Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

"Which is why you don't think she ran away."

"I know she didn't run off because if she had she wouldn't…" Another pause. A sharp intake of breath. "I'll be blunt. I don't mean to speak poorly of Deanna. She was doing the best she could but, if she'd left, she wouldn't have taken Connor. If she'd wanted to start a new life, it wouldn't have included him. She was having a hard time. She wanted to be off with her friends, going to parties, dating…"

"Like any sixteen-year-old."

"Exactly. When she became pregnant, I strongly suggested adoption. Maybe too strongly. I might have made her feel like I didn't think she could care for a baby and she wanted to prove me wrong."

In the silence, I could hear Noyes's self-recriminations and hurried to change the subject. "I saw Deanna's picture. She's a beautiful girl."

"Isn't she? And Connor? He was gorgeous. People used to stop Deanna in malls and tell her Connor belonged on TV."

"Did anyone ever take his picture? Offer to make him a model?"

Noyes paused. "No. Why?"

"A few weeks before my niece disappeared, a man took photos of her baby. He claimed to be from a modeling agency, but I was suspicious. You hear so much about perverts – "

"Yes!" Noyes fairly shouted the word. "Oh, God, yes! I knew it. I knew it. I told the police, but they brushed me off – " She inhaled, controlling her excitement. "A few weeks before Deanna and Connor vanished, she took him to a Christmas parade. This man said he was from the Free Press and wanted to take Connor's picture. Deanna was thrilled. She thought her baby was going to make the front page."

"But he didn't."

"Not the front page, not the back page. I know photographers don't use every shot they take, but when Deanna told me the story, I didn't like it. She said he took a whole roll of pictures, mostly of Connor, but some of the two of them together. That's too many takes for a simple human-interest shot."

"Did Deanna get his name?"

"She didn't ask. Too excited, I'm sure."

"Did she tell you anything about him?"

"She said he looked like a photographer. Clean-cut. Nicely dressed. Homely." A laugh. "That's not the word she used, but you know what I mean."

"Unattractive."

"Yes. She said he was around my husband's age. Thirty-five or so. Oh, and he had very nice teeth. Very straight, very white. She made a point of saying that. As if no one could be a pervert and practice good oral hygiene. Does this sound like the man your niece met?"

"She didn't say anything about his appearance." I hated to lie, but I couldn't have Noyes phoning the police with added information. "I don't know if there's a connection, but I'm going to keep after our local police. Would you like me to keep you updated?"

"Even if there's no connection to Deanna, let me know if your niece turns up. And hang in there. I know it's hard, but there's always hope, right?"

God, how I wished that were true. But there was no hope for Sammi, and I was pretty sure there wasn't for Deanna, either. I could only hope there was still some for their babies.

When I got off the phone, I drove in silence and stopped at the first coffee shop we spotted. We went inside, found a quiet table, and I told Jack my theory.

There's a black market for every valuable commodity, including infants. Years back there'd been a scandal over one set of twins being sold multiple times. I recalled none of the specifics, but what did stick in my mind were the photos of the deceived adoptive parents. In their faces, I'd seen all the raw pain and grief of any victim touched by violence.

Though I had no experience with the adoption system, I knew it wasn't like driving over to the Humane Society and saying you'd like a kitten. There were too many parents and too few babies. What if you had a blemish on your personal history? I could be married to a minister and they'd turn down my application.

I'd heard of international adoption, but if you were hell-bent on having a healthy Caucasian baby, how far would you be willing to go? How much would you be willing to pay?

Sammi and Deanna were both marginalized teenage mothers, girls that everyone would assume had just run off. Sammi had an alcoholic, abusive mother. Deanna's grandmother had disowned her. To anyone who did a routine background check, it would seem there was no one to miss either of them.

Both were beautiful young women with beautiful babies. Healthy girls, healthy babies. Both had their pictures taken within weeks of their deaths. Sales photos.

See how beautiful and healthy this baby is? See the mother? See how she's smiling? She's so happy her baby will go to a good family.

I could not – would not – believe that the people who'd adopted Destiny and Connor knew what had happened to their babies' mothers. I hold out too much faith in the human race for that. The smiling photos of mother and child would go a long way toward persuading buyers of the teen's sincerity. The parents would pay the money, sign phony documents, take the child, and be reassured that they'd never have to worry about the mother contesting the adoption.

Why not just pay the mothers off? From what Noyes said, it wouldn't have taken much to buy Connor from Deanna. The girls had been killed because it was the easiest thing to do. It avoided haggling over price, let the seller keep all the money, and eliminated any chance of interference. They'd been killed because they were disposable.

"What I need to do now is research black-market adoptions. Not that I know where to start looking."

I scrubbed at an ancient coffee ring, my napkin shredding as the stain clung to the melamine.

"Wanna move?" Jack said. "Table over there's clear." "For a coffee stain? I'll live. It's just… it's like seeing a crooked picture. It gnaws at me, especially if I'm already edgy." I rolled my shoulders, then laid a clean napkin over the mark. "There. Now, I need to figure out – "

"Stick with what we know. Black-market babies? No. Hitmen? Yes."

I reached for my coffee, then decided I really didn't need more caffeine. Just thinking about guys out there, killing kids for their babies, was enough to have me perched on the edge of my seat, toes beating the floor, gaze sliding to the door.

"Hit was good." Jack grimaced. "Don't mean that way. Good as in – "

" – professional, I know. It was a clean hit and a decent b – " I couldn't bring myself to say body dump. " – burial. We aren't talking about some thug who'll graduate to contract killer if someone offers him five grand. This guy's a serious pro, meaning we're dealing with a restricted pool of suspects. Not small enough to just go knocking on doors, though…"

"Leave it with me. You look after your business."

We made it back to the lodge by midafternoon. I'd told Emma I was dropping Jack off in Peterborough on my way to Toronto, giving him a break from being cooped up at the lodge. As for why I'd gone to Toronto, Emma knew it was related to Sammi, presuming I was still trying to find her.

I found Emma in the laundry room, folding linens.

"Did you see anyone as you were coming in?" she asked.

"Are we expecting early guests?"

She shook out a pillowcase. "We had one, but only for about an hour before he took off."

"Decided this wasn't quite what he had in mind?"

"No, that wasn't it. At least, I don't think it was." She folded the case, ironing out the creases with her rough hands. "Does anyone know you're looking for Sammi, Nadia?"

I nearly dropped the sheet I was lifting. "What?"

She waved for me to calm down. "It's probably nothing. At worst, the Draytons have hired a PI to look for their grandbaby, and I wouldn't say that's a bad thing. They have the money; they should be looking, not you."