Broken Promise by Linwood Barclay Read Free Book Online Page A

more than the average Promise Falls bungalow, but they weren’t fetching the same kind of money they might have ten years ago, when the town was prospering. Madeline Plimpton lived around here. She’d thrown a party for Standard staff at her home eight or nine years ago, back when there were things to celebrate in the newspaper business.
    “I don’t see any stores around here,” Marla said.
    “I have to make a stop,” I said.
    I turned onto Breckonwood, worried that I might see half a dozen police cars and a news van from Albany. But the street was quiet, and I found some comfort in that. If someone had called in a report of a missing child, the street would have been abuzz. I found 375, then steered the car over to the curb.
    “This look familiar to you?” I asked, twisting around to get a look at Marla and Matthew, who had a tiny smile on his face.
    She shook her head.
    “You know anyone named Rosemary Gaynor?”
    Marla eyed me suspiciously. “Should I?”
    “I don’t know. Do you?”
    “Never heard of her.”
    I hesitated. “Marla, it has to have occurred to you that this baby—Matthew—came from somewhere.”
    “I told you where he came from. The woman who came to my door.”
    “But she had to get Matthew from someplace, right? Someone had to give him up for you to have him.”
    She was nonplussed. “It must have been someone who couldn’t look after him. They asked around and realized I could provide a good home for him.” She offered up a smile that seemed as innocent as Matthew’s.
    I didn’t see the point of pursuing this any further. At least not right now. I said, “You sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”
    I got out of the car, pocketing the keys, and took in 375. The structure was newer than many on the street, suggesting an older house had been torn down and this built in its place. Well landscaped, two stories, double garage, easily five thousand square feet. If anyone was home, there was probably a high-end SUV sitting behind that garage door.
    I went to the door and rang the bell. Waited.
    I glanced back at the car. Marla’s head was bent down as she talked to the baby. About ten seconds had gone by without anyone answering, so I leaned on the doorbell a second time.
    Another twenty seconds went by. Nothing. I got out my phone, reopened the app that had brought up the phone number for the Gaynors, tapped the number, and put the phone to my ear. Inside the house, I could hear an accompanying ring.
    No answer.
    Nobody home.
    I heard a car approaching and turned around. A black four-door Audi sedan. It turned, quickly, into the driveway and stopped within an inch of the closed garage door, the brakes giving out a loud, sharp squeal.
    A slim man in his late thirties, dressed in an expensive suit, jacket open, tie askew, threw open the door and stepped out.
    “Who are you?” he snapped, striding toward me, his keys hanging from his index finger.
    “I was looking for Rosemary Gaynor. Are you Mr. Gaynor?”
    “Yeah, I’m Bill Gaynor, but who the hell are you?”
    “David Harwood.”
    “Did you ring the bell?”
    “Yes, but no one—”
    “Jesus,” Gaynor said, fiddling with his keys, looking for the one that would open the front door. “I’ve been calling all the way back from Boston. Why the hell hasn’t she been answering the goddamn phone?”
    He had the key inserted, turned it, and was shouting, “Rose!” as he pushed the door open. “Rose!”
    I hesitated a moment at the front door, then followed Gaynor inside. The foyer was two stories tall, a grand chandelier hanging down from above. To the left and right, a dining room and living room. Gaynor was heading straight for the back of the house.
    “Rose! Rose!” he continued shouting.
    I was four steps behind the man. “Mr. Gaynor, Mr. Gaynor, do you have a baby, about—”
    “Rose!”
    This time, when he called out her name, it was different. His voice was filled with anguish and horror.
    The man dropped to his