âYouâre a lawyer, huh?â asked the small-town police chief.
âWell, Counselor, whose battle are you here to win?â
Anneâs mouth tightened. But then, one hardly expected the police to look kindly on defense attorneys. And most times the feeling was mutual.
âIâm representing myself.â She glanced down at eight-month-old Emilie, who banged her rattle on the stroller tray. âAnd my daughter. Iâm here becauseâ¦â How could she say this?
She forced the words out. âBecause I believe you are Emilieâs biological father.â
Chief Mitch Donovan stared at her, shifted the stare to the baby, then back to her. If his eyes had softened slightly before, when they assessed Emilie, that softness turned to granite now when his gaze met hers.
âLady, youâre crazy. Iâve never seen you before in my life.â
âI believe youâre my babyâs father.â Anne Morden tried saying it aloud as she drove down the winding street of the small mountain town. The words sounded just as bad as sheâd thought they would. There was absolutely no good way to announce a fact like that to a man sheâd never met.
In her mind and heart, Emilie was already her child, even though the adoption wasnât yet finalâeven though the father hadnât yet relinquished his rights.
He would. Fear closed around her heart. He had to. Because if he didnât, she might lose the baby she loved as her own.
The soft sound of a rattle drew her gaze to the rearview mirror. Emilie, safe in her car seat, shook the pink plastic lamb with one chubby fist, then stuck it in her mouth. At eight months, Emilie put everything in her mouth.
âItâll be all right, sweetheart. I promise.â
Emilieâs round blue eyes got a little rounder, and her face crinkled into a smile at the sound of Anneâs voiceâ¦the voice of the only mother the baby had ever known.
Fear prickled along her nerves. She had to protect Emilie, had to make sure the adoption went through as planned so the baby would truly be hers. And confronting the man she believed to be Emilieâs biological father was the only way to do that. But where were the right words?
Anne spotted the faded red brick building ahead on the right, its black-and-white sign identifying it as the police station. Her heart clenched. Sheâd face Police Chief Mitch Donovan in a matter of minutes, and she still didnât know what sheâd say.
Help me, Father. Please. For Emilieâs sake, let me find a way to do this.
A parking spot waited for her in front of the station. She couldnât drive around for a few more minutes. Now, before she lost her nerve, she had to go inside, confront the man, and get his signature on a parental rights termination.
For Emilie. Emilie was her child, and nobody, including the unknown Mitch Donovan, was going to take her away.
Parking the car, getting the stroller out, buttoning Emilieâs jacket against the cool, sunny March dayânone of that took long enough. With another silent, incoherent prayer, Anne pulled open the door and pushed the stroller inside.
Bedford Creek didnât boast much in the way of a police stationâjust a row of chairs, a crowded bulletin board and one desk. A small town like this, tucked safely away in the Pennsylvania mountains, probably didnât need more. Sheâd driven only three hours from Philadelphia, but Bedford Creek seemed light-years from the city, trapped in its isolated valley.
âHelp you?â The woman behind the desk had dangling earrings that jangled as she spun toward Anne. Her penciled eyebrows shot upward, as if she were expecting an emergency.
âIâd like to see Chief Donovan, please.â Her voice didnât betray her nervousness, at least she didnât think so.
That was one of the first things sheâd learned as an attorneyânever let her apprehension show, not if she wanted to win. And this was far more important than any case sheâd ever defended.