CA 50.7 Little Girl Lost Read Free

covert glances in Jenna's direction. "My name is Je—Jane. Miss Jane. I hope to start working here tomorrow. I'll be teaching art. Do you like to draw or paint, Diamond?"
    Utterly still, the child continued to stare at the open pages of the book.
    Was she medicated? Jenna had done her research, at least as best she could with what little she had to go on. A verbal answer was rare but any sort of reaction would be better than nothing. Seven years ago they had suspected —
    Diamond looked up.
    Jenna froze. Every cell in her body seemed to cease functioning. Eyes the color of the palest sky stared back at her. Big, blue eyes as familiar as Jenna's own were set in that gorgeous olive face. Her heart swelled, blocking her throat. This was her. The eyes. The curve of her cheek... Sweet Jesus, her nose. It was her.
    This little girl was Jenna's child—the baby girl she'd lost seven long years ago.
    The urge to reach out—to touch her—was a palpable force. But any wrong move could derail Jenna's plan.
    No matter what she believed—no matter what she felt in her heart—first she had to be able to prove this was her daughter.
    As if fate once more intended to pull the rug out from under Jenna's feet, the little girl opened her mouth and screamed.
    Chapter Two
    Mill Village, 4:35 p.m.
    Jenna slammed the door, closing herself inside her end of the run-down duplex. She clawed in her purse for the pack of cigarettes she'd bought days ago in a moment of weakness, then threw the purse on the tattered sofa she'd picked up at a thrift store.
    She snatched at the cigarette packaging with trembling fingers until she had it open, then jammed a cigarette between her lips and searched for a way to light it. Anticipation roared like a wild beast in her veins.
    Right now it was either a cigarette or a drink, and the latter was by far the worst of the two evils.
    Jenna stamped into the kitchen and searched drawers and cabinets. No matches. No candle lighter.
    An entire month she had lived in this dump. Why hadn't she bought a lighter and a candle in case the power went out—which it did every time a storm blew through this side of town? Why the hell hadn't she grabbed a lighter when she picked up the smokes?
    Just when she thought she might have to scream or start banging on the doors of neighbors, her attention landed on the stove. She turned on the largest of the heating elements and waited for the coil to turn red.
    Tension strummed through her muscles. Her foot tapped against the scarred linoleum. Hancock hadn't said one way or the other if she had the job. He'd rushed into the classroom and insisted she leave. Attendants and nurses hurried to calm the children, all of whom had started to scream.
    It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out she had botched that part of the interview.
    Jenna balled her hands into fists. If she didn't get the job, what would she do?
    "Damn it!" Her whole body shook and she braced herself against the nearest counter. She had to get the job.
    That little girl was her Sophie. Jenna could feel it deep inside, in the place only mothers knew.. .the place where she'd once carried her precious baby.
    That was her child in that prestigious, one-of-a-kind prison.
    Her knees buckled and she fell into a crouch, hugging her arms around her legs, and let the dam burst. Tears flowed down her cheeks as the emotions she had restrained for weeks now caught up to her.
    Seven years her baby had been gone. Seven years. No one had been able to find her. There hadn't been a single lead. Not one. Until now. Jenna wasn't so far gone that she didn't realize her lead was somewhat sketchy and far too much of a coincidence to be acceptable. This whole set-up smelled to high heaven.
    But it was all she'd had, so she'd taken it. Desperation did strange things to a person.
    It would be so much easier if she could just call the cops. But after last summer's fiasco, that would be a major wrong move. There was no one she could call on for