Too Sweet to Die T. Doyle (tharntype novel english .TXT) 📖

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe for someone who isn’t as compassionate and smart, and generous, and…”

I patted his chest. “Okay, I feel better. You can stop with the adulation.” I kissed his smooth cheek. “I love you. Now get dressed and go to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Joe dressed and left to check on his patients at the hospital.

I poured my second cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. I ordered a DNA test kit, and then did the math, figuring out the month of my conception. I listed possible activities Mom enjoyed back then. Sam might be willing to help. But my brother, Robby, would be furious that I’d suggested Mom had an affair.

Mom was twenty-eight when she’d conceived me. She might have gone to her ten-year high school reunion. I’d witnessed some cringing hook-ups between old flames at my ten-year reunion. What if Pop had been her high school boyfriend? She met Dad in college, so the idea had merit. I Googled 1962 Favor High School yearbooks and found a website that wanted way too much personal information to just view the old photos. I switched over to eBay and found a set of yearbooks for sale from 1960-1964. The buy-it-now price seemed steep at fifty dollars, but I bought them anyway. In less than a week I may have a picture of Pop.

Would I recognize him?

I poured myself a third cup of coffee.

Ray called me. “Hey, we have a snag.”

“What kind of snag?” I settled back at the kitchen table.

“My friend needs to know when the kids went missing, when photos were taken, and how old the kids are now.” Ray’s voice sounded growly. I pictured him in full-morning-pirate mode, minus the parrot.

“This detective stuff is much harder than I thought. Any chance Polly’s computer has the information we need?”

Ray slurped on his end. “Yeah. Kind of. There’s no photos, but I found a list of the clients and sorted out the adoption cases. Tyler’s been working in West Virginia, Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Tennessee, Missouri, and Virginia. Makes the eighty adoptions in five years seem more legit. When do you work today?”

“Two to ten.”

“I’m gonna forward the list to you. Put your social-media stalking skills to good use and see if you can match any of your photos to the adoptive parents’ kids.” He paused. “Please.”

“Sure. I’ll text you if I find anything. What are you going to do?”

“I’m checking the financials for both Tyler and Oscar. I’ll check in later.”

He hung up.

I started with the most recent adoptions, since according to Polly they seemed to be what triggered Oscar’s odd mood. An old composition notebook left behind by the kids served as my research journal. I was old-school and still preferred paper and pen to keyboard and bytes.

I worked backward from my photos of Tyler’s adoption photo wall to the dates of adoptions filed. When I came upon the pictures of the Crane family my heart stuttered.

The kids, now two and four, looked familiar. I recognized the dimpled chins.

I wished I hadn’t.

I wished Google didn’t have reverse image look up.

Because once I put the pictures of the kids in the browser, the news story Migrant Families Complain Police Slow to Investigate Rash of Kidnappings.

My stomach churned, acid mixing with caffeine and adrenaline and creating a wave of nausea that started in the pit of my stomach and ended with sweaty palms.

I texted Ray. Call me.

I could be wrong.

I hoped I was wrong.

I wanted to be wrong.

Chapter Nineteen

My phone pinged with Ray’s text. Meet me at Bite Me in 20.

I could be at the quirky-named downtown deli in ten. I stuffed Oscar’s tablet, my notebook and laptop into my bag and wandered into the dining room. I hadn’t moved the box with Oscar’s things we’d brought from his cabin. It still contained his notebooks, although I’d returned his school books. I didn’t know what to do with his cards and photos, it felt irreverent to throw away something so personal. I considered what Oscar would want me to do with them while I drove to Bite Me.

Hungry locals filled the deli’s narrow interior. With only ten booths opposite the counter wall most people took their food to go. The scent of fresh-baked bread permeated the air and made my mouth water. Suits and students waited in line to place their order, voices rising to be heard. I placed my order for a turkey on sourdough with the twenty-something sandwich artiste and asked for a side salad. I wasn’t sure if he heard me, and the man behind me pushed along. You had to order fast at Bite Me. I grabbed a bottle of diet soda and paid. I passed Mildred, Hilda’s friend, and settled in the next empty booth. She winked and touched her hair. My curls were disciples of Sam’s and still frizz-free. I hadn’t talked to my old stylist, Carole, about my defection and it weighed on me.

I kept my eye on the door and when Ray entered, he gave me his customary nod and stood in line to place his order. He wore his usual disheveled t-shirt and wrinkled jeans. The baseball cap placed low over his eyes hid his expression. He looked like an overgrown college student, and yet he charged the air with his über-masculine-pirate-lumberjack confidence. My Joe’s masculinity was polished, professional in public, and goofball in private. But Ray’s rough edges definitely had admirers. Like the woman in front of him. She turned and leaned closer, her shoulders rolling back until her breasts practically kissed her chin.

Ray kept his eyes on her face.

They spoke, and she turned around, lips flattened, her cheeks held a hint of pink. She wasn’t happy about whatever Ray had said.

I wondered what she’d think about Ray joining me for lunch? I texted Joe immediately because I guessed five minutes after Ray sat down, Joe would hear about it.

Having lunch at Bite Me with Ray. Found a connection.

Joe replied back.