Holidays are Hell

They thanked Micah and hung up as they pulled to a stop in front of a modest two-story in an enclave of middle-class homes. Zoe stepped out onto the walkway, stretching in the morning light, thinking the neighborhood was a good fit for the couple she'd seen grieving the night before. Comfortable, yet without ostentation; orderly, but still welcoming.

Zoe grabbed the briefcase she'd retrieved from her car on the way over, and started up the walk. She halted halfway, causing Warren to plow into and then steady her, though he released her as soon as he'd done so. That fueled her indignance, adding a sting to her words. "Where do you think you're going?"

"You're not going in there without me," he replied, just as coolly, his light brown eyes hardening on hers as Phaedre and Gregor joined them on the walk. Zoe made a point of looking him up and down, taking in his ratty trench coat, tattered hems, and mussed hair. All that was missing was the cardboard sign around his neck.

"Why? You want to scare the poor people to death?" She smiled when he scowled, adding, "Besides, you smell."

His mouth worked wordlessly at that, and a furious blush stained his chapped cheeks. Zoe would've laughed… if she weren't so pissed. She'd brought this case to them, and now he was acting like she couldn't be trusted to convincingly play her part.

Gregor, sensing an argument brewing, quickly threw in his two cents. "She's right, Hog. You're as ripe as a maggoty brisket."

Fuming, Warren looked from Zoe to Gregor, then over at Phaedre.

"You stink," she confirmed, and the three of them headed up the sidewalk without him. Even with her mortal hearing Zoe could hear Warren cursing as he returned to the car. Gregor shot her a smile as she rang the doorbell, and she grinned back. It felt good, knowing they were behind her, flanking her, trusting her. It wasn't until that moment did she realize how lonely she'd been.

It was the husband who answered the door. Zoe'd expected that, but what made her heart catch in her throat was the red rimming his eyes, making him look older than his thirty-six years. Making him look ill as well.

"Mr. McCormick, I'm Traci Malone. The caseworker for United Hospital. We spoke on the phone."

Recognition flashed through his eyes at her name, but it didn't brighten them. The guy looked like he'd been extinguished inside.

"Can we come in?" she asked, inching forward. The physical suggestion wasn't as powerful now that she was mortal, but he did take a small step back. "It's about your daughter."

And now the pain followed. He shook himself as if from a dream, and began to shut the door. "You haven't heard, then. We don't have a daughter."

"Ashlyn's alive, Mr. McCormick," Phaedre said, from behind Zoe.

The child's name was what stopped him. Zoe saw that. The rest took a moment to sink in.

"Honey? Who is it?" Andria McCormick must've been crying all night. She appeared, pale skin blotchy, hair falling out if its loose ponytail, and wearing the same rumpled clothes she'd been in the night before.

"These… these people…" But Dennis couldn't finish. Fresh worry sprung into his wife's face as she studied his reaction. Then it iced over with protectiveness. Zoe knew then that she'd chosen right. This couple—their love and home—would've been perfect for her granddaughter. Would be perfect, she corrected, and straightened her shoulders.

"Mrs. McCormick, we have reason to believe your daughter was abducted from the hospital last night by a couple posing as you and—" Andie gasped as Dennis's head reared up, " — your husband. They were assisted by a nurse named Nancy Allen. May we please come in?"

By the time the McCormicks had led them through the living and dining rooms, Dennis had regained his wits enough to ask to see their credentials. Zoe handed him one of her social services cards, her eyes catching on a Welcome Home, Ashlyn banner draped over the glossy dining room table, while Gregor and Phaedre flashed detective badges. Andie then settled them in the cozy kitchen nook while she put on a fresh pot of coffee, and Dennis opened the shades, the morning light invading the darkened house in unrelenting streams. Zoe let her eyes pass over all the baby gear and followed Andie's movements as she pushed aside the preparations for the following day's Thanksgiving celebration, making way for a tray and five cups and saucers. Her attention, however, never strayed from her visitors.

Damn, but Zoe wanted this woman as Ashlyn's mother.

"What we need from you," she said, ten minutes later after telling them all she could about the previous night's events, "is to tell us everything you remember about the nurse who called you last night. Even the smallest detail might help us find her."

The McCormicks looked at one another desperately.