Made to Be Broken

Chapter Twenty-one

When I got off the phone, I drove in silence and stopped at the first coffee shop we spotted. We went inside, found a quiet table, and I told Jack my theory.

There's a black market for every valuable commodity, including infants. Years back there'd been a scandal over one set of twins being sold multiple times. I recalled none of the specifics, but what did stick in my mind were the photos of the deceived adoptive parents. In their faces, I'd seen all the raw pain and grief of any victim touched by violence.

Though I had no experience with the adoption system, I knew it wasn't like driving over to the Humane Society and saying you'd like a kitten. There were too many parents and too few babies. What if you had a blemish on your personal history? I could be married to a minister and they'd turn down my application.

I'd heard of international adoption, but if you were hell-bent on having a healthy Caucasian baby, how far would you be willing to go? How much would you be willing to pay?

Sammi and Deanna were both marginalized teenage mothers, girls that everyone would assume had just run off. Sammi had an alcoholic, abusive mother. Deanna's grandmother had disowned her. To anyone who did a routine background check, it would seem there was no one to miss either of them.

Both were beautiful young women with beautiful babies. Healthy girls, healthy babies. Both had their pictures taken within weeks of their deaths. Sales photos.

See how beautiful and healthy this baby is? See the mother? See how she's smiling? She's so happy her baby will go to a good family.

I could not – would not – believe that the people who'd adopted Destiny and Connor knew what had happened to their babies' mothers. I hold out too much faith in the human race for that. The smiling photos of mother and child would go a long way toward persuading buyers of the teen's sincerity. The parents would pay the money, sign phony documents, take the child, and be reassured that they'd never have to worry about the mother contesting the adoption.

Why not just pay the mothers off? From what Noyes said, it wouldn't have taken much to buy Connor from Deanna. The girls had been killed because it was the easiest thing to do. It avoided haggling over price, let the seller keep all the money, and eliminated any chance of interference. They'd been killed because they were disposable.

"What I need to do now is research black-market adoptions. Not that I know where to start looking."

I scrubbed at an ancient coffee ring, my napkin shredding as the stain clung to the melamine.

"Wanna move?" Jack said. "Table over there's clear." "For a coffee stain? I'll live. It's just… it's like seeing a crooked picture. It gnaws at me, especially if I'm already edgy." I rolled my shoulders, then laid a clean napkin over the mark. "There. Now, I need to figure out – "

"Stick with what we know. Black-market babies? No. Hitmen? Yes."

I reached for my coffee, then decided I really didn't need more caffeine. Just thinking about guys out there, killing kids for their babies, was enough to have me perched on the edge of my seat, toes beating the floor, gaze sliding to the door.

"Hit was good." Jack grimaced. "Don't mean that way. Good as in – "

" – professional, I know. It was a clean hit and a decent b – " I couldn't bring myself to say body dump. " – burial. We aren't talking about some thug who'll graduate to contract killer if someone offers him five grand. This guy's a serious pro, meaning we're dealing with a restricted pool of suspects. Not small enough to just go knocking on doors, though…"

"Leave it with me. You look after your business."

We made it back to the lodge by midafternoon. I'd told Emma I was dropping Jack off in Peterborough on my way to Toronto, giving him a break from being cooped up at the lodge. As for why I'd gone to Toronto, Emma knew it was related to Sammi, presuming I was still trying to find her.

I found Emma in the laundry room, folding linens.

"Did you see anyone as you were coming in?" she asked.

"Are we expecting early guests?"

She shook out a pillowcase. "We had one, but only for about an hour before he took off."

"Decided this wasn't quite what he had in mind?"

"No, that wasn't it. At least, I don't think it was." She folded the case, ironing out the creases with her rough hands. "Does anyone know you're looking for Sammi, Nadia?"

I nearly dropped the sheet I was lifting. "What?"

She waved for me to calm down. "It's probably nothing. At worst, the Draytons have hired a PI to look for their grandbaby, and I wouldn't say that's a bad thing. They have the money; they should be looking, not you."

"Someone was asking questions about Sammi?"

"No, nothing like that. If you weren't checking into Sammi, I'd have figured him for someone Mitch brought up, took a shine to you, came back on his own…" Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective who came up a few times a year. "Though, God knows, if that's the case, I could have just told him not to waste his time. You cloister yourself like a nun, blind to perfectly fine men like Mitch, who'd be up every weekend if you gave him one iota of encouragement – "

"This guy…"

"Nice fellow. Big strapping sort, short hair, cleanshaven, polite. Could have been one of our regulars – cop or firefighter – but I didn't recognize him. He checked in, took his bag up, then came down and started poking around."

"Poking around?"

"Checking things out. He saw some of the photos, and he pointed you out, wanted to know whether that was the Nadia Stafford who owned the place. Seemed like he already knew the answer. He asked whether you were around, and when I said you weren't, he wanted to know when you'd be back. I offered him a coffee or a beer, said I could get Owen to take him on a tour of the property, but he wasn't interested. Wandered around for about an hour. Next thing I know, he's at the desk, ringing the bell, bag in hand, telling me he got a call and has to leave. He needed directions to the nearest gas station. I tried giving him his money back for the booking, but he wouldn't take it."

"He paid cash?"

She nodded. My heart felt like it was pounding against my windpipe, cutting every breath in half. I shook out the sheet, letting it snap like a sail as I hid my reaction behind it.

"Did he give a name?"

"Ryan Brown."

"Doesn't ring a bell." Two common names – a good sign it was fake. "Did you happen to see what he was driving?"

"Little silver box. Looked like a rental."

"Huh."

I folded my sheet in half, and was scrambling for an excuse to take off again, when hands grabbed the bottom corners and brought them up for me. I glanced over the quartered sheet at Jack.

"Thanks," I said.

"I forgot your stuff."

"St -?"

"The supplies for the range you asked me to buy. I completely forgot. I'm sorry. If you don't mind me borrowing the truck, I can run into town and see if the hardware store carries them."

I checked my watch. "I'd better go. I know where it's stocked."

I finished folding the sheet, stacked it with the others, and met up with him in the front room.

"You heard?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I'll pick you up at the door."