Debbie reached out and touched Sylvia’s arm. “I know you want a girl, but a little boy is just as good… and you’ll always have Eva. I’m sure she’ll love having an aunt to do hair and nails with.”
Smiling, Sylvia covered Debbie’s hand with her own. She opened her mouth to speak, then frowned. Eyes wide and mouth falling open, she grabbed Debbie’s hand and squealed.
“That’s the ring?” she shouted. “Oh my God, Debbie, it’s huge! Why didn’t you tell me that fool had finally gotten you a ring?”
Embarrassed, Debbie snatched her hand back. “He just gave it to me last night.”
Weeks had passed since Preacher had asked her to marry him, and Debbie had all but forgotten his promise to get her a ring. She’d been shocked when he’d come home from the club early last night and proposed to her all over again.
Shaking her head, Sylvia’s eyes gleamed with envy. “It’s just gorgeous,” she breathed. “How many carats is it? Two? Three?”
Debbie glanced down briefly at the sparkling diamond adorning her ring finger, then at the butterfly ring on her index finger, and shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
In truth, she much preferred her own ring—the little silver butterfly that Preacher had proposed with meant more to her than a diamond ever could.
“So when’s the big day?”
Debbie looked up. “What day?”
“You’re wedding, silly! When are you and Preacher planning on gettin’ married?”
Debbie bit down on her lip. “Um…”
“Oh, and you’ve got to let me go dress shopping with you! My aunt owns a boutique in Jersey City—she can get you whatever you’re lookin’ for… What kind of dress are you lookin’ for?”
Debbie only stared at Sylvia.
“Well, it’s gotta be beautiful,” Sylvia continued. “And white. Or, maybe pink? I was reading this magazine the other day and… oh! Speaking of beautiful things, did you see Burt Reynolds on the cover of People? Mm-mm-mm. I don’t know what it is about a man with a mustache. I keep tryin’ to get Joey to grow one.”
“What kinda mustache we talkin’ ‘bout here?”
Sylvia’s eyes were like ice, frosting over as her gaze snapped to Tiny. “Who asked you?” she bit out. “Mind your own business.”
Whereas Debbie had long since grown used to Tiny’s presence, Sylvia had begun to resent it and made no effort to hide her feelings about what she perceived as a needless nuisance. Coupled with her contempt for the club, Tiny didn’t stand a chance.
Shrugging, Tiny stroked his cheek. “I’m just sayin’, I think it all depends, you know? Are we talkin’ about a Fu Manchu or a John Holmes? And is this mustache on a big guy or a little guy? ‘Cause us big guys can pull off most mustaches, but those scrawny little assholes can’t do it. They’re walkin’ around lookin’ like a broomstick with a squirrel on top. But I’m thinkin’ Joe could probably pull off a John Holmes—he ain’t so scrawny.”
Fighting to keep a straight face, Debbie slapped her hand over her mouth. Beside her, Sylvia made a choking noise.
“Somethin’ funny?” Tiny glanced between them, genuine confusion crinkling his features. “You bustin’ my chops, Debbie darlin’?”
“It’s nothing,” Debbie remarked, still fighting a laugh. “I just never realized you put so much thought into men and their facial hair.”
“It’s not nothin’,” Sylvia practically growled. “Here we are talkin’ ‘bout dignified men like Burt Reynolds and this idiot is talkin’ about John Holmes—a goddamn porn star!”
At that, several fellow shoppers glanced in their direction. A woman holding a small child gasped and hurried away.
“Whatever,” Tiny muttered. “I gotta take a leak. You two wait here.” Turning away, he noticed the nearby shoppers eyeing him—their expression ranging from amusement to disgust.
“What?” he shouted. “All you uptight broads wanna pretend you ain’t never watched a skin flick before, that’s fine with me!” Throwing his arms up, he stormed away.
“Debbie,” Sylvia groaned, “Preacher has got to give you a new babysitter. I can’t take that revolting man another second. Tell him anyone but Tiny.”
Debbie watched as Tiny disappeared down the escalator. “I don’t really mind him so much anymore. He kinda grew on me.”
“Like fungus or something?” Rolling her eyes, Sylvia patted at her perfectly coiffed curls and sniffed imperiously. “I’ve known that man for years and I still can’t stand him. You know he smells like ketchup, right? Tell me I’m not the only one who smells ketchup on him!”
While Sylvia continued to rant, Debbie turned away, laughing and shaking her head. After browsing through several racks of clothing and nothing catching her eye, Debbie continued on. Noticing a nearby doll display, a slow smile split her lips. Eva was still too young to enjoy a doll, but Debbie hadn’t yet bought her anything frivolous—something she suddenly wanted to remedy.
“Mama’s going to get you a dolly, baby girl,” she said, pushing the carriage toward the display.
Plucking a box from the shelf, Debbie peered through the plastic covering at the creamy-skinned, dark-haired doll. “If only she had gray eyes,” she murmured and set the box back on the shelf.
She traveled further into the toy department, looking over the fun, colorful displays until something caught her eye. Going up on her tiptoes, Debbie reached for a porcelain doll dressed in an elaborately beaded gown.
“Miss Reynolds.”
Dropping down on her heels, Debbie whirled around. An older man stood nearby. Tall and slim, he wore a dark gray suit. His hands and face were spotted with age, and he was nearly bald, with only wisps of gray hair remaining.
Debbie gripped the baby carriage and jerked it in the other direction. Another man was fast approaching—short and stocky, he had messy brown hair and thick sideburns the same dull brown color as his suit coat.
Debbie’s eyes bounced between the two men, alarm bells going off inside her. She thought she might recognize them, though she couldn’t recall from where.
“Agent Willis of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Miss Reynolds,” the older man said, briefly flashing the identification he’d pulled from his pocket. “And this is my partner, Agent Parker. We just need to ask you a few questions.”
The FBI? Debbie’s reeling thoughts fell into place. She had seen them before—parked outside the clubhouse. Preacher had told her to never look their way, to act as if they weren’t even there.
“Or should we say ‘Miss Stephens’?”
Debbie’s shocked gaze swung to Parker. His condescending smile told her she hadn’t misheard him—he had, in fact, called her Miss Stephens.
Her name. He knew her name—her real name.
“Do you have any idea how many people go missing every year, all over the country?” Shaking his head, Parker smacked his lips together. “Too many to keep track of. Like finding a needle in a haystack. Lucky for us, sweetheart, you’re a high-profile case.”
Gooseflesh rippled up and down Debbie’s arms and legs. Still clutching the baby carriage, she pressed her back against the display behind her and tried hard not to shake.
“That big-shot daddy of yours put up a pretty penny for your return, you know that?” Parker pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his suit coat and shook it open.
It was a “missing” poster with Debbie’s face on it—a grainy black and white copy of a school photo taken nearly three years ago. Beneath the photograph was her full name, city and state of residence, her date of birth, her height and weight, and a hefty reward sum— the size of which sent shockwaves through Debbie.
She pressed her hand to the space below her neck and swallowed hard. “He’s not my dad,” she heard herself croak. It was an odd thing to say, given the situation, but she felt compelled to say it anyway. She wanted a clear distinction between the two men. One had been a good man who’d loved her, and the other… his polar opposite.