right,” the old woman whispered. “Only that’s not the name he told me. He told me to call him Larry.”
John was so excited that he stood up behind his desk. Stood up and threw his stapler as hard as he could at his office door. The stapler broke the glass in the center of his doorframe, on which the words Sheriff John Hartwell had been written. Now, thanks to the stapler, there was only a gaping hole—a gaping hole soon filled by the face of Marguerite Ruiz, wearing an incredulous expression and mouthing the words What the hell?
John pointed at the phone receiver he was holding to his ear. We have him, he mouthed. Aloud, he said, “So where are you, Mrs. Tifton?”
“I’m at 24 Hour Fitness,” Mrs. Tifton whispered. “I don’t normally work out here, but I might change gyms, because they were very nice just now about letting me bring my dog in—you met my dog, didn’t you, Sheriff? My dog, Daisy?”
“I did meet your dog,” John said, while scrawling 24 Hour Fitness on a pad near his phone and holding it up for Marguerite to see. She nodded, then spoke quietly into her shoulder radio. “Your dog, Daisy, is lovely.”
“She is, isn’t she? Anyway, I was walking Daisy this morning, like I usually do, and thought I’d stop by the Cuban coffee place, because they make the best café con leches, don’t you think?”
“Of course.” On the pad, John wrote, NO SIRENS. DO NOT SPOOK HIM and showed it to Marguerite. She nodded and again spoke quietly into her shoulder radio.