Karen Whiddon - The Cop's Missing Child

Chewing on her thumbnail, she forced herself to stop. “I’m not sure. If this keeps up, I have no choice.”

“You don’t even know if this incident is related.”

“How can it not be?” Emily protested. “This intruder took Ryan’s adoption records. That was the crux of the threats to begin with. Something about the way Carlos got our son.”

“Did he use an adoption service?”

“No. It was a private adoption. Apparently lots of money changed hands. I’m guessing, though I don’t know for sure, that whatever channels Carlos went through weren’t exactly on the up-and-up.”

“As long as both parties signed the necessary paperwork and the documents were filed in a court of law …”

With her throat closing up from the panicked feeling in her chest, she debated whether to go on. In the end, she couldn’t risk Mac not understanding the awful truth she suspected—that Ryan was her husband’s natural son with one of his mistresses. No way was she letting anyone take her son away from her. She’d die first.

In a quiet voice, she relayed her suspicions.

“I’ve tried to trace the adoption,” she admitted. “Any records beyond what I had were completely destroyed. It’s possible—though not certain—that my husband may have obtained Ryan’s birth certificate illegally.”

To his credit, Mac showed no reaction—as if he heard stories like this every day. Then again, maybe he did.

“So what you’re telling me is that you aren’t one hundred percent sure you have a legal right to your boy.”

Just hearing the words made Emily feel as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She wanted to double over, and only a supreme act of willpower kept her standing upright.

“I—” briefly she closed her eyes “—I don’t know.”

Now Mac pushed back his chair and stood. As he moved closer, she figured he meant to shake hands and held hers out accordingly.

Instead, to her complete and utter shock, he wrapped his muscular arms around her and gave her a quick hug.

“I’ll keep this information between us for the time being. Right now, our focus is on finding whoever wrote you that letter and broke into your house.”

Blinking back tears, she stepped out of his embrace and nodded. “Thank you.”

Expression enigmatic, he simply watched her, as though waiting for her to say something else.

Not reacting as Emily bared her soul to him was one of the most difficult things Mac had ever done. Only years of training and working on the streets enabled him to keep his face expressionless. When he’d impulsively hugged her, he half expected her to shove him away and order him to leave.

Instead, she finally nodded and thanked him. He felt thankful that she had no idea of the emotions swirling inside him. He couldn’t stop marveling, amazed and humbled by the way he felt now that he’d finally gotten to see his son—after five years, three months and twenty days of missing him and wondering what had happened to him.

One look and he’d known. Even though he hadn’t yet taken the DNA test, he knew Ryan was his. Gazing at the dark-headed boy, he saw his wife, Sarah, in the boy’s chin, the tilt of his head. And Ryan had Mac’s eyes and nose and the full head of dark hair, exactly as Mac had when he’d been a child.

Maybe soon he could reclaim what he’d lost, and they could be a family together.

Then he glanced at Emily, painfully aware of the way she and Ryan interacted. She clearly loved the child she considered her son, and the feeling was mutual. For the first time, Mac wondered what kind of damage he would cause if he tried to take Ryan away from the woman he called Mommy.

Emily cleared her throat, bringing him out of his tangled thoughts. “Well, then. What’s your plan?” One brow raised, she waited, a study in contrasts. Her delicately carved facial structure seemed at odds with her lush, passionate mouth. Her short, spiky haircut didn’t go with her faded jeans and high-collared blouse.

Eyeing her with as much professional dispassion as he could muster, he cleared his throat. “I have a few more questions about your life before you moved here.”

“I see.” Appearing resolute, she indicated the kitchen table. Graceful and willowy, her exquisite beauty made her appear both fragile and wild. “Go ahead.”

“I need to know …” He paused, searching for the right words. The question he wanted to ask her was one he’d wondered ever since he’d learned she’d adopted the infant he believed was his son. “I need to know if you knew there was something unusual about where your son came from.”

Was that guilt that flashed across her mobile face or sorrow?

“No,” she said.

He decided to continue to press her. “You never questioned your husband?”

“I never had a reason to, before all this started.” Her careful, measured movements spoke of the depths of her agitation. “You have to understand that being married to a man like Carlos Cavell came with some benefits. One of these seemed to be the ability to cut through a lot of red tape. When we originally applied to adopt an infant, we were told it could take up to three years.”

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