After Emily called Rebecca, the adoption coordinator, and told her she’d made her choice, she took SEPTA to New Jersey to visit Derrick, her friend from Poseidon’s, the fish restaurant in Philly where she worked as a waitress. Derrick was the only friend she’d confided in all summer, his soft eyes and easy manner calming her down. He’d been her sounding board, her rock, and she’d told him almost everything about herself, from her ordeals with A to her crush on Maya St. Germain. Sometimes, Emily lamented that she was the one always dumping on him—she didn’t know much about him at all—but Derrick just shrugged and said his life was boring in comparison to hers.
Derrick was working as a gardener at a big house in Cherry Hill on the weekends and told Emily to meet him there. It was the kind of mansion with iron gates, a guest house in the back, and a long, winding driveway made of pretty blue paver stones instead of blacktop. Derrick said the owners wouldn’t mind if they talked in the gazebo, and that was where Emily told him her news. He’d listened patiently and hugged her tightly when she was done, which had brought tears to her eyes. Derrick was a godsend—he’d swooped in just when she needed him, listening to all of her problems.
As they were talking, the back door to the mansion, which looked out onto a lavish patio with a long, rectangular swimming pool, swung open, and a tall woman with short blond hair and a long, sloping nose stepped out. She noticed Emily immediately and looked her up and down, from her frizzy hair to her huge boobs to her enormous stomach. A small, tormented squeak escaped from her mouth. She crossed the patio and approached Emily, staring at her with such a sad expression it made Emily’s heart break.
“How far along are you?” she asked softly.
Emily flinched. Since she was a teenager, most people averted their eyes from her pregnancy like it was a huge tumor. It was strange to hear someone sound so genuinely interested. “Um, about seven-and-a-half months.”
The woman had tears in her eyes. “That’s so precious. Are you feeling well?”
“I guess.” Emily glanced cautiously at Derrick, but he just bit his lower lip.
The woman thrust out her hand. “I’m Gayle. This is my home.”
“I’m, uh, Heather,” Emily answered. It was the fake name she’d given everyone that summer, except for Derrick. Heather was even on her name tag at the restaurant. The skinny, pre-pregnant Emily was all over the Internet, connected to the Alison DiLaurentis story, and Emily could just picture an item about her illicit pregnancy on a local gossip blog, followed by a horrified call from her parents.
“You’re so lucky,” Gayle murmured, staring lovingly at Emily’s belly. She almost looked like she wanted to reach out and touch it. Then, Gayle’s smile suddenly wobbled into a frown, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, God,” she blurted, then turned around and ran crookedly into the house, slamming the door hard.
Emily and Derrick were silent for a while, listening to the sounds of a Weedwacker next door. “Did I do something to upset her?” Emily asked worriedly. The woman seemed so fragile.
Derrick rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
And so Emily hadn’t worried about it. Little did she know she would be promising her baby to Gayle only a few short weeks later . . . and then going back on her word.
The furious messages Gayle left the day Emily placed the baby on the Bakers’ doorstep flashed through her mind. I’ll hunt you down. I’ll find you. Luckily, Gayle never had.
“Emily, honey, are you okay?” Mrs. Fields asked, shattering Emily’s thoughts.
Emily clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek. “Uh, I know the girl who lives here,” she floundered, feeling her cheeks turn hot. “I thought I saw her at the window, but I guess not. We can go now.”
Mrs. Fields peered at the yard. “Goodness, their lawn looks terrible,” she murmured. “They’ll never sell this house with all those weeds.”
Emily squinted. “What do you mean, sell the house?”
“It’s for sale. See?”
She pointed at a sign in the front yard. FOR SALE, it said, with a picture of the realtor and a phone number. Starbursts at the top right-hand corner said QUICK TURNAROUND! and OWNERS RELOCATED! and BUY THIS NOW! There was also an announcement that an open house would be held the following Saturday from noon till four o’clock.
A sick feeling rushed through Emily’s body. Just knowing that this house was here, that her baby was nearby, had made her feel comforted and relieved—she could close her eyes and picture where her baby was at all times. But the Bakers weren’t on vacation—they’d moved.
Her baby was gone.
5
THE THINGS YOU DISCOVER IN THE PRODUCE SECTION . . .
The following day, the bell rang in Art History class, and all twenty-two students stood en masse. “Read chapter eight for tomorrow!” Mrs. Kittinger called after them.
Aria shoved her books into her backpack and followed the herd out the door. As soon as she was in the hallway, she glanced at her cell phone, which had been blinking for the last hour. New Google alert for Tabitha Clark, said the screen.
Her stomach twisted. She’d been tracking Tabitha-related news, reading accounts of bereft friends, grieving relatives, and angry parents protesting drunken spring break trips. Today, there was a story in a newspaper. The headline read FATHER OF DECEASED SPRING BREAK TEEN TO SUE JAMAICAN RESORT THAT SERVED HIS DAUGHTER ALCOHOL.
She clicked on the link. There was a picture of Tabitha’s father, Kenneth Clark, a tall, bespectacled man who was a captain of industry. He wanted to crack down on teenage drinking and punish bars that served underage drinkers. “I’d be curious to know what her blood-alcohol level was when she died,” he said. There was also a quote from Graham Pratt, who’d been Tabitha’s boyfriend when she died. “I think it’s very possible The Cliffs resort served her, even though she was visibly drunk.”