Page 20 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 1
I frown in confusion. “Then who—”
“It was Will and Lizzie.” He stares into my eyes, his own stricken with pain. “They were trapped in that god-awful room, and we couldn’t get to them. We tried, over and over, but we couldn’treachthem. The door was locked.” He shudders violently in my arms. “I can still hear them screaming for us, begging for us to free them. I tried!Youtried! You slammed your body against the door, but it wouldn’t budge.”
My hold on Ian tightens. “Ian—” I have to pause a moment to rein in my emotions. Sometimes the need to track down his birth mother is more than I can handle. “Ian, I swear to you on my life, I will never let anything happen to you or to our kids. No one is going to—”
“They were my age, back then, they were four and they could talk. We could hear them calling for us, begging for us to save them.”
I force him to look at me. “It was a dream. Trust me, there’s no door on Earth I wouldn’t be able to break through if I needed to get to you or our kids.”
His eyes search mine in the dim early morning light, looking for reassurance. Eventually, he nods. Then he pulls free of me, gets out of bed, and walks to the bassinettes. I join him as he stares down at our babies, who are sound asleep and have no idea their daddy is having an emotional meltdown.
When he shivers in the cool night air, I pull him back against me, his bare torso pressed against mine, and I warm him with my body. I press my lips against the shell of his ear. “Everything’s okay. They’re fine.”
He nods as he clutches my arms. “I hate her for what she did to me. I hate her for making me like this.”
I kiss the spot behind his ear. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
Finally, I’m able to lead him back to bed. I lie down beside him, pull him into my arms, and tuck the covers around us.
Ian drifts back to sleep to the sound of me whispering sweet nothings against his temple.
I monitor Ian’s breathing until he finally falls into a deep sleep. It’s been 26 years since Ian was taken away from his abusive birth mother, and still the nightmares haunt him. I’m afraid they always will.
* * *
Ian’s usual bubbly personality is nowhere to be seen the following morning. While I make breakfast, he sits at the kitchen table, Lizzie cradled in his arms as he gives her a bottle. We’re having pancakes this morning—pancakes always cheer Ian up—with sausage links and orange juice. When the food’s ready, I set a plate in front of him, then bring over the butter dish and a small pitcher of warm maple syrup.
“Do you want me to take her?” I ask. “I’ll finish giving her a bottle while you eat.”
Ian shakes his head. “I can manage.”
He’s juggling a baby and a bottle. I don’t see how he can manage a fork, too. He’s also not making eye contact with me.
“Ian?” I take a seat at the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head, still managing to avoid my gaze.
“Clearly, something’s bothering you. Do you want to talk to someone else? Your mom? Your sister? My mom? Beth?” These are the people he trusts the most.
Ian finally looks at me, his eyes filled with tears. “How could she do it?” He glances down at Lizzie, who’s eagerly sucking on her bottle. “Children are so defenseless, so vulnerable. They rely on their parents for absolutely everything—to keep them safe. Hell, to keep themalive. How could she do the things she did to me?”
I’m at a loss for what to say. We’ve discussed this before, and I know Ian’s well aware of how addiction affects people, distorting their judgment, hijacking their decision-making. It’s an insidious illness.
He gazes down at Lizzie, a sad smile on his face. “I could never do what she did.”
I lean over and squeeze his shoulder. “Of course, you couldn’t.”
“I love them too much. Did she just not love me enough?”
My heart is aching for Ian, my stomach hollowed out. Once more, I have to fight the urge to track down his birth mother and—oh, hell. What could I possibly do to that bitch that wouldn’t land me in prison?
I fix myself a plate of food and sit at the table with Ian while I eat.
Ian still looks preoccupied.
I reach for my coffee. “Still hungry? Want more to eat?”
He shakes his head. “I’m good. Thanks. It was delicious.” He takes a sip of coffee, then says, “I need to call my attorney. I’ve been avoiding it because I don’t want to leave the house to go to his office, but I can’t keep putting it off.”
