Look Again Read online

  Look Again

  Scottoline, Lisa

  Macmillan (2010)

  Rating: ★★★☆☆

  * * *

  * * *

  ### From Publishers Weekly

  Starred Review. Bestseller Scottoline (_Lady Killer_) scores another bull's-eye with this terrifying thriller about an adoptive parent's worst fear—the threat of an undisclosed illegality overturning an adoption. The age-progressed picture of an abducted Florida boy, Timothy Braverman, on a have you seen this child? flyer looks alarmingly like Philadelphia journalist Ellen Gleeson's three-year-old son, Will, whom she adopted after working on a feature about a pediatric cardiac care unit. Ellen, who jeopardizes her newspaper job by secretly researching the Braverman case, becomes suspicious when she discovers the lawyer who handled her adoption of Will has committed suicide. Meanwhile, Will's supposed birth mother, Amy Martin, dies of a heroin overdose, and Amy's old boyfriend turns out to look like the man who kidnapped Timothy. Scottoline expertly ratchets up the tension as the desperate Ellen flies to Miami to get DNA samples from Timothy's biological parents. More shocks await her back home. _Author tour. (Apr.)_

  Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

  ### From

  Ellen Gleeson was balancing life as a single mother and a feature reporter as well as could be expected. She had taken on single parenthood voluntarily, having fallen in love with her adopted son, Will, now three, when he was a very sick infant. A have-you-seen-this-child postcard featuring a child who could be Will’s twin catches Ellen’s attention, and while she should be pursuing her assigned story about the emotional effect of Philadelphia’s high teenage murder rate, she instead becomes obsessed with the missing child and with pursuing more details about Will’s background. Her questions multiply when she learns that, just three weeks after she adopted Will, the attorney who handled the proceedings killed herself. Where is the birth mother, and why doesn’t her family seem to know that she was pregnant? The answer only leads to danger, but Ellen, her reporter’s instincts on high alert, is hell-bent on finding the truth, no matter the cost. In a departure from her wildly popular Rosato & Associates series, Scottoline still sticks to what she knows in this taut stand-alone: female drama, family ties, legal intrigue, and fast-paced action. A sure-fire winner. --Mary Frances Wilkens

  LOOK AGAIN

  Also by Lisa Scottoline

  Lady Killer

  Daddy’s Girl

  Dirty Blonde

  Devil’s Corner

  Killer Smile

  Dead Ringer

  Courting Trouble

  The Vendetta Defense

  Moment of Truth

  Mistaken Identity

  Rough Justice

  Legal Tender

  Running from the Law

  Final Appeal

  Everywhere That Mary Went

  LOOK AGAIN

  Lisa Scottoline

  ST. MARTIN’S PRESS

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  LOOK AGAIN. Copyright © 2009 by Lisa Scottoline. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Scottoline, Lisa.

  Look again / Lisa Scottoline.—1st ed.e

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-38072-4

  ISBN-10: 0-312-38072-0

  1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Missing children—Fiction. 3. Adopted children—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.C725L66 2009

  813'.54—dc22

  2008043924

  First Edition: April 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my beloved daughter

  Where did you come from, baby dear?

  Out of the everywhere into the here.

  Where did you get your eyes so blue?

  Out of the skies as I came through.

  —George MacDonald

  At the Back of the North Wind

  Where have you been, my blue-eyed son?

  —Bob Dylan

  “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Chapter Eighty-six

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  Chapter Eighty-eight

  Chapter Eighty-nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-one

  Chapter Ninety-two

  Chapter Ninety-three

  Chapter Ninety-four

  Chapter Ninety-five

  Chapter Ninety-six

  Epilogue

  LOOK AGAIN

  Chapter One

  Ellen Gleeson was unlocking her front door when something in the mail caught her attention. It was a white card with photos of missing c
hildren, and one of the little boys looked oddly like her son. She eyed the photo as she twisted her key in the lock, but the mechanism was jammed, probably because of the cold. Snow encrusted SUVs and swing sets, and the night sky was the color of frozen blueberries.

  Ellen couldn’t stop looking at the white card, which read HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD? The resemblance between the boy in the photo and her son was uncanny. They had the same wide-set eyes, smallish nose, and lopsided grin. Maybe it was the lighting on the porch. Her fixture had one of those bulbs that was supposed to repel bugs but only colored them yellow. She held the photo closer but came to the same conclusion. The boys could have been twins.

  Weird, Ellen thought. Her son didn’t have a twin. She had adopted him as an only child.

  She jiggled the key in the lock, suddenly impatient. It had been a long day at work, and she was losing her grip on her purse, briefcase, the mail, and a bag of Chinese takeout. The aroma of barbecued spareribs wafted from the top, setting her stomach growling, and she twisted the key harder.

  The lock finally gave way, the door swung open, and she dumped her stuff onto the side table and shed her coat, shivering happily in the warmth of her cozy living room. Lace curtains framed the windows behind a red-and-white-checked couch, and the walls were stenciled with cows and hearts, a cutesy touch she liked more than any reporter should. A plastic toy chest overflowed with plush animals, Spot board books, and Happy Meal figurines, decorating never seen in House & Garden.

  “Mommy, look!” Will called out, running toward her with a paper in his hand. His bangs blew off his face, and Ellen flashed on the missing boy from the white card in the mail. The likeness startled her before it dissolved in a wave of love, powerful as blood.

  “Hi, honey!” Ellen opened her arms as Will reached her knees, and she scooped him up, nuzzling him and breathing in the oaty smell of dry Cheerios and the faint almond scent of the Play-Doh sticking to his overalls.

  “Eww, your nose is cold, Mommy.”

  “I know. It needs love.”

  Will giggled, squirming and waving the drawing. “Look what I made! It’s for you!”

  “Let’s see.” Ellen set him down and looked at his drawing, of a horse grazing under a tree. It was done in pencil and too good to be freehand. Will was no Picasso, and his go-to subject was trucks. “Wow, this is great! Thank you so much.”

  “Hey, Ellen,” said the babysitter, Connie Mitchell, coming in from the kitchen with a welcoming smile. Connie was short and sweet, soft as a marshmallow in a white sweatshirt that read PENN STATE, which she wore with wide-leg jeans and slouchy Uggs. Her brown eyes were bracketed by crow’s-feet and her chestnut ponytail was shot through with gray, but Connie had the enthusiasm, if not always the energy, of a teenager. She asked, “How was your day?”

  “Crazy busy. How about you?”

  “Just fine,” Connie answered, which was only one of the reasons that Ellen counted her as a blessing. She’d had her share of babysitter drama, and there was no feeling worse than leaving your child with a sitter who wasn’t speaking to you.

  Will was waving his picture, still excited. “I drew it! All by myself!”

  “He traced it from a coloring book,” Connie said under her breath. She crossed to the coat closet and retrieved her parka.

  “I drew it!” Will’s forehead buckled into a frown.

  “I know, and you did a great job.” Ellen stroked his silky head. “How was swimming, Con?”

  “Fine. Great.” Connie put on her coat and flicked her ponytail out of the collar with a deft backhand. “He was a little fish.” She got her brown purse and packed tote bag from the windowseat. “Will, tell Mommy how great you did without the kickboard.”

  Will pouted, a mood swing typical of toddlers and manic-depressives. Connie zipped up her coat. “Then we drew pictures, right? You told me Mommy liked horses.”

  “I drew it,” Will said, cranky.

  “I love my picture, sweetie.” Ellen was hoping to stave off a kiddie meltdown, and she didn’t blame him for it. He was plainly tired, and a lot was asked of three-year-olds these days. She asked Connie, “He didn’t nap, did he?”

  “I put him down, but he didn’t sleep.”

  “Too bad.” Ellen hid her disappointment. If Will didn’t nap, she wouldn’t get any time with him before bed.

  Connie bent down to him. “See ya later . . .”

  Will was supposed to say “alligator,” but he didn’t. His lower lip was already puckering.

  “You wanna say good-bye?” Connie asked.

  Will shook his head, his eyes averted and his arms loose at his sides. He wouldn’t make it through a book tonight, and Ellen loved to read to him. Her mother would turn over in her grave if she knew Will was going to bed without a book.

  “All right then, bye-bye,” Connie said, but Will didn’t respond, his head downcast. The babysitter touched his arm. “I love you, Will.”

  Ellen felt a twinge of jealousy, however unreasonable. “Thanks again,” she said, and Connie left, letting in an icy blast of air. Then she closed and locked the door.

  “I DREW IT!” Will dissolved into tears, and the drawing fluttered to the hardwood floor.

  “Aw, baby. Let’s have some dinner.”

  “All by myself!”

  “Come here, sweetie.” Ellen reached for him but her hand hit the bag of Chinese food, knocking it to the floor and scattering the mail. She righted it before the food spilled, and her gaze fell on the white card with the photo of the missing boy.

  Uncanny.

  She picked up the bag of Chinese food and left the mail on the floor.

  For the time being.

  Chapter Two

  Ellen put Will to bed, did a load of laundry, then grabbed a fork, napkin, and a cardboard container of leftover Chinese. She took a seat at the dining-room table, and the cat sat at the other end, his amber eyes trained on her food and his tail tucked around his chubby body. He was all black except for a white stripe down the center of his face and white paws like cartoon gloves, and Will had picked him because he looked so much like Figaro from the Pinocchio DVD. They couldn’t decide whether to name him Figaro or Oreo, so they’d gone with Oreo Figaro.

  Ellen opened the container, forked chicken curry onto her plate, then dumped out the leftover rice, which came out in a solid rectangle, like sand packed in a toy pail. She broke it up with her fork and caught sight of the Coffmans, her neighbors across the shared driveway, doing their homework at their dining-room table. The Coffman boys were tall and strong, both lacrosse players at Lower Merion, and Ellen wondered if Will would play a sport in high school. There had been a time when she couldn’t imagine him healthy, much less wielding a lacrosse stick.

  She ate a piece of chicken, gooey with bright yellow curry, which was still warmish. It hit the spot, and she pulled over the mail, sorted out the bills, and set them aside. It wasn’t the end of the month, so she didn’t have to deal with them yet. She ate another bite and was about to daydream her way through the Tiffany catalog when her gaze fell on the white card. She paused in midbite and picked it up. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD? At the bottom it read, American Center for Missing and Abducted Children (ACMAC).

  Ellen set her fork down and eyed the photo of the missing boy again. There was no blaming the lighting this time. Her dining room had a colonial brass candelabra that hung from the ceiling, and in its bright light, the boy in the photo looked even more like Will. It was a black-and-white photo, so she couldn’t tell if they had the same eye color. She read the caption under the photo:

  Name:

  Timothy Braverman

  Resides:

  Miami, Florida

  DOB:

  1/19/05

  Eyes:

  Blue

  Hair:

  Blond

  Stranger Abduction:

  1/24/06 *

  She blinked. They both had blue eyes and blond hair. They were even about the same age, three years old. Will had just
turned three on January 30. She examined the photo, parsing the features of the missing boy. The similarity started with his eyes, which were a generous distance apart, and the shape, which was roundish. They both had small noses and shared a grin that was identically lopsided, turning down on the right side. Most of all, there was a likeness in their aspect, the steady, level way that they looked at the world.

  Very weird, Ellen thought.

  She reread the caption, noticed the asterisk, and checked the bottom of the card. It read “Timothy Braverman, Shown Age-Progressed to Three Years Old.” She stumbled over the meaning of “age-progressed,” then it registered. The picture of Timothy Braverman wasn’t a current photo, though it looked like one. It was an approximation of how the boy would look right now, a projection done by computer or artist. The thought eased her, unaccountably, and she remembered the day she’d met Will.

  She’d been doing a story on nurses in the pediatric cardiac intensive care unit at Dupont Hospital in Wilmington, and Will was in the CICU being treated for a ventricular septal defect, a hole in his septum. He lay at the end of the sunny unit, a tiny boy in a diaper, in an institutional crib with high white bars. He was undersized, failing to thrive, and it made his head a bobblehead doll’s on a bony frame. His large blue eyes were his most prominent feature, and he took in everything around him, except people. He never made or held eye contact with anyone, which Ellen later learned could be a sign of neglect, and his was the only crib with no plush toys or colorful mobiles attached to the bars.

  He was between heart operations when she first saw him—the first procedure was to patch the hole with a Dacron graft, and the second to repair the graft when one of the stitches came loose—and he lay silently, never crying or whimpering, surrounded by monitors that relayed his vital signs to the nurses in glowing red, green, and blue numbers. So many tubes led to him that he appeared to be tethered; an oxygen tube was taped in place under his nose, a feeding tube disappeared into a nostril, and a clear tube popped grotesquely from the center of his naked chest, emptying fluids into a plastic canister. His IV snaked to his hand, where it ended, adhesive-taped to a board and topped by half of a plastic cup, jury-rigged to make sure he didn’t pull it free. Unlike the other babies, Will never tried.