Page 23

With the household in order, I left the two MPU detectives to decide who was interviewing whom while I ventured to the kitchen to see what I could find for Imogen to eat.

If I knew anything about pregnant women, it was that they needed food.

Often. At least Amelia had when she was pregnant with her kids.

Bryn had shared many of her constantly changing cravings over the past few months.

Once, when our surrogate expressed a passion for dill pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, Quaid turned an awful shade of green. I may not have known the kinds of food Imogen craved, but I did know despite the crisis that had upended her life, the baby and mama needed fuel.

Nixon sat slumped on a stool at the kitchen island, upturned hands braced under his chin, propping up his head.

He barely acknowledged my presence as he stared at a spot on the finished wood surface.

His tears were gone, but his eyes remained bloodshot and swollen.

He was as rumpled today as he’d been the previous day at the station.

I said hello, and he mumbled something indecipherable.

“I’m getting your wife some food. Are you hungry?”

“No.” It was the answer I expected, but I suspected the man wouldn’t know a hunger pang if it vibrated through him under the circumstances.

I rooted around the fridge and found fixings enough to make two sandwiches.

Shaved deli meat, tomatoes, lettuce, Havarti cheese slices, full-fat mayo—I silently pumped a fist in the air—and Dijon mustard.

Above the microwave, I discovered a loaf of sourdough bread, one day expired.

Good enough. It wasn’t growing mold, and I could toast it. No one would be the wiser.

I popped a few slices into the toaster and organized the counter.

As I assembled two sandwiches, I kept an eye on the man at the island, trying to see beyond the wall of grief to anything deceptive that might live under its surface.

His despair seemed genuine. If he was faking, the man should move to Hollywood.

I plated the two sandwiches and slid one across the island in Nixon’s direction. “I know you said no, but if you eat something, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”

“Can’t. My stomach is too upset.”

“Probably because you haven’t eaten properly in days. Buddy, I know the signs of malnutrition. I live with an expert food avoider. If you eat that sandwich, I promise your brain will wake up, and things will feel less hopeless.”

He dragged the plate in front of him, eyeing it skeptically. “Eating a sandwich won’t bring my son back.”

“No, but it might put things in perspective. We need your help.”

Reluctantly, Nixon picked it up and took a bite, chewing with no enthusiasm. I waited until he took a second bite, then a third, before retreating with the sandwich I’d made for Imogen.

I ran into Quaid and Jordyn in the hallway and was informed that Jordyn would talk to Nixon, and Quaid and I would approach Imogen. “Delicately,” Quaid warned. “She’s already had one meltdown. We don’t need another.”

***

Imogen, propped in bed and surrounded by pillows, granted us entrance.

She thanked me for the sandwich but didn’t seem any more enthused about eating than her husband.

Since there was nowhere to sit, I positioned myself at the window, glancing through the thick branches of a full oak and scanning the street.

The media vans were in the same place they’d been since I arrived.

A neighbor was outside talking to one of the reporters.

Quaid requested permission before lowering himself to the edge of the bed. I sensed he didn’t want to loom. The interview required a certain amount of delicacy and trust. It was not time to be in a place of authority or appear threatening. “How are you feeling, Genie?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She stared at the sandwich like the bread was green and the inside was crawling with maggots. “Where’s my daughter? I should check on her.”

“She’s with Constable Gershwin. Zoey. Detective Doyle picked her up some dinner, so she’s eating.”

“Thank you. Is Flynn still here?”

“No. We’ve sent everyone home for the night. Nixon is talking with my partner.”

The comment didn’t garner a response.

“Genie, we need to chat about what happened earlier.”

Imogen meticulously picked the crust off the sandwich, tearing each piece to crumbs and leaving the bits on the edge of the plate uneaten.

“Genie?” She wouldn’t look at Quaid, no matter how often he personally addressed her. “Genie, you accused your husband of being responsible for Crowley’s disappearance. You shouted at him to give your son back as though he might know where Crowley is. I need you to tell me what you meant.”

Imogen set the plate aside, not having touched the food. She didn’t meet Quaid’s gaze, staring at the comforter instead.

“Mrs. Davis?”

“I don’t remember saying that. I was… out of my head… with fear. I wanted— needed —to blame someone. He should never have contacted the police.”

Quaid glanced in my direction, but I had nothing to offer. He’d witnessed the hysteria, not me, but I doubted that she didn’t remember what happened. Amnesic episodes weren’t as common as they made it seem in the movies.

Producing the evidence bag with the note inside, Quaid presented it to Imogen. “Can you tell me what this means? ”

She stared at the plastic-covered page, but I wasn’t sure she was seeing it. Tears filled her eyes. Her lips quivered. She clenched a fist around the comforter, the fabric bunching in her grip. “I don’t know.”

Quaid stared for a beat longer, then said, “I don’t believe you.”

Imogen didn’t move. The tears never fell. It was as though they hung frozen in time on her lashes. She didn’t respond to Quaid’s accusation, zoning out as though he might decide to give up and walk away.

Quaid continued, using a detached way of speaking that was sometimes necessary when dealing with sensitive cases—or stubborn suspects. “I think you know who took your son, Genie. I think you know the meaning behind these notes, but I can’t figure out why on earth you won’t tell us anything.”

She could have been a statue. Unblinking. Unmoving. Unresponsive in every way—except for the white-knuckle grip on the comforter.

Quaid sighed and turned the note around, puzzling the lines of text on the page with a furrowed brow.

“Let me tell you what happens next. Whoever took your son initially demanded the truth . They threatened you with potentially damning information they felt could ruin you . They also implied that you might have damning information on them. Now, it sounds like they no longer need you to tell them the truth because they figured it out on their own. They sound angry, and maybe they’re holding something over your head, and maybe you have information that could hurt them, too, but here’s the key point I want you to take away from this note.

The threat is exponentially worse this time, Genie.

Because now it involves your son’s life, and I fear if we don’t get to the bottom of this quickly, Crowley is going to come home in a body bag. ”

Harsh? Perhaps, but I knew what Quaid was doing. He wanted her scared. He wanted her to cooperate.

Quaid paused for a long time, staring at Imogen, who kept her head down and mouth shut, rooted to the comforter like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

My husband’s frustration mounted, evidenced by his ticking jaw, clenched fists, and the concrete set of his shoulders.

He gave her more than enough time to think and speak.

When she continued to refuse, he collected the note and stood.

Looming over her, voice a taut bowstring, he said, “The problem with a case like this, Genie, is that I’m not in a position to get your son back because I don’t know who this person is or what they want.

What I do know is that perpetrators like this often act impulsively, and at some point, they will realize there is no positive outcome for them.

You need to make an important decision.” He paused.

Waited. She wouldn’t look up. “Is your secret more important than Crowley’s life? ”

Quaid could have been bluffing. We didn’t know for certain that Imogen knew anything, but the way she was acting and the way Quaid described her response to the note made her awfully suspicious. For all we knew, she was covering for her husband, and whatever was going on was out of her hands.

Quaid shook his head in disgust and headed for the door. I followed on his heels.

Before he could close it behind him, Imogen spoke. “Mr. Valor.”

Quaid paused, the door half open.

I didn’t think she would speak again, but after several beats, she peered out from under her bangs. “Crowley isn’t in danger. He would never hurt his son, but I don’t know how to get him back.”