Page 67 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Perfect age for a baby.” Hugh chortled. “Twins? I’m telling you, we couldn’t believe it when it happened. Janey, our birth mother, was just as shocked. The doctors missed it until she was almost seven months. This little one”—he patted the baby on the head—“was hiding behind her big brother. We paid Janey double for the rent, and she was cool with it. She had them a few weeks early, which is why all of this”—he spread his arm around the room—“is still here and not up in the nursery. We weren’t entirely prepared.”
“One never is, I’m told,” she assured him.
“And we didn’t want to tell anyone until we knew they were both okay,” Renn added, ducking his head in apology.
“No need to explain.”
Renn smiled. “Well, a little need. We figure one belongs to each of us.” At her confused look, he smiled wider. “We mixed the sample. So we’d never know for sure who was the biological daddy unless we did a test, which we have no desire to do. But now—I’m telling you, she looks like Hugh, and he looks like me. We may have just tricked Mother Nature.”
With that, he picked up the pink bundle and held her out to Taylor. He wasn’t kidding. The little girl had the shape of Hugh’s face and chin exactly.
“So this is where we make a speech about how much you mean to both of us, and how valued you are in our lives, but I know you don’t like speeches, so…” Renn’s smile grew soft. “We named her Bethany Athena. Will you be her godmother?”
Taylor was stunned into silence. Bethany was her middle name. Tears pricked her eyes, and she swallowed convulsively. Damn it. A little girl named after her? Renn McKenzie and Hugh Bangor knew exactly what button to push. Finally marshaling her emotions, she managed, “I’d be honored,” and, after cleaning her hands with an antiseptic wipe, took the small bundle from Renn’s arms.
Taylor snuggled her in like the expert auntie she was and ran the tip of her finger down the baby’s perfect little nose. “Hi, little girl. We’re going to have so much fun together.”
Her namesake looked deep into the eyes of this new and lovely face peering down at her, gave a perfect, sweet little yawn, and shit her adorably tiny pants.
It was a solid thirty before they had the chaos reined in, and Taylor, now wearing one of Renn’s T-shirts, her own in their washing machine, was once again holding her goddaughter in her lap, this time not an atomic weapon but changed, fed, watered, and making faint sucking noises in her sleep. Her brother, Byron Apollo, was tucked into Renn’s arms next to her, his face perfect and elfin, just, she had to admit, remarkably shaped like Renn’s. Hugh cracked the champagne and poured out three mimosas, and they were opening presents and telling lies when Taylor’s phone rang.
She wanted so badly to ignore it, but with multiple cases revolving, she knew she had to answer. Hugh took Bethany, and she lifted the phone to her ear.
It was Lincoln, voice nearly shaking with excitement.
“We got a lead. Thanks to some reverse hacking and Simeon Chase’s devious little brain, we were able to get into Carson’s phone. We have a possible location.”
Thirty-Five
Taylor hurriedly briefed Renn on what she needed from him and was assured he’d be happy to help, especially if he could work from home. She had no issue with that and promised extended leave once the case was at a good stopping point.
She kissed the babies’ heads and Hugh’s cheek, then hightailed it to the task force office. Lincoln and O’Roarke had assembled the team. They were waiting for her. Energy thrummed through the room when she walked in, excitement and fear, and impatience.
“Okay. Show me.”
Lincoln had a map projected on the wall, with a red X over the roof of a house.
“Simeon Chase did a reverse-engineering of the hack. There was tracking software on Carson’s phone. You can see the path the phone took as it pinged.” He clicked his trackpad, and a path of red dots lit up. “Straight from Vanderbilt to this house in North Nashville. It hasn’t moved since. I’ve already called SWAT. They’re gearing up if we want to make entry.”
“Are we sure she’s in there?”
“Her phone is there, for sure,” O’Roarke said.
Taylor enlarged her screen. “If we go in with SWAT and it’s someone who’s bought the phone or found it, and something goes south…”
“I agree,” Lincoln said. “I’d feel better much better with a visual. But I want to get into the house ASAP.”
“Who lives there?” she asked.
Another screen popped up, this time with records from the state.
“Property records have the house listed in the name Alice Shay. Most recent records say there are three more living there—Shawna Shay, Roberta Shay, and Theodore Burnkin. Looking at the ages, I’d say three generations, and maybe a partner? Doesn’t mean that’s right, could be more living there, or less.”
“Do we know who they are?”
“There’s an Alice Shay who was a nursing student at Meharry that matches, and a Roberta Shay with that address who’s a math teacher over at White’s Creek. Shawna—I’m assuming the mom—looks to be in and out of town. The last employment I could find for her was with Metro, in the admin department, but that was over ten years ago. There’s a disability claim with that name. The socials don’t match, but it could be her.”
“Chances are it’s her. Okay. So tell me about Theodore Burnkin.”
