LITMIR.BIZ

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still lived with her, apparently, although Tabitha hadn’t actually known that until after their breakup.

      Those golden eyes with the flecks of green turned on him and Johnny had to draw a long breath. “What’s Mark going to do when Jackson challenges their mutual dependency? When Jackson wants independence?” she asked, meeting his gaze head-on. “Taking Jackson makes Mark a criminal, but it doesn’t make him violent,” he said, drawing on case studies from law school. “A man who made his living helping sick children... I assume he’d have to have a decent bedside manner to keep his job.”

      She nodded and he continued. “And a guy who nursed his mother so she could die with dignity as she wanted to, at home...”

      Tabitha had given him those details months ago. Thankfully he’d remembered enough to be able to repeat them back to her now, when she needed to hear them.

      She nodded again. “You’re right. He’s gentle and nurturing...” She grabbed the handle of her door.

      She was ready to go in. His job was done. For another few minutes, at least.

      * * *

      The Bouncing Ball could have been any number of other daycares she and Johnny had toured over the past six months in various southern California cities. Still wearing the jeans and matching purple polo shirts they’d worn all day on the truck, they’d seen the two rooms designated for two-year-olds. They also saw a larger three-year-olds’ room, for next year when “Chrissy” was ready to move up. They’d toured the walled-in outdoor playground, accessible only from inside the daycare and outfitted with top-rated equipment, including swings and slides geared for younger children. The lunchroom, was furnished with plastic tables and chairs suited to toddlers.

      They’d seen a multipurpose room, complete with a small stage, and heard the sound equipment in use. They’d even been invited to take turns at the musical instruments in a soundproof room intended for early music lessons. While the orchestral instruments were only used by instructors, there was a keyboard, a drum set and a plastic guitar with real strings made for little fingers. And there were various other noisemakers, from maracas to bells and tambourines, that the kids could use with supervision.

      From room to room, as she saw the high-quality accommodations, Tabitha couldn’t help gushing about how much “Chrissy” would love it there, how happy she, herself, would be as a parent to know that her child was spending her time away from home in such a safe and nurturing place.

      Inside she was shaking—with relief, gratitude and fear—as she looked at the surroundings she was certain had housed her baby boy for the past year. Picturing Jackson there, believing that he’d been in this wonderful place, believing that Mark had at least found the best care for their son, brought the relief. The gratitude. Seeing what she supposed her son must have seen for the past year kept her tears close to the surface.

      And the thought of being there, possibly tipping Mark off that he was soon to be caught, struck fear in her.

      Twice she’d been on the verge of exposing too much of the emotion raging insider her, and both times she’d felt Johnny’s hand on the small of her back. Both times he happened to ask Mallory Harris a question pertinent to their tour. Both times she was grateful he was there.

      And grateful that they’d be going back to their hotel together that night, to share a glass of wine in the living area of the suite Johnny always insisted on getting for them, before parting to go to their separate rooms. As with all the other tours, he’d sit with her, discuss what they’d seen and heard. He’d ask if she’d felt anything, if her mother’s instinct had alerted her to anything. And he’d be supportive. Helping her maintain hope. He was giving her wonderful memories in the midst of the absolute worst time of her life.

      No matter how much she’d been craning to look for any sign of Jackson, she saw nothing that night.

      Nor had Mallory said anything to indicate that something could be amiss. They had questions they asked on every tour. Carefully worded questions about steps daycare personnel take if they ever see or suspect foul play. How they handle bullying. And how they help children without siblings join in group play. Things that could indicate if they’d had any recent suspicions or experience with foul play, or a toddler with no siblings.

      “And over here—” they were finishing the tour with a miniature gymnasium, really only the size of a big bedroom, but complete with gym floor and miniature basketball hoops “—are our trophies,” Mallory said, taking them to a plexiglass-enclosed case that resembled something you might see outside a high school auditorium. Johnny moved forward; she knew he was something of a sports buff who’d played varsity baseball and basketball in high school.

      Tabitha came up behind him to peer over his shoulder. Simply to be polite, not because she had an extra brain cell to allot to sports awards. She glanced at them, her mind on how to finagle a way to see Jackson. For the first time ever, she’d felt something when they’d walked in. Maybe if they enrolled “Chrissy” they could get a roster of the parents of the other two-year-olds for carpooling or fund-raising activities. Not that a roster would give her Jackson, since Mark had obviously changed their names or the police would already have found them. But she could see if there were any two-year-old boys who had only a father listed.

      A little face had been staring back at her from a photo on one side of the case as her mind wandered...and then Tabitha was grabbing Johnny’s shoulders, leaning against his back, thinking she might actually be going down.

      He turned, his arm sliding around her, and although she was still leaning heavily on him, the dizziness passed as quickly as it had come.

      “That photo of the kids who were on the winning team in the Easter egg hunt...”

      “As I said, we find ways to get everyone into the showcase,” Mallory said. “We have to be a bit creative with the littles, but at The Bouncing Ball, every single one of our children is a winner.”

      Mallory’s voice faded in and out. Tabitha didn’t turn around, didn’t look at the photo again. Didn’t need to. She had a cropped copy of it in the purse she’d left in the car. It was the photo the mother had posted on the internet of her little girl at school this Easter.

      “...not everyone wins all the time,” Mallory Harris was saying. “And there are some who think that teaching kids that everyone’s a winner is not preparing them for real life. But I believe that every single person on earth has the potential to win at something, whether it’s at being a parent or being good in a sport, at a job, good at cooking or growing flowers. Or good at smiling and making others feel happy. We all have something special to offer the world, and I like to think that after spending their first four years with us, our kids are better prepared to look for whatever that something special is—in themselves and others.”

      Tabitha was nodding vigorously. She could feel tears pressing at the backs of her eyes. Jackson’s team had won an Easter egg hunt. The picture on the internet had just shown the top halves of the children’s bodies, not the entire scene out in the daycare yard.

      “That little boy in the front of the photo... He’s holding the basket...”

      “Jason, yes. He was the team captain and got to carry the basket,” Mallory was saying. She didn’t give a last name. Didn’t reveal any information. But...

      Jason. Close to the Jackson the one-year-old had known as his name. Jason. Now they had a name to offer the police in Mission Viejo, who would get in touch with the San Diego department. She’d learned how it would work if she ever got any information regarding her son’s case. Not that she’d told anyone besides Johnny and the investigator he’d hired what she was doing.

      The FBI had been called in when Jackson first went missing; they had a special team that had been particularly helpful during the critical first hours—but local police had also stayed involved.

      Jackson was still on file as a missing person, but law enforcement had seen many other cases come and go since his disappearance. There was only so much they could do

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