Rita Herron - Unbreakable Bond & The Missing Twin - Unbreakable Bond / The Missing Twin

She hated the clunky glasses though. They were too big for her face, and some of the kids teased her and called her Four Eyes .

Other kids looked at her with pity just because she was handicapped, and she didn’t have a mommy.

She didn’t want them to feel sorry for her. She did want a mommy though.

She clicked on the keyboard, brought up her journal and began to type.

* * *

Mommy, I know you’re out there somewhere. I prayed that you would find me on Mother’s Day but that’s passed, so maybe you will on my birthday.

I don’t like it here. The house is dark and dusty. And Mama Reese says her knees hurt too much to play with me outside. Papa Reese’s cigarettes make my eyes itchy and watery and then I cough, and then he tells me to shut up. They don’t like my singing either.

I have to sing though. I dream sometimes that you’re looking for me. That you didn’t just leave me. That we just got losted from each other, and that you can hear me. That one day you’ll follow my voice and come and get me.

* * *

SHE SWIPED AT a tear running down her cheek. Crying was for babies but sometimes she couldn’t help it. Sniffling and swallowing to hold back more tears, she finished the journal entry.

* * *

I know I look kind of dorky, and I’m little for my age, and I can’t run like the other kids. And one of my eyes looks funny because I can’t see out of it, but I take my medicine every day so I don’t have the seizures anymore.

I’m getting better in school, too. I’m only a year behind. I’ve been practicing my writing, and I can almost make the letters right now. I can pour my own cereal and make my own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And I don’t mind wearing hand-me-downs if you don’t have much money.

Please come and get me, Mommy. I promise not to be any trouble.

* * *

SHE SAVED HER entry, then pulled on her pj’s and crawled in bed. Then she closed her eyes and prayed her mommy would hear her this time and come to get her as she began to sing….

SLADE LET HIMSELF into the fixer-upper house he’d purchased on the side of the mountain. The wooden two-story needed painting, a new roof, the wood floors needed to be stripped and restained and boards needed replacing on the wraparound porch.

He’d thought doing the work himself would be cathartic, but he’d yet to change a thing. Still, the place had character and at one time was probably a cozy home for some family.

He scoffed. As a kid, he’d dreamed about having a home like this. Now it didn’t seem to matter.

But the place was isolated and offered him privacy, as well as an abundance of wide-open mountain air. Something he’d desperately needed after Iraq and the place he’d been kept when he’d been taken prisoner. Cramped, dark, filthy, bug-infested, the stench, the human wastes…

And the blood from the soldiers who’d died trying to save him.

He inhaled a deep, calming breath, the summer air filling his nostrils with the scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers, chasing away the demons from his past. He had a job to do now, and he’d focus on that. Get through the day.

One hour at a time.

He spotted the bottle of whiskey on the counter, and the temptation to reach for it, to pour himself a mind-numbing shot seized him. Just one drink to erase the images in his head.

No… He was done burying his pain. He’d have to learn to live with it or it would destroy him. Then he couldn’t atone for his sins.

Instead, he strode to the workout room he’d created off the garage, yanked on boxing gloves and began to pound his punching bag. The faces of his bleeding and dying men haunted him, and he hit the bag harder, the rage eating his soul, chipping away at his sanity.

He had to learn to control it. Focus. Forget.

No, he couldn’t forget. Forgetting would mean dishonoring the sacrifices they’d made.

He wished to hell they’d just left him to die and saved themselves.

And their wives and families…three wives left alone now because of him.

His sister dead.

His mother gone.

He’d failed them all.

He would not fail Nina Nash.

Her story echoed in his head as he punched and slammed his fists into the bag, over and over, venting his anger over his own past and the anguish he’d heard in her voice.

But you might fail her , a voice taunted. You might because she wants you to find her daughter alive .

And you might discover she really is dead .

He slammed the bag so hard it swung back wildly, then came toward him and he punched it again. Again and again and again until sweat poured down his back and face, until his body ached and blood oozed from beneath the gloves.

Finally, when he’d purged his anger, he ripped off the gloves, went to the bathroom, showered then booted up his computer. He nuked a slice of leftover pizza and wolfed it down with a bottle of vitamin water while he searched news reports regarding infants’ and children’s deaths reported during the past eight years.

He specifically searched for any cases regarding premature births or babies found dead following the hospital fire.

Three different cases caught his eye, one baby who’d been found in a Dumpster two weeks to the day after Peyton had gone missing.

* * *

NINA JERKED AWAKE, the sound of the little girl’s singing echoing in her head.

The angelic voice… A song from Mary Poppins…

It had to belong to her daughter.

Or was she imagining it as the therapist had said? Creating a voice that she thought her daughter might sound like and playing it in her head because she couldn’t bear to let her go?

She closed her eyes and burrowed beneath the quilt, willing herself to fall back asleep so she could hear the voice again. Sometimes, the little voice sounded so close that it seemed the child was in the room with her. Sometimes, she knew that if she slept long enough, she would see her face in her dreams, that maybe Peyton could tell her where she was so she could find her.

Instead of the beautiful little girl’s song though, William’s threat reverberated in her head. Dr. Emery had wasted no time in calling him. He’d probably phoned her father, as well.

They’d probably all sighed and made sympathetic noises and lamented over her mental state. For all she knew, they were planning another intervention to convince her to check herself back in to the loony bin.

She would not go back there. She wasn’t crazy or demented.

She was simply a mother who needed to find her child.

A noise startled her, and she clenched the covers, certain she’d heard someone outside. The wind whistled, a tree limb scraped her window and an animal howled somewhere in the distance.

She sighed, willing herself to calm down.

She couldn’t lapse into paranoia again, not the way she had after she’d lost Peyton.

But another noise, a creaking sound on the front porch, sent her vaulting up from bed. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the trees shook violently, the sound of rain splattering the windowpanes, making a staticky sound like drums beating in the night.

She grabbed her robe, tied it around her waist and tiptoed to the den, shivering as the air conditioner kicked on. Darkness bathed the room, but a streak of lightning flashed in a jagged line and she froze, her heart pounding.

Had she seen someone on her porch? The silhouette of a shadow?

Fear surged through her, and she reached for the phone.

But the times when she’d called the sheriff flashed back. The way he’d dismissed her fears and ordered her to get some help, then claimed she was inventing shadows in the night.

His calls to her father…the never-ending cycle of his disdainful looks…