Tell Me a Secret (The Story Series Book 4) Read Online Free Page B

eyes, thinking of how he’d planted the kiss on my mouth, right in the store. The department store had smelled like a unique blend of expensive perfume only women in the north wore, and I’d wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight, not caring if all the snooty salesladies saw how much I loved him. At that point in our relationship, I hadn’t yet told him I loved him. But I did.
    Heaving a sigh, I opened my eyes and tapped out an email to the detectives.
    This looks like his wallet. It’s the same brand he had. I don’t know an Ashley.
    Of course, the idea of an Ashley nagged at me. If it was Caleb’s wallet, who was she?
    But an hour later, I got bad news; the wallet turned out to be another American’s, a guy who had dropped it outside a club. He worked at Universal in the public relations department, as well, and Ashley was his coworker. He’d gone to the police station to claim the wallet and brought Ashley with him. The contents, except for the business card, had been stolen.
    “I’m sorry to have bothered you this evening, Mrs. King,” the detective said formally. “We are still trying. We’re not giving up on Mr. Caleb King.”
    I stammered a thank you and hung up.
    For the rest of the night I sat, numb, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows and watching the distant Disney fireworks over Cinderella’s Castle. The explosions looked wan in the night sky, and I dully wondered if the park was using a different palette these days or if the colors were less vibrant only to me.
    “There’s still hope for Daddy,” I whispered to Charlotte in my arms. I fed her a bottle and she let out a satisfied gurgle. I looked at her face and, as usual, was gutted over how much her eyes looked like Caleb’s. The shape, the hue, the long lashes.
    “There’s still hope, baby girl. We’re not giving up on Caleb King.”
    In the ensuing days, I wasn’t sure who was crying more: she or me. My sadness manifested as worry and anxiety, and I called my doctor for every perceived problem, from too much spit-up to too little poop.
    “You’ve got to calm down,” Laura said a week after the Brazilian police revealed the found billfold wasn’t Caleb’s. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but her tall form somehow made her look like a supermodel. Laura looked so stunning and together; you’d never know she’d spent periods of her life in a state of near-constant anxiety. Although Charlotte seemed to have a calming effect on her, which made me proud, somehow.
    That’s what my daughter did: soothed a broken family. I knew it might eventually be her burden, but for now, we all circled around her. Charlotte, despite her colic and crying, was our lifeline.
    Laura walked the fussing baby around the room while I splayed on the sofa, spent. My joints ached. Charlotte was three months old, and I hadn’t showered in days. When had I last changed out of my Minnie Mouse sleep shirt? I wasn’t sure.
    “See, she’s relaxing. Maybe she senses your stress. Let’s put her down for bed.”
    Sure enough, Charlotte had stilled and was in a deep sleep. It was odd that Laura, who suffered from a panic disorder, could sometimes quell my baby’s cries better than I could. Or at least it felt that way. With a wave of my hand toward the bedroom, I directed Laura to put Charlotte into her crib so I could savor a five-minute nap.
    I drifted off.
    “You don’t need to be superwoman, Emma. Maybe we should hire a nanny.”
    Laura’s soft voice invaded my brain, and my eyes snapped open to see her pour two glasses of sparkling water. A string of drool had leaked out the corner of my mouth, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. The gesture would be funny, given how carefree and gilded my life once was, if it wasn’t so sad.
    “Is she asleep?” I asked.
    “Yes.” Laura handed me the water, and I took a gulp.
    “Thank God.” I pushed out a breath. The nanny idea was a conversation I’d had with everyone lately. Even my father