Page 6 of Protecting the Newborn

“I have my own safe house already in place,” Gracelyn said, and it got the reaction from Ruston that she expected.

His forehead bunched up, and he huffed. Obviously, he knew she could handle herself—most of the time, anyway—but he was probably still concerned. Heck, so was she.

“I don’t want police protection,” Gracelyn spelled out to him and left it at that.

No need for her to remind him that being a cop hadn’t helped either of them on their last assignment. Yes, they’d both gotten out of there alive, barely, but that’d been more luck than training. At least two dozen bullets had been fired at them during their escape, and they’d received only minor injuries.

Well, minorphysicalinjuries, anyway.

Gracelyn was still living with the nightmare of nearly being gunned down, and she figured it was the same for Ruston. Except Ruston had been able to go back to the job. She hadn’t been.

A soft sound shot through the room. Not the security system this time, but a kitten-like cry that had come from the baby monitor. Gracelyn immediately looked and saw Abigail was squirming in her crib. That was her cue to get Ruston moving.

“You can leave now,” she insisted, going to the bottom drawer beneath the stove and pulling out a go bag that had cash, fake IDs and a gun. She already had other supplies stashed in her SUV in the garage.

Ruston didn’t budge. “I hate to see you on your own like this. I know you don’t trust me, but I can help you.”

She was ready to assure him that she didn’t need his help, but the baby’s fussing turned into a full cry. Gracelyn checked her watch, even though she knew it wasn’t time for a bottle. She’d fed Abigail less than a half hour before Ruston had arrived.

“I’ll be fine,” Gracelyn said, and she hoped that was true.

She’d been so careful, and here at least four other people knew her current location. Ruston, Marty, Lieutenant Franklin and Charla. Soon, Gracelyn would want to dig into how Marty and his cohorts had found her. And why he wanted her and Abigail. For now, though, she had to move.

When the crying went up a significant notch, Gracelyn hooked the go bag over her shoulder and headed to the nursery. “I’ll get Abigail and leave. Goodbye, Ruston.”

“Abigail,” he repeated. “You named her after your late mother.”

She nodded. Then scowled when he followed her. “No need for you to lock up when you go,” she insisted, stopping outside the nursery door to stare at him. “I’ll be out of here within minutes.”

Ruston stared back. And stared. Then he muttered some profanity under his breath, reached around her and opened the nursery door. He maneuvered around her before she could stop him, and he made a beeline to the crib.

Gracelyn’s heart went to her knees.

Somehow, she managed to get her legs working, and she hurried to scoop up the baby. But not before Ruston got a good look at her.

Ruston didn’t say anything for several long moments, and even though the only illumination in the room was from a night-light, Gracelyn saw his jaw muscles turn to iron.

“Abigail isn’t two weeks old,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous snarl.

“No. She’s eight weeks old.” And Gracelyn quickly tacked on a huge detail that Ruston needed to hear. “She’s not our baby.”

Ruston had already opened his mouth, no doubt to accuse her of not telling him that he’d gotten her pregnant, but her comment stopped him. Temporarily, anyway. He stared at her, and stared, clearly trying to figure out if she was telling him the truth.

She was.

“Abigail’s not my baby either,” she added.

Again, Ruston had clearly been gearing up to accuse her of all sorts of things that she wouldn’t have done. Yes, she was desperate. Still was. But if she’d had Ruston’s baby, she would have figured out a way to tell him about it.

“Then whose child is she?” he demanded. “Because she looks like you.” He stopped again. “Is she Allie’s? Is she your niece?”

Gracelyn nodded. Of course, that confirmation was going to lead to a whole bunch of other questions. Questions that she couldn’t answer. Still, she was going to have to give Ruston something or he’d never leave. Best to start at the beginning, which ironically had been at the end of her career as a cop.

“We didn’t catch those people who were running the baby farm,” she went on. “They were after us, and I couldn’t dissolve into the background by taking on another undercover persona. Because I couldn’t be a cop. So, I planned on...running. Hiding. Staying safe.”

“You could have come to me,” he insisted.

“No, I couldn’t have.” It was a truth that was going to cut him to the bone, but he had to hear it. “You still trusted the cops. I didn’t. I knew you weren’t dirty, but someone blew our cover at that baby farm, and that someone could have been another cop.”

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