Jane gasped with laughter, her face completely shellshocked at the expression of mirth. I guess that was what happened when your child went missing. My heart ached for her. She held the door open a fraction wider. “Come in, but if pictures of my house turn up on social media, I will hunt you down and make you choke on that badge.”
“Deal.” I liked Jane already.
Inside, the cottage was just as messy as I’d expected. Days of teacups and empty takeout containers littered the kitchen. Flies buzzed around lazily, unsure of what to feast on first. Clothes were strewn everywhere. My foot kicked a toy rabbit that lay face down on the floor. I picked it up and stared into the smiling bunny face.
Her baby might’ve dropped that while the fae stole him away.
Jane threw herself down in a sofa and pulled a photo album onto her lap. Inside were pictures of a smiling, chubby baby who looked exactly like the one Blake had taken through the wormhole. Which didn’t actually mean much, since I couldn’t tell any one baby apart from another.
I went into the kitchen, put the pot-bellied kettle onto the stovetop and fiddled with the knobs on the oven before figuring out it was gas, so I had to light the element as I turned the knob. While the pot boiled, I cleared all the containers off the counter, dumped all the old tea bags and open chocolate bar wrappers into the trash, and ran some water to wash the coffee cups… sorry,teacups.
Jane flipped the pages of her photo album and stared off into space.
I flubbed my way through the tea-making process (what went first? Milk? Sugar? When did you take the teabag out? Rowan showed me but I couldn’t remember a thing because his eyes were so beautiful and hot tea was so gross) and set it down in front of Jane.
She took the mug and sipped.
I held my breath.
She took a second sip. Either I’d got the tea right or (more likely) she was too sad to taste anything – either way, she didn’t spit it back in my face. I took a sip of mine.Yup, still tastes gross.
“The kitchen’s looking a bit tidier,” I said, wondering how I could get her to talk about what happened. “I’ll wash our cups and things before I leave, so at least you won’t have to worry about ants.”
“Thank you.” She slid the book off her lap. It was open to a picture of Jane with her baby in a long flowing gown in front of a beautiful gothic church.
“Wow.” I touched the edge of the picture. “Your little girl is so beautiful.”
“Connor is a boy,” Jane said, her mouth wobbling.
“Shit!” I clamped my hands over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… I just thought with that gown…”
“It’s fine,” Jane smirked. “At least I know you’re definitely not a reporter. So you don’t baptize babies where you come from?”
“Arizona, and yeah, we do, but it’s a pretty simple affair. The church I went to – my father was the pastor so I had to go – didn’t believe in ostentatious ceremonies. We just did them as part of standard Sunday service. Splashy splashy, there you go.”
“Well my parents believe in doing things theproperway, which means stuffy, stiff-upper-lip, Church of England bollocks.” Jane jabbed the picture with her index finger. “I didn’t even want to do it – I had Connor out of wedlock, so I’m not in God’s good graces – but my mother insisted. She filled the church up with all her friends, and then wouldn’t speak to me for months afterwards because Connor screamed the place down and puked all over the vicar’s vestments and he refused to finish the ceremony. Bloody hell, he was onlythree months old, what did they expect? And of course, when I actually need her, she’s too busy with the annual garden show to—” Jane gulped, then shook her head. “Anyway.”
“Can I ask… non-reporter to mother, what happened the day Connor disappeared?” I search for a lie to explain why I wantedto know. "The ladies at my Women’s Group are gossiping about it, and I didn’t know who to believe.”
“You don’t believe the gossips,” Jane growled. “That’s my advice.”
“Sorry, I know it’s a personal question, but?—”
“Yeah, it damn well is.”
She glared at me, and I felt about ten inches tall. Here I was trying to dig information out of a grieving mother. If the roles had been reversed, I would’ve clocked her one, and she would’ve deserved it. My cheeks burned with shame.
This was a bad idea. We’ll have to find another way to get information about the fae.
I set my cup down and stood up. “I’m sorry. I crossed a line. I’ll see myself out.”
“Wait.”
I froze. Jane looked up at me, and in her face I read a tumult of emotions – anger battling with harrowing sorrow, duking it out with the overwhelming desire to unload on a friend.
I gave her what I hoped was a kind smile. “I lost my parents recently in a terrible accident. I heard what happened to you and I thought, this girl understands.”
“I haven’t lost Connor,” she snapped. ‘He waskidnapped.” She flapped her hand at the chair, and I sat down again, before she changed her mind. “I’ve told this story so many times to the police and the reporters that it’s lost meaning, and at leastyoucleaned the kitchen.”
