Page 113 of Dying to Meet You
“Right,” I say softly.
“Now that I know the truth, I wish I knew what happened to the other girls. If they were molested. If they were told their babies died. That man’s lie changed my life. I had plans to steal my baby away if I had to. He was mine.”
The image makes my chest lurch—like the drop of a roller coaster. “He stole him from you. Because you wouldn’t fall in line.”
She nods slowly. “Tim wondered how he got away with it. The girls gave birth at the home. That probably helped. When I was in labor, they anesthetized me. I woke up and asked to see my baby. The nurse shook her head and sent Wincott in.” She swallows hard. “The nurse had to be in on it. Maybe she was afraid of him, too.” Her face crumples. “He came in and said that my baby died.God’s will. I cried so hard. I howled. He told me to shut up.”
My eyes get hot. “What did Tim say when you told him?”
“He didn’t believe it. I could see it on his face. I wasn’t sure I should tell him the rest. It’s pretty shocking.” She sighs. “But I’m not stupid, youknow. When they told me he was dead, I screamed my head off and asked to see him anyway.”
My heart trembles. “Of course you did.”
“They brought me a dead baby.”
“What?” I gasp. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “Poor little thing, all swaddled in a blanket and cold as ice. The blanket was cold, too. They said it was from the morgue.”
“Oh God” is all I can manage.
“It sounds crazy, but I know what I saw,” she says, lifting her chin. “Marcus Wincott looked me right in the eye and told me that God didn’t let me keep my baby because I was a sinner.” Her mouth pinches into a rough line. “After that, I wasn’t careful with myself. Spent my life as a sinner. That man broke my spirit.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. As if that could make it better.
“Tim thought they must have been selling babies. He said he was going to look for the money trail. He said he was good at that kind of thing.”
I picture his Pulitzer nomination for investigative journalism, and I feel a chill. “I bet hewasgood at that kind of thing.”
She nods. “And I was thrilled. Here was this smart, handsome boy, and I had something to do with it. I was so proud. And so happy I got the chance to tell him that I didn’t really give up on him.” She grabs a paper napkin and blots the corners of her eyes. “At least I got to say it. But maybe I should have lied, you know? Maybe if I’d slammed the door in his face, he’d still be alive.”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. “Why do you think that?”
“Because he died in front of the mansion. It can’t be random.” She blots her eyes again. “Tim made somebody angry. And now he’s gone.”
She’s upset now, and it’s my fault. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be asking so many questions.”
“No, you shouldn’t.” She shakes her head. “It’s dangerous. The police want to talk to me. But I don’t really know a damn thing. Tim didn’t tell me what he found. Maybe he knew it was dangerous. Someone threatened him a week or so before he died.”
Another chill races down my spine. “Threatened him how?”
“He didn’t tell me much.” She rubs her temples. “He just said that he must be getting close to the truth, because someone put a note under his windshield wiper. Telling him to leave it alone.”
I lean forward in my chair. “Did you see the note?” I wonder if it’s the same black Sharpie bullshit that I got.
“No, I didn’t.” She sighs. “He said a note on the windshield seemed like a cowardly move. And that in his job, if he wasn’t making someone angry, then he wasn’t trying hard enough.”
I take a sip of my tea and try to think. How do you go from a note under your windshield to dead in a week? “Did he have any idea who was mad?”
She spreads her hands. “I don’t have a clue. He told me he was digging around for a list of people who worked for the home when he was born. Some of them are dead. It was slow work, he said. And even when he thought he had the right name, sometimes people hung up on him. If they knew what was going on back then, they probably didn’t want to talk about it. And Marcus Wincott is long dead.”
It sure puts a new spin on Tim’s final months in Portland. I was buying new jeans and thinking about where we should go on our next date. He was building a relationship with his secret bio mom. “And he never discussed this with his adoptive parents?”
“No.” A quick shake of her head. “He said he’d been asking a few questions, trying to figure out if there were irregularities about his adoption. His parents made a big donation to the Wincott’s charity, but he didn’t think they had the first idea about the ugly stuff.”
“I guess they wouldn’t,” I say slowly. “Marcus wouldn’t want to incriminate himself. And people who are desperate for a baby don’t ask too many questions.”
“They raised him up real good.” She wipes her eyes again. “I don’t blame them for what happened. Did he tell you any of this? About his investigation?”
