Her Lost and Found Baby (The Daycare Chronicles 1)

Legal access, of course. The police would help when she had something valid to bring them. Detective Bentley, her contact back home in Mission Viejo, had assured her that no matter how much time passed, he’d keep looking. He just needed something to go on.

“You have to turn that knob there for the door to open.” Johnny’s droll tone was completely lacking in the sarcasm his comment might have suggested. The steady kindness she’d come to associate with him was out in full force.

“I know,” she told him, afraid to turn around, afraid she’d be tempted to hide in the warmth of his gaze, put her head on his shoulder and cry. Because she was afraid that when she opened the door, the hope that had been keeping her going all week would be dashed.

And because... What if Jackson was behind that door and she’d finally, after over a year, hold her baby in her arms again?

It wouldn’t happen immediately. There’d be red tape. Still...her heart felt as though it might burst at the thought of seeing him and she consciously moved on, thinking of the nursery she’d changed into a bedroom for a toddler over the past year.

She’d done it with Johnny’s help, when he had the time and was alone in the evenings, too. She’d made wall hangings, a comforter and furry stuffed pillows in the shapes of animals.

She finally turned the knob, recalling the photo she’d found on Pinterest, the one that had started this particular quest. She looked on the internet every single day. Studied daycare pictures on many different internet sites—those that posted photos with parents’ permission. She searched social media sites, too. And any time she saw a child who even halfway resembled the age-progressed photo she had of Jackson, within the distance parameters she’d set, she and Johnny would plan an Angel’s Food Bowls trek to the area and visit daycares while they were there. All daycares on her list that also fit the parameters she’d figured Jackson’s father would choose, not just those with pictures.

Always on her days off from the hospital. Working three twelves had its advantages.

The police were looking for Jackson, of course. But their jurisdiction was only in Mission Viejo. He was also on the FBI’s list of missing children, but apparently no one had the staff to check out every single daycare in every city in California, searching for one missing boy—especially when said child was known to be with his father who’d never given indication of being dangerous. That unfortunate truth, that her case wasn’t top priority, had become obvious to her almost from the beginning.

Johnny had very generously insisted on paying for a private detective, who was in contact with the police and would follow up on any leads when the police had done what they could, but it wasn’t enough for her. She had to do all she could, too. Even if that meant systematically visiting daycare after daycare. Jackson needed her to be out there looking for him. Tuned in the way only a mother could be.

The room just inside the daycare door was painted in primary colors and held plastic chairs and big boxes for sitting on in the same colors. There were some books scattered about and a wire-and-bead maze toy on a little table. A small reception window was cut into the far wall. And, in the middle of that wall, was another heavy wooden door with a dead bolt.

A sign indicated that no one was allowed beyond that door other than certified employees and the children for whom they cared during business hours. For the safety of the children.

She and Johnny would have to return after hours if they wanted a tour. She’d already known that and they wanted a tour.

His hand on her elbow drew her attention, and he pointed to the window where a woman stood, smiling expectantly.

She’d opened the window.

“Ms. Jones?” The woman’s shoulder-length brown hair was trimmed stylishly around her slender face. Dressed in a brightly colored tie-dyed short-sleeved shirt, she could’ve been at a beach fashion shoot. Her name badge, complete with a dotted rendition of a bouncing ball, read Mallory.

The owner! Good.

“Yes.” Tabitha stepped forward. She’d called to say they were stopping by. To make sure it was okay. “This is Johnny,” she said, gesturing at the man beside her. She was there under false pretenses, but wasn’t going to out-and-out lie any more than she had to. And no more than an undercover officer or PI would have done to rescue a little boy from a man who had mental and emotional issues.

Clearly issues that went far, far beyond what she’d known or she’d never have let him take Jackson to visit his sick mother.

“I emailed you about looking at The Bouncing Ball as a possible spot for our daughter?”

She was the one who’d come up with the idea of making their imaginary child a little girl. She needed to do that to keep her emotional distance. Talking about a boy would’ve been much harder without revealing anything.

Forcing herself to look the woman in the eye, she left it to Johnny to see as much of the inside of the place as he could, not that there was much. According to The Bouncing Ball website, part of the allure was that the privately owned daycare facility took great measures to protect the security of their children. Which was why they’d have to take their tour after hours. But there could be pictures on the wall beyond the receptionist window, maybe. She’d have her chance to check it out, later, if all went well, but she had to do this right.

She had to be ready to see her son without giving herself away or she’d risk looking like an emotionally disturbed woman who might need a restraining order against her. Or something. Johnny had described all the legal pitfalls over and over as they’d started to discuss her desperate idea a month or so after they’d met.

“Yes. She’s two, right?” Mallory Harris asked with another smile and a nod as she left the window and came out through the door, handing Tabitha a packet of daycare information. Just a glance showed Tabitha the plethora of material she’d be poring over with Johnny, from permits to payment plans, application guidelines, company policies, schedules...everything. They’d be looking for anything that could help them catch a man who’d probably changed his name—and that of his child.

Through his work at the children’s hospital, Mark, Jackson’s father, would’ve known more about birth certificates than a lot of people. He’d had access to medical records. The police thought it most likely that he’d changed Jackson’s name and had a fake birth certificate made to support the change.

“Her name’s Chrissy,” Johnny supplied. They’d named their fake child after an old doll Tabitha had had as a kid; it had been her mother’s and it was a doll she still had. You could grow the doll’s hair by pushing a button on her belly—a seeming miracle to a very young Tabitha. It was also an effort to keep her mother, who’d been killed in a car accident when Tabitha was in college, a part of the search. Like having a very special angel working with them every step of the way.

“We’d love to take you up on your offer of a tour,” Tabitha said now. “We’re just stopping in to pick up the materials.” She raised the packet she held, afraid she was coming across as a nervous ninny. Jackson could be in this very building. Her precious baby boy...

Johnny’s hand lightly touching her spine brought her back to the present task—almost as though he’d known she was having a rougher time this go-round.

“We own a food truck,” he said. “We’re parked at Mission Beach and plan to close by seven. Would eight o’clock be okay?”

Jackson would be gone by then. But they could find out about any upcoming open houses or recitals or programs The Bouncing Ball might be hosting by checking out posters and signs and leading the conversation casually to that point.