LITTLE BOY LOST
(ISBN# 0-373-22580-6)

Excerpt

      "Dear God, no."  She blinked, striving to calm her rising pulse.  The
thought of being two states away from Jamie, of trying to get to him from
such a long distance as California, started her stomach churning again.
      What would she be doing in California?
      Kane Kincaid!
     The name screamed through her mind with such force, she knew she'd been
looking for him.  Knew he was her one hope.  She recalled the last post card
she'd had from him.  He'd written to tell her he was starting a business in
California.  In San Diego somewhere.
     San Diego had a bay, didn't it?  Was that where she was?  If only the
damned anchorman would clear up the question.  But he didn't.  She pressed
her head back against the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut.  If she was in
San Diego, why wasn't she with Kane now?  Had she spoken to him sometime
during her missing week?  Was he the one responsible for the bruise on her
temple?  The clothes she didn't recognize?
    No.  Her brains might be scrambled at the moment, but she felt certain
Kane would never be brutal.  Or mean.  Not like Skip.
   The anchorman said something that cut through her dark musings.  A name.
She wrenched up onto her elbows and gaped at the television.  The images on
the screen had turned from vivid Technicolor to an overall sickish green
tint.  Not her eyes, she realized, but some weakness in the TV.  It suited
her mood.
   The anchorman was talking about Wilcox Ellison, her former father-in-law.
Then a reporter on location filled the screen.  He was standing, she
realized with a jolt, in the parking area outside EL, the Ellison family's
internationally famous sportswear company in Port Luster, Washington.
   Camera crews milled before the main entrance of the four story glass and
red brick structure that had been completed three years ago, right before
Jamie was born.  Competing news people jostled the reporter as they vied for
a spot closer to the podium set up near the front door of EL.  Every two
seconds, the reporter gave an anticipatory glance over his shoulder.  The
word "Live" kept flashing in the bottom corner of the screen.
    Frowning, she rose as though lifted by unseen hands and glided to the TV
with the ability of someone not suffering the aftereffects of a debilitating
drug.  She turned the volume louder.  Some force she couldn't name held her
erect, adding braces to her wobbly knees as she listened to the reporter
talking about her former father-in-law.  He said, "Wilcox J. Ellison was
struck down by a heart attack around midnight last night, an unexpected and
shocking death for a man in his supposed good health."
    "Heart attack?" she muttered, incredulous disbelief shifting through her
tense body.  "Wil Ellison?  Impossible."
    The reporter continued, "This news conference was called by Wilcox's
son, Skip Ellison, and we expect it is to announce the change in leadership
at EL.  According to the terms of his father's will, Skip Ellison, will be
taking the reins as the new CEO and major shareholder of the company.  Ah,
here he is now."
     The camera flashed onto Skip's face, and her pulse leapt, then leveled
out.  She watched her ex-husband's lips move without hearing a word he said,
certain it was all platitudes about how sad he was at the loss of his father
while offering assurances to the world at large that losing its founder and
chief would in no way impair service or product.
    Her attention riveted on the man.  Skip looked more handsome and dapper
than usual--his white blond hair stylishly wind-tousled, his wide mouth,
like his mother's, proverbially lifted slightly at the corners, making it
seem he was constantly amused--at some private joke, perhaps.  He wore, she
noted, the newest running suit for the EL line.  The television chose that
moment to correct the color on the screen and she saw his outfit matched the
piercingly cold blue of his eyes.
    The camera scanned to Skip's right, and she froze.  Jamie.  Her heart
raced into her throat.  He was dressed like Skip in a running suit, but he
resembled a miniature version of her, his hair slightly redder, his green
eyes round and wide, and the same cowlick at the right temple that defied
taming.
    Even through the TV she could tell Jamie had been crying.  "Oh, baby."
She ached to hold him, to comfort him.  He looked so desolate and lost.
Viewers might assume his sadness was grief for his grandfather.  She knew
that might be part of it; Wilcox had adored the boy, lavishing him with
attention and affection.  But grief wasn't the only thing hurting her son.
    She stepped closer to the set, reached up and touched the screen as
though Jamie could feel her fingertips on his face, as though she could wipe
away the tears from this distance.  "Oh, my sweet baby."
    As if he'd heard her, Jamie's right hand went to the tender skin beneath
his chin.  He tugged it with his finger and thumb, making their secret
signal.  He was looking for her in the crowd. The pain in her chest felt
deadly.  "I'm here baby."  She copied the signal, silently sending him
comfort.
    His other hand, she realized, was clasped in another's.  An adult's.  A
woman's.  A woman wearing an ecru cashmere sweater. His Aunt Starla's or
Grandmother Frances's, maybe?  But, no, that couldn't be.  The wrist was too
thin for either of them.
     Then who. . .?
    The camera panned upward, then back for a wide angle shot.  Her heart
stopped.  The woman holding her son's hand was. . .   Shudders rattled
through her.  "It's me."
      But that couldn't be.  The broadcast was live.  Happening right this
minute as she stood there watching.
      "No!" she howled at the television.  "You're not Carleen Ellison!  I
am!"
     Carleen had barely uttered the protest when the monstrosity of Skip's
betrayal hit her full force, buckling her knees, dropping her like a wounded
doe.  She lay there, desolate, her body limp, numb, her mind clear, for the
first time in days, with the horror of it all.  He'd replaced her--with an
exact look alike.
    She hugged herself, the embrace of her own arms the only thing holding
her together.  "He must think I'm dead.  That I won't be coming back to
debunk this fraud.  But even if I can get back to Port Luster--"
     She broke off, shivering at the abomination her life had become.  "Dear
God, how will I prove I'm the real Carleen Ellison?
And how will I reclaim Jamie, if I can't prove it?"

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