Page 79

I surge to my feet and stare out the one-way glass at the analysts operating in the Norwalk office. “What could Bailey have said to her, Caleb?”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “That’s between the two of you to discuss.”
Great. Something to look forward to when I get home, I think sarcastically.
“For now, explain to me what you found out about the Tiberis money and how it relates to Hudson Investigations.” Caleb’s voice hardens.
Uncertain if Caleb receiving the information will compromise any chain of evidence we may eventually have to provide to the DA, I move my chair forward and begin doing what I do best—analyzing facts and figures and coming out with the correct conclusion with little to no emotion. “There’s money being deposited from the Tiberis into an account of a man named Alfredo Tiberi.”
“Why the fuck do I care about that?”
“This is a picture of the man identified as Alfredo Tiberi.” I open a folder and slide a photograph I printed out across the table.
Caleb’s face notably pales as he stares down at the image. Then he shocks me by ordering, “Get out.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have to contact Keene. Now.”
My breath releases when his words right my unease. That makes sense. As Hudson Investigations corporate lawyer, Keene Marshall will fricassee anyone trying to mess with what he considers his.
Especially someone who might be hiding in plain sight within our own Missing Person and Protective Services Division.
The sun is just beginning to set when I pull into my garage. I lay my head on the steering wheel, trying to gather the strength to face the inquisition I’m certain is waiting for me, not that I haven’t endured a day of hell of Caleb’s follow up questions.
How did you trace this? How do you know for sure it’s him? Will it be admissible in court?
Finally, I snapped, “If you think you can do it better, Caleb, do it your damn self.”
He backed off. Now, I’m about to face the man’s daughter.
What am I supposed to say? The truth? Other than the polygrapher, Parker, and the team at Hudson, the only other person who knew the truth about why I never met my own daughter until so late in life is dead.
The rest just believe I didn’t have sole custody of Bailey until she was five, I think wearily.
Not a lie, not the full story.
I open the door between the garage and the kitchen and expect to face the Spanish Inquisition. Instead, I’m assaulted by smells that cause my stomach to rumble rather loudly. Two females burst into giggles. Ruefully, I walk straight to Bailey and hug her. “See what happens when Daddy misses lunch?”
“Your tummy makes super loud noises?”
“They’re actually called borborygmi,” Laura educates us both.
“Borogami?” Bailey tries to repeat.
Laura winks at her from where she’s stirring what I can only assume is dinner on the stove. “Close enough, Bailey. You’d be impressed, Liam. She worked hard today.”
I loosen my tie. “Oh? What was your Summer of Fun project today?”
Bailey’s face becomes anxious. She darts a glance in Laura’s direction, who sends her a reassuring one in return. “Go on, Bailey.”
My daughter blurts out, “You said you didn’t like your pillow.”
I slide a hand down Bailey’s cheek before confirming for Laura’s sake. “She’s right. I hate my pillows.”
Laura turns away from us but still asks, “What did we do today, Bailey?”
I crouch down until I’m at eye level with my daughter. “What did you do, Buttercup?”