Page 42
I’d seen those girls at the gym who spent an hour or more on the StairMaster like it was nothing.
I tried that beast of a machine once and almost died in under ten minutes.
Quaid was like those girls. He could run up a hundred flights of stairs without breaking a sweat or raising his heart rate.
No wonder he had delicious glutes, but fuck me.
“Do you plan to kill me before our baby is born?” I shouted after him. “Jesus Christ, Quaid, I can’t… shit.”
He didn’t slow, and by the time we made it to labor and delivery, I was out of breath, gasping and bent over with my hands on my knees. Quaid continued without pause, like we had embarked on nothing more than a leisurely stroll in the park.
Lungs burning, I chased after him. He paused in the hallway outside Imogen’s room, where Ronald and Bess chatted calmly.
Imogen’s father and Nixon’s mother seemed to be the only two who didn’t try to strangle each other when in proximity to one another.
The pair startled at our sudden and explosive arrival .
Quaid cocked an ear and seemed to be listening to the sounds coming from within Imogen’s room.
Sounds indicative of labor. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but his brief look of distress made me wonder if he felt responsible.
None of this was his fault, and I hoped he didn’t blame himself for the woman’s premature labor. She’d done this to herself.
He bypassed the two grandparents and continued to the waiting room, barreling inside. I caught his arm on the threshold, but he tugged free and scanned the room.
“What’s going on?” I hissed, still wheezing from exertion.
“He’s not here.”
“Who?”
Quaid didn’t respond.
Benedict sat in the corner of a sofa. Odelia, who had been busy on her phone, sat on the opposite couch. Neither spoke, both staring at us after our abrupt entrance.
Quaid said nothing for a long moment before turning to face me. The cogs in his brain spun as he studied my face. His tongue danced along his upper lip.
“What is it?”
“Where did you say Clementine was found?”
I frowned, not following his train of thought. “The ambulance driver didn’t give me an address. He said it was a parking lot at a complex in the Flemingdon Park area. Why?”
“Flemingdon Park,” he muttered, frown deepening. “Shit.” He withdrew his phone and connected a call. A second later, he said, “Where are you?”
I didn’t know who he was talking to or what they were saying, but Quaid’s face remained set in a complex contortion of thought I was used to seeing when he was fighting with the final few pieces of a puzzle, forcing them to fit together.
“Do you have the iPad with you?” A pause.
I deduced he was speaking to Jordyn.
“Can you check something for me? Where did Flynn say his buddy lived? The one he was staying with.”
Alert to Quaid’s conversation, Benedict slid to the edge of the couch, not hiding the fact he was eavesdropping.
The confirmation when it came made Quaid curse. Our gazes clashed.
To Jordyn, he said, “Our culprit is Flynn, not Jude. He slipped out from under Costa’s nose when he claimed he was waiting for food.
He’s not here. I don’t know why or how, but he must have heard about Clementine.
She’s got to be involved somehow. Send officers to his friend’s place in Flemingdon, but you and Costa drive to his house in Pickering.
I have a feeling that’s where Crowley is and where Nixon is headed.
If Imogen told her husband she had an affair with his brother, Nixon could be a loose cannon. ”
Quaid disconnected the call, but instead of confronting me or explaining anything, he pointed his finger at Benedict and used a tone I only ever heard in interview rooms when Quaid was well and truly pissed off with a suspect. “Sit the fuck down and talk.”
Benedict’s ass—that had been halfway off the couch—hit the cushion. His aged eyes widened at the snapped order, but he didn’t argue.
No longer engaged in whatever she’d been doing on her phone, Odelia watched the interaction with what seemed eager curiosity.
“Get Diane in here.” Not realizing my husband was talking to me, too caught up in the information dump and unexpected waves of pleasure rippling through me—he was hot when he was mad—I didn’t move until he whipped his head around. “Az, Diane. Please. ”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Who else?”
“Oh.” I licked my lips and cleared my throat along with every inappropriate thought from my mind, but goddamn. Quaid in bad cop mode was my undoing, and he knew it. “On it.”
In the hallway, I was again greeted by Ronald and Bess, who seemed to be hovering outside Imogen’s room, waiting for word. As far as I understood, Diane had taken her place at her daughter’s side when Nixon took off.
To Ronald, I said, “Give your wife a break. We need to talk to her. Your grandson’s life depends on it.” I had no clue if that was true since Quaid wasn’t forthcoming with his theory, but it sounded like a decent enough threat and worked like a charm.
A few minutes later, Diane emerged from Imogen’s room, her expression a blend of weary and pissed off. “My daughter needs me.”
“Then perhaps you’ll decide to cooperate so you can get back to her as quickly as possible.”
She crossed her arms, taking a haughty stance, but I ignored the waves of ire and motioned for her to follow me into the waiting room. The tension had elevated in the short time I’d been gone. Quaid stood over Benedict, who wore a similar expression to Diane’s.
“Have a seat.” Quaid motioned to the sofa, but Diane sat on the edge of a small table instead, far from Benedict.
Quaid watched the pair, a snarl lifting the edge of his lip.
The expression went beyond the parameters of the face .
“I’m going to paint a picture, and you’re going to tell me if I’m right or wrong.
If I’m wrong, you’re going to correct me and provide all the missing pieces.
If you don’t, I will drag you downtown and throw you both in an interview room until you’re ready to talk, and I don’t give a fuck if your daughter or daughter-in-law is in labor. Understand? ”
Diane stared at a spot on the wall, face pinched, eyes concrete slabs.
Benedict glared at Quaid as though he thought himself intimidating.
Quaid was not in the mood and stared at the man as he continued.
“Your poor relationship with Flynn is somehow connected to an affair he’s been having with Imogen. Yes or no.”
Benedict’s lips tightened, but he didn’t respond.
“Yes or no,” Quaid repeated, tone sharper.
“What does this have to do with Crowley?” the man spat.
“Answer the question. Yes or no.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Diane said.
Quaid turned to her. “You knew about it.”
“Yes. It was a long time ago, and—”
“Stop it,” Benedict barked.
Diane shut her mouth, but Quaid didn’t. “Why are you listening to him? I asked you a question.”
Nothing.
“Benedict has been paying your daughter hush money for years to keep her mouth shut, hasn’t he? Explain to me why?”
Diane looked at Benedict, who refused to acknowledge her and stared lasers at Quaid. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead, and I sensed that Quaid was onto something. The ground under Benedict’s feet was crumbling.
To Benedict, Quaid said, “Why are you shielding Nixon from the truth and covering for your other son, who you loathe? There’s a piece missing, and I can’t sort it out. Hundreds of thousands of dollars to bury an affair makes no sense.”
“I’m an important man. I move in important circles. I don’t expect you to understand, nor do I need to explain myself. You’re supposed to be finding Crowley, not poking into private affairs. ”
“Maybe at one time you were an important figure in society. Now, you’re an old, broke man who’s burned through his retirement savings and is secretly dipping into his son’s business to continue covering secrets. Help me make sense of this.”
“Do your job, Detective. Find my grandson.”
“You don’t care about Crowley, or you would help us get to the bottom of this.”
Benedict was on his feet in a flash, fists clenched. “How dare you? This has nothing to do with my grandson.”
I stepped up beside Quaid, forming a stronger line of defense. It occurred to me at that moment that this man didn’t have the full picture. He didn’t know about the last note received by our unsub or about the DNA results claiming Nixon wasn’t Crowley’s father.
Benedict said nothing, nostrils flaring.
I turned to Diane. “Don’t you care about Crowley?”
“Of course I do.” She stared at her hands, shoulders folding inward.
“Imogen told you everything, didn’t she?”
Diane nodded. “My daughter asked me not to say anything. She loves Nixon and doesn’t want to ruin her marriage. She didn’t think Flynn would harm the boy.” Diane pressed a fisted hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
“What is she talking about?” Benedict snarled, attention skipping between Quaid and me.
Quaid remained focused on Diane with a look of disgust. “I hope you’re happy. Your grandson is in danger, and your daughter put herself in labor at barely thirty weeks.”
Diane looked away, tears freely falling.
Benedict seemed confused.
Still, no one explained what we were missing .
Quaid huffed and glanced between the grandparents. “You people are unbelievable.”
“Flynn got my sister pregnant when she was thirteen.” The quiet confession came from the side of the room we’d been ignoring.
Odelia stared at her mother. “Instead of filing charges of rape against Flynn, who was nineteen at the time, my mother took a bribe. The Davises didn’t want their name tarnished.
It would have ruined Benedict’s practice having a son accused of statutory rape. ”
“Genie begged me,” Diane snapped, tears and mascara running in rivers down her cheeks. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”
“She was thirteen, Mother. You were supposed to protect her.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
Diane turned to Quaid and me and pleaded, “You have to believe me. Genie told me it was consensual, and yes, I know she was thirteen, but I know what it means to be a thirteen-year-old girl and think you’re in love.
We talked. I took her for an abortion and made a deal with Benedict.
I thought this vile man could at least cushion her future.
I didn’t know Genie would decide to date Nixon when she got to high school. I was horrified, but I’d promised.”
Quaid studied the sobbing woman before glancing at Benedict. “I assume you didn’t know that Flynn was Crowley’s father.”
Benedict tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The man looked suddenly exhausted.
Diane lowered her head in shame. She’d known all along. Imogen’s affair with Flynn didn’t end with an abortion. Whether it had been continual or had been revived years later was something we would need to ask Imogen.
Before Quaid could ask another question, the waiting room door opened, and Bess poked her head in, looking gray and tired. She wrung her hands and scanned the faces in the room before speaking. “The baby is here. It’s a boy, and they took him to the NIC unit. Three pounds and one ounce.”
No one spoke, but at that moment, I witnessed Quaid’s panicked realization that we were supposed to be somewhere else.
Table of Contents
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- Page 42 (Reading here)
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