Page 53 of Last Wish Wedding

The world tilted crazily, and all sounds became distant and distorted. She heard Mac’s voice, sharp with fury, demanding answers from the deputy. Amy’s gasp of horror. Truman’s Irish curse cutting through the night air.

“On what grounds?” Mac was clutching the papers in his white-knuckled grip. “This is outrageous!”

The deputy shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, I’m just delivering the papers. You’ll need to take this up with the court.”

A strange keening sound filled the air—it took Kelsey a moment to realize it was coming from her own throat. The photographs slipped from her fingers and scattered across the porch like fallen leaves.

“Noah,” she moaned, curling forward as physical pain lanced through her chest. “My baby… they took my baby…”

Mac was on his knees beside her, his arm around her shoulders, saying something she couldn’t process. Amy’s face appeared before her, pale and frightened in the porch light.

The world contracted to a single point of agony—Noah was gone. Those bastards.

She needed to get him back.

Without thinking, she broke away from her sister and Mac and ran to her car. She slammed the driver’s door and stomped on the gas, revving the engine as it turned on. She would not stop driving until she got to Boston. Until she stormed onto the front steps of the Prescott mansion and took her son back even if she went to prison for trying.

Beside her, the passenger door opened and Mac slid in beside her. He leaned over to place his hands on hers as she slammed the gear into reverse.

“Whoa there, Kelsey. Let’s think this through. Plus, you’re about to crash into my car and Truman is in there…”

Then the driver’s side door opened, and Amy leaned in. Mac pushed the ignition button to shut the engine off. Amy wrapped her arms around her, and then the tears came.

The next thing Kelsey knew, she was on Truman’s couch, a blanket draped over her legs, Mac’s arm solid around her shoulders. The transition was jarring—she had no memory of leaving her car, of being driven here. The cottage was warm, lamps casting a gentle glow that did nothing to dispel the cold horror in her chest.

“… called Sandra,” Amy was saying from somewhere nearby. “She’ll be on the first ferry in the morning.”

“Did you get through to the Prescott house?” Mac’s voice rumbled against Kelsey’s side.

“Straight to voicemail,” Amy replied, her voice tight with anger. “I left a message that would make a sailor blush.”

Truman sat in his armchair, looking every minute of his ninety-five years but with fire in his eyes. “This is dirty, even for the Prescotts,” he said.

“It looks like I abandoned my son to have an affair.” Kelsey’s voice was a hollow whisper. She became fully present again, the fog of shock receding enough for raw pain to flood in. “That’s exactly what they wanted it to look like. That’s why they were photographing us. And then they struck when Noah was already physically with them.” A fresh wave of anguish washed over her. “He must be so scared. Does he think I know? That I let this happen?”

“No,” Amy said firmly, kneeling before her sister. “Noah knows you would never abandon him. Never.”

“He’s just a little boy,” Kelsey whispered. Tears streamed down her face. “He thinks he’s coming home tomorrow.”

Mac’s arm tightened around her. “We’re going to fix this,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “I promise you, Kelsey. Whatever it takes.”

Kelsey looked up at him, seeing the determination in his eyes, the same expression Truman wore. For the first time since the envelope was placed in her hands, a small flicker of hope kindled in her chest. She had powerful allies at her disposal.

“How?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

“By any means necessary,” Truman said gravely from his chair. “Any means necessary.”

Chapter 18

The night aide, Mrs. Henley, had arrived shortly after they’d settled at Truman’s, and her familiar presence was a small comfort in the chaos. With practiced efficiency, she’d prepared Truman’s evening medication and gently but firmly steered him toward his bedroom despite his protests.

“I’m perfectly capable of staying up during a crisis,” Truman grumbled, though the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face belied his words.

“You’ll be more help tomorrow if you rest tonight,” Mrs. Henley replied, a statement that brooked no argument. She’d been managing Truman’s care long enough to know which battles to fight.

Mac stood in the doorway of his grandfather’s room, watching as the old man settled reluctantly beneath the covers. “We’ll be back first thing,” he promised. “Johnson’s contacting our attorneys now.”

Truman’s eyes, rheumy but sharp, fixed on him. “Don’t let her be alone tonight, boy. I’d hate to see her try to take them on alone.”