Barbara Jean Spencer slowly hung up the phone. Dejection was evident in every fiber of her being. Neither the local hospitals nor the police stations had any word of a body matching Carly's description being found.
Bobbie's mornings of late had consisted of methodically calling places all around the state in the hopes that she might get some news that would end all the wondering. Luke informed Bobbie that Carly's body would probably never be found. The visit from Anthony Sorrell was their only indication that Carly was actually dead.
“You had better learn to accept that,” Luke said, almost impatiently. It pained him to observe her daily ordeal. Luke couldn't understand how his younger sister could still be in such denial about the harsh ways of the cold, unfeeling world. Especially after the type of childhood they both shared.
Bobbie sagged into a chair and stared blindly at the opposite wall where framed photographs of Carly and Michael were on prominent display. In one single act of fate she had lost both her daughter and grandson.
Thoughts of Michael made Bobbie's face contort into a mask of anger. She had spent the previous evening going back and forth with A.J. Quartermaine over the restrictions he had put on Bobbie visiting her only grandson. To add insult to injury, her offer to care for Michael during the Quartermaines' private memorial for Jason was met with an assortment of incredulous stares.
Monica and Alan could afford to be generous concerning Michael, Bobbie thought irrationally. Today, they would be able to do what Bobbie might never have the chance. Alan and Monica would be able to grieve over the dead body of their son. Bobbie wondered how long, if ever, it would be before she could go on with her life without seeing the proof of Carly's death.
Bobbie glanced over at the clock on the mantle. In less than an hour Jason's memorial in the Quartermaine rose garden would begin. Alan Quartermaine had extended an awkward invitation for Bobbie to attend, but they both knew that she would not.
At the moment Bobbie's feelings toward the deceased Jason Morgan were not kind ones. Early on in the relationship between Carly and Jason, he made a promise to Bobbie that he would always keep Carly safe. It wasn't a realistic promise, Bobbie knew. Still, she hated Jason for breaking it.
Sighing deeply, Bobbie rose and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She reached up into the top of her closet and pulled out a locked box. She carried it to the bed and placed it on the plush comforter and just stared at it.
From around her neck she removed a chain and key. Bobbie's hand trembled as she slid the key into the lock and turned. Inside the box were all the parts of her past that she had put away, she thought, forever.
Her fingers hovered over her tattered diary. It contained the only written disclosure of just who Carly's father was. Bobbie knew that she should contact him in the light of all that happened. But he did not know he had fathered Bobbie's daughter, and it would be cruel of her to share that information with him now that he would never get the chance to meet Carly.
Instead, Bobbie drew out of the box a tiny scrap of paper containing only a nine-digit phone number. Many times she had started to throw it away but hadn't. Perhaps this was the reason she hadn't.
“Hello,” Bobbie said, when he answered the phone in that oh-so familiar way. She ignored the slight surprise in his voice at hearing from her. “I need your help…”