agency?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“You called me a few days ago, Polly.”
“I called you?”
“Yes.”
“In Wyoming?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I call you? I don’t know you. Or anybody in Wyoming. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You asked for me, specifically. You had my name, my address. You’d called to tell me that my baby was still alive.”
“What? Who’s still alive? No, I don’t know anything about a call.”
“Yes, I recognize your voice. The call came from a public phone near the Burger King on Civic Center Drive here in Santa Ana.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Polly massaged her temples.
“We were clients of Golden Dawn where you worked.”
“What?”
“We had our baby, Tyler, through a donor there. My husband, Joe, Tyler and I were in an accident in Wyoming. My husband—” Emma paused “—my husband, Joe, was killed. I was thrown clear and police said our baby, Tyler, died when our car caught fire.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I saw someone rescue Tyler. Then, after my doctor informed the clinic about Tyler, you called me in the night.”
“You’re crazy!”
“You called me and told me my baby was not dead!”
Polly shook her head.
“No, I don’t remember anything like that.”
“I need you to help me find my baby.”
Polly flashed her palms at Emma.
“You should leave right now.”
“Not until you help me.” Emma opened her bag and withdrew a file folder. “I’ve made a copy of my files from the clinic for you. I’ll help you remember—we can work together. I’ve attached the card of my hotel where I’m staying. It’s near the clinic. Maybe we could call them and—”
Polly smacked the folder and the papers flew from Emma’s hands and fluttered to the floor. “Stop it! I cannot take it anymore!”
The ferocity in Polly’s voice rooted Emma where she stood.
Polly collapsed on the sofa, sobbing, trembling, as she poured a glass of whiskey, downed it, then covered her face with her hands.
“My husband—” she sniffed “—my ex-husband, Brad, committed suicide a few nights ago in a Las Vegas motel after running up a forty-three-thousand-dollar gambling debt.”
Emma sat beside her.
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Polly.”
“The maid found him in the tub with our family picture on his chest. He’d slashed his wrists.”
“I am so sorry.”
“I’m being punished for my sins.”
“What sins?”
“I’m responsible for the death of our only child.”
Emma took Polly’s hands.
“No, that can’t be.”
“Five years ago we were at the beach. Brad was building a sand castle with Crystal, our two-year-old. He was a district bank manager. He got a call on his phone and told me to watch her. He thought I’d heard him but I was sleeping under my sunglasses. He turned and walked away. Crystal followed the seagulls out into the water and a wave took her.”
Polly poured another glass of whiskey.
“We went into therapy. I blamed him—he blamed me. We withdrew into ourselves and accepted the fact it didn’t matter who was to blame.”
“It was a terrible accident,” Emma said.
“We were both guilty. I tried to cope by working long hours in the lab at Golden Dawn, becoming a workaholic and making other families happy. Brad drank and would disappear for days. A couple of times I bailed him out of the L.A. county jail. He lost his job, ran up gambling debts. We had a home in Santa Monica but lost it. Brad ran up more debts.”
Polly stared into space.
“You know, he told me that when he gambled he’d live in hope of a big payoff so we could get our house back, get our lives back and maybe try for another baby. That adrenaline rush kept him alive, but I told him he was chasing a mirage and had to stop because the bill collectors were not letting up. It was horrible. We moved around constantly until I divorced him. I did everything I could. I got bank loans, lines of credit, juggled credit cards, but they kept coming after me. The pressure took its toll and I lost my job at Golden Dawn.”
Polly stared into her glass, took a big swallow, then followed Emma’s attention to a box of files that had the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation insignia.
“What’re you looking at?”
“I’m sorry, Polly.” Emma nodded to the files. “I just thought maybe you could help me.”
“What the—?” Polly’s face contorted.
She stood. Woozy and dazed, she pointed to the door.
“Get out!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You come into my home and accuse me of all kinds of crap. I don’t know who the hell you are!” Polly slurred. “You could be a cop,