Lullaby and Goodnight Read online

  STALKING PEYTON

  Pausing to gaze longingly at the garland-bedecked display in the maternity shop’s window, Peyton pictures herself wearing that blue empire-waist dress at Kaplan and Kline’s annual spring outing.

  If there weren’t a CLOSED sign on the door, she’d be tempted to go in and try it on. Maybe tomorrow, during her lunch hour.

  As she turns from the store window and heads west past Madison Square Park, deserted in this icy deluge, Peyton’s thoughts are consumed by all the things she will do differently from her mother as she raises her own child.

  She barely notices the raw, wet weather.

  Nor does she notice the figure that slips out of the shadows and falls into step behind her, trailing her all the way home. . . .

  Books by Wendy Corsi Staub

  DEARLY BELOVED

  FADE TO BLACK

  ALL THE WAY HOME

  THE LAST TO KNOW

  IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

  SHE LOVES ME NOT

  KISS HER GOODBYE

  LULLABY AND GOODNIGHT

  Published by Pinnacle Books

  WENDY CORSI STAUB

  LULLABY AND GOODNIGHT

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  STALKING PEYTON

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  Month One - February

  CHAPTER ONE

  Month Two - March

  CHAPTER TWO

  Month Three - April

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Month Four - May

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Month Five - June

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Month Six - July

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Month Seven - August

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Month Eight - September

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Month Nine

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  For my new baby nephew,

  Andrew Caleb Sypko,

  who came a long, long way to get home at last.

  And for Mark, Morgan, and Brody,

  who are my home.

  The author gratefully acknowledges the contributions of ever-supportive family and friends, particularly: Sonya Aydell, Kathy Barker, Beverly Barton, Janine Bauert, Anne Boehm, Anita Borgenecht, Tricia Caitlin, Kathy Carson, Toni Cramer, Gaile Davis, Patty and Rick Donovan, Cindy Gaston, Elizabeth Hannah, Meredith Haynes, Thjodie Hess, Denise Hodder, Lisa Jackson, Brooke Dunn-Johnson, Sheryl Madden, Gena Massarone, Michele Mazur, Joanne Masten, Doug Mendini, Patti Nota, Phil Pelletere, Elaine Pharrel, Katie Plotkin, Rhoda Rudnick, Helen Rush, Joan Siegel, Kelly Spagnola, Mark Staub, Natalie Syrba, Jan Wallace, and Wendy Zemanski.

  And an especially warm hug to my agent, Laura Blake Peterson, and everyone at Curtis Brown, and my editor, John Scognamiglio, and everyone at Kensington Publishing.

  PROLOGUE

  “Please. Please don’t hurt me. I just want to have my baby. . . .”

  “Oh, you will.” The stranger’s lips curve upward to reveal chalk-white, even teeth. “You’ll have your baby.”

  Far from reassuring Heather, the words—and the smile—strike her as sinister, sending a new wave of dread shuddering through her.

  She struggles to keep full-blown panic at bay, her pregnancy-swollen body tethered to the four posts of the bed. She can’t possibly escape. Even if she were left alone long enough to work the ropes free, even if she were in prime condition to run, she wouldn’t get far. She has no idea what lies beyond the door of this room. She was brought here blindfolded, at gunpoint. The blindfold is off and the weapon now concealed, but she senses its deadly presence nearby. She can’t take a chance.

  And so, physically helpless, she can only search wildly for a mental way out, for some logical explanation to grasp.

  The only rationale Heather’s fear-muddled brain can conjure is that she isn’t really here; this simply cannot be happening. She must be home in bed. This has to be another one of those crazy nightmares she’s been having these last few weeks, between bouts of heartburn and frequent nocturnal trips to the bathroom.

  Squeezing her eyes closed, she promises herself that when she counts to ten and opens them, she’ll see familiar pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, her Beanie Baby collection, the bulletin board above her bed, still decorated with pictures from the prom with Ryan and from cheerleading camp last summer.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Mom made her go to camp. The year before, Heather had begged to go and Mom said they couldn’t afford it. This year, her mother somehow scraped the money together despite Heather’s protests. She wanted to stay home to be near Ryan, who was lifeguarding at a borough pool.

  Of course, Ryan was the very reason Mom wanted her to get away from Staten Island for the summer. She thought they were spending too much time together. She was worried that what had happened to her would happen to Heather. No amount of begging would change Mom’s mind about camp.

  “You’re going, Heather. Period.”

  . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

  Period. Ha. She didn’t even realize she had missed hers until she got home from camp. Overnight, she had become a walking stereotype—the Roman Catholic schoolgirl who lost her virginity on prom night and found herself pregnant. She had become her mother’s worst nightmare.

  No, she had become her mother.

  . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten!

  There is no pink-and-white-striped wallpaper.

  No Beanie Baby collection.

  No bulletin board.

  Renewed despair launches in Heather’s gut as she gazes frantically around the nondescript box of a room. Painted white walls. Dresser, chair, four-poster wooden bed. One window with the blinds drawn and plain beige curtains hanging from a metal rod.

  Where the hell am I?

  A wave of longing sweeps through her; longing for the frilly white priscillas Mom bought on clearance at Kmart last year. At the time, Heather complained that they were too babyish for a fifteen-year-old. Now she’d give anything to see them again. To see Mom again.

  “Please . . .” she whimpers, succumbing to the realization that this is no nightmare.

  This is real.

  As her captor looms over the bed, she’s certain that her life—and her baby’s life—is in danger.

  “What’s the matter? You’re afraid, aren’t you? Poor thing.”

  The eyes that gaze down at her are oddly vacant, betraying no hint of human empathy. Gone is the cheerful voice that asked if she needed a hand loading her packages into the car, having given way to an eerily detached monotone.

  “It’s almost over. Don’t worry.”

  What’s almost over? Oh, God. Please help me.

  Heather has been transformed into yet another stereotype: the pretty teenaged girl who’s disappeared from a shopping mall.

  Once again, she has become her mother’s worst nightmare.

  “You should calm yourself down. All that shaking isn’t good for the baby, you know.”

  Oh, please. Please.

  I want my mommy.

  I want to go home.

  “Are
you hungry? What am I thinking? Of course you’re hungry. You’re eating for two, and it’s almost six. Time for dinner.”

  Only six o’clock?

  Hours seem to have passed since she waddled out of the mall and across the icy parking lot through freezing rain. Heather automatically attempts to lift her left wrist to check her watch, but it’s held fast by the twine that binds her hand to the bedpost.

  She whimpers in frustration, closing her eyes. A series of images rush at her.

  The shocked expression in Ryan’s beautiful blue-green eyes when she told him the EPT was positive.

  Bitter disappointment, etched with resignation, on her mother’s face.

  A shapeless blob on an ultrasound screen, one she wished would miraculously disappear so that Ryan would reappear in her life.

  But that was eight months ago.

  That was before she ever heard her baby’s rapid heartbeat; before she felt the little flutters of life stirring beneath her swelling belly; before the flutters gave way to kicks and punches and sometimes, the staccato taps the doctor told her are the baby’s hiccups. Somehow, the hiccups made the whole thing seem real.

  The pregnancy she once cursed has transformed into a blessing; she now longs with anticipation for the date she once dreaded. And it’s almost here.

  Less than forty-eight hours until her due date.

  She’s been so exhausted, and the weather was so crummy. Why didn’t she just stay home? Why did she feel compelled to make one last trip to Baby Gap and Gymboree?

  Because she hated that her baby’s layette was so skimpy. Because she convinced herself that the baby would need a few more Onesies, a few more little knit caps and tiny socks . . .

  And maybe, because some part of her longed for one last trip to the mall; longed for that link to the carefree teenaged days she’d left behind as her stomach ballooned and Ryan and her girlfriends abandoned her.

  “Hey!” A painful jab in her arm startles Heather back to the horrific present. Her eyes snap open to face her tormentor once again. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you hungry?”

  Oh, God. Please. Please don’t let this sick lunatic hurt me. Please.

  “I want to go home.”

  A surprisingly gentle hand strokes her head. “Hush. Everything will be all right.”

  Hush . . .

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word . . .

  The melody of the folk lullaby she’s been humming for months, whenever she’s alone, drifts into Heather’s head.

  “Please. Please let me go home.”

  Please. I want to rock my baby and sing lullabies. Please.

  “Sorry, that’s not possible.” Her captor’s smile has been replaced by an all-business demeanor that strikes Heather as even more chilling. It’s as though there is a specific agenda, a purpose to her being here.

  “What do you want to eat? Do you have any cravings? Pickles and ice cream, maybe?”

  The laughter that follows is maniacal, subsiding just as rapidly as it began.

  “Now, what can I make for you to eat?”

  Maybe this is just a harmless crazy person, Heather tells herself. Maybe the best thing to do is go along until somebody shows up here to save her.

  Wherever here is.

  She has no idea which way they traveled after she was shoved into the back of a van that was parked close to her mother’s car in the mall parking lot.

  The van was so damned close. Why didn’t she notice that? Why didn’t she carry her own damned packages?

  Why didn’t she listen to Mom when she said never to talk to strangers?

  “I’m waiting,” the stranger says now, in almost a singsong voice. “Tell me what you want to eat.”

  “Anything.” It’s all Heather can do to push the lone word past the sodden lump of fear in her throat.

  “Oh, come on. You must have a request. Even prisoners on death row get to place an order for their last meal.”

  Their last meal.

  Heather knows then that she’s never going home. She’s never going home to her mommy, and she isn’t going to be a mommy.

  Erupting in tears, she begins to beg for her life, knowing it’s futile.

  “Please,” she says, over and over. “Please let me go. I just want to have my baby.”

  “But you will. I promise. Trust me, I never break my promises.”

  “Please . . .”

  “Relax. You’re going to have your baby . . .”

  It doesn’t make sense, Heather thinks wildly, just before she hears the most ominous words of all.

  “You’re going to have your baby, right after you have your last meal. And believe me, you’re going to need your strength for what’s coming.”

  Ten Years Later

  Month One

  February

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I have some good news for you, Ms. Somerset,” Dr. Lombardo announces, striding into the examining room, clipboard in hand and a broad grin on his handsome face.

  “Oh my God!” Tears spring to Peyton’s gray eyes. “When am I due?”

  “Due? What are you talking about? The good news is that the Dow just jumped forty-one points.”

  He’s teasing, Peyton assures herself—and nevertheless feels a slight twinge of too-good-to-be-true trepidation. “I am pregnant . . . right?”

  “You are pregnant.” The obstetrician reaches for her right hand and clasps it warmly in his own. “Congratulations.”

  She heaves a sigh of relief. Not that she had any doubt, really. Four home pregnancy tests can’t be wrong. Still, the nurse instructed her to come in for blood work, just to be certain.

  So. Now she’s certain.

  Nine months from now, give or take, she’ll be a mother.

  “I’m going to write you a prescription for prenatal vitamins,” the doctor informs her, flipping briskly through his notes. “And we’ll need to schedule some tests. Ultrasound, amniocentesis . . .”

  “Amniocentesis?”

  “I recommend one for all my patients who are over forty. The risk of certain birth defects rises in older mothers, so—”

  “I won’t be forty until September.” According to her calculations, the baby is due the following month.

  The doctor shrugs. “It’s your call, really. I’ll give you some information so that you can make an educated decision.”

  She nods, already knowing what her decision will be. Lord knows she’s done enough reading in preparation for pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood. As far as this informed patient is concerned, the tests would be useless. Even if, God forbid, she found out that the baby in her womb has some terrible birth defect, she would choose to have it. Period.

  When Peyton Somerset makes up her mind to do something, she does it. Her way.

  She interrupts the doctor, who has launched into an array of possible symptoms she might experience. “Do you mind if I run and get my purse so I can write some of this stuff down in my organizer?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ll give you a pamphlet we have that explains everything.”

  “Great, thanks.” Peyton is relieved that she doesn’t have to parade, naked beneath an ill-fitting gown, into the adjoining room where her belongings are stashed on a hook.

  Yes, technically, he’s already seen it all, and then some. But she can’t help it. He’s handsome.

  He goes on, reminding her that this is a combination practice with several doctors and a certified nurse midwife on staff, then moves on to what she should expect at the next few appointments. She barely listens, too caught up in visions of her immediate future. Morning sickness? Maybe. Maternity clothes, definitely.

  She smiles to herself, wondering what could possibly be more fun than mandatory spring shopping. She’ll need to buy a full maternity wardrobe, nothing frilly or pastel . . .

  “I strongly recommend that you enroll in a childbirth preparation class,” the doctor is saying. “We have one sponsored by our on-staff midwife, and the
re’s also a good one at the hospital that covers not just breathing, but pain medication options.”

  Peyton back-burners visions of the many Manhattan boutiques that cater to upscale corporate mothers-to-be, and informs Dr. Lombardo, “I think I’ll go for natural childbirth.”

  “You might think that sounds like a good idea now . . .”

  Yes, she does, and he doesn’t know her well enough to realize she can’t be easily swayed by delivery room horror stories. Not much frightens Peyton Somerset these days. Or ever, for that matter.

  In fact, the only truly scary thing she can think of is not being in utter control . . . of her body, her emotions, her future . . .

  Yes. Control is key.

  “But,” Dr. Lombardo goes on, “if I had a dollar for every patient who said no drugs in the beginning and changed her mind by the time she was dilated a few centimeters, I’d be one young retiree.”

  Peyton offers the obligatory chuckle, wondering just how old he is. He looks about her age, maybe a little younger.

  Basically, he’s your garden-variety Tall, Dark, and Handsome M.D. who could easily be playing the part on an afternoon soap.

  “You should also choose a labor coach, Ms. Somerset,” Dr. Lombardo tells her.

  “Call me Peyton.”

  He smiles. “Peyton. Get a labor coach. Somebody who’s going to be by your side day or night from the time you feel the first cramp until you’ve delivered the baby.”

  Peyton forces herself to maintain eye contact and nod. “No problem.”

  “Good.”

  No problem?

  If she had somebody like that—somebody willing to be by her side, day or night, to help her through the biggest challenge of her life—she wouldn’t be here in the first place.