Page 118 of Coerced Queen

Focus.

I email the license plate number to our informant on the force, telling him I want that car tracked down or I’ll have his head on a spike.As soon as the message is delivered, I tap into the feed and pull up a camera from a different angle to get a better visual on the woman’s face.

“Rosemary,” Nicole says, her tone harsh.“Do you understand what’s at stake?”

Rosemary sounds in shock if not close to tears.“I don’t get it.”

While I wait for the feed to load, I glance at Anya.Fuck.How do I tell her?How do I tell her someone walked into our house and stole our child right from under our noses?

“Someone took Claire,” Nicole stresses.“She’s gone, and we better find her fast.Now tell me.What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I…” Rosemary wets her lips with her tongue.“The last thing I remember was eating the birthday cake Mrs.De Luca’s mother brought me.”

“What?”Anya goes deathly pale.“What did you say?”

The feed from the side of the porch loads.I enlarge the image, focusing on the face.

“Your mother,” Rosemary says.“She brought me cake from the party.”Her voice cracks.“She said you asked her to bring me a slice.”

Anya stumbles a step backward, shock painted over her face.“My mother.”

The woman on the feed lifts her head when she reaches the bottom of the porch steps.I didn’t recognize her in the fancy ball gown and the wig that makes her hair look thicker, but I should’ve fucking known.

Rosemary’s tone carries fear now.Uncertainly, she says, “Surely, your mother was invited.”

“No,” I say, clenching my teeth as I stare at Mary Brennan’s ugly face on my phone.“She wasn’t.”

ChapterThirty-Six

Anya

The delicious birthday cake turns sour in my stomach.Acid burns my gut.

I’m going to be sick.

I barely make it to the bathroom before the food pushes up in my throat.Falling on my knees in front of the toilet, I empty my stomach.

“Anya,” Saverio says behind me, his voice gravelly and distraught.

He grips my hair in a ponytail at my nape, keeping it away from my face while I puke out my lungs.Spasms rack my body until only bile is left.

His palm is warm on my shoulder.Anchoring.“I’ll find her.I promise you that.”

Sitting back on my heels, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.My chest heaves from the exertion.I’m simultaneously weak from vomiting and wired from the adrenaline.“Do you think it was my mom?”

“I know it was her.”

It takes enormous effort to lift my head and look at my husband.At the same time, I’m like a coiled spring, ready to jump to my feet and go searching for my daughter.“How can we be sure?Anyone could’ve said she was my mother.”

He shows me his phone.“I got the video feed from the security cameras.”

The proof is right there, staring me in the face from the screen of his phone.

Fear plunges me into a deep, dark, frightening place.The stress is like a monster eating me alive from the inside out.“I have to find her.”

I want her back.I want her backnow.I won’t be able to breathe or think or live until I do.

I’m going to look for her, and I won’t stop until I find her, not for food or water or sleep or a shower, no matter how long it takes.

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