Page 3 of Her Protector Daddies

Detective Grant was silent for a moment, and then he released an audible sigh. “Half the dashboard was missing, suggesting the car was wired, so it did look like the vehicle was stolen.”

My heart sank. My father definitely had a hand in this.

“Hold on.” I frowned and narrowed my eyes. “If you knew the car was stolen, why did you make me stand here stumbling over whether I drove my own car or not?”

To my surprise, a slight smile graced Detective Grant’s face, and he lifted one thick shoulder in a shrug. “I have to follow all possible leads.”

A heated pulse of frustration exploded through my chest, and I glared at him. “Right.”

“Consider this a lesson,” he said. “If you’d reported your car stolen the moment you saw it was missing, you would have been contacted and told the vehicle was found rather than having to come all the way down here to be questioned. Less hassle for your workplace, I’d imagine.”

In three seconds, Detective Grant went from insanely attractive to unbelievably irritating.

“Sure. The next time my piece of shit car is stolen, and I’m running late for a job I’m about to be fired from, I’ll stop and make a 2-hour-long call to report it stolen,” I snapped.

“Excellent.” He smiled widely then, fueling my irritation further. “You’re free to go, Miss Hartley.”

“Thanks.” I turned sharply on my heel but only made it two steps before a thought struck me. “What about my car?”

“It’s evidence. You’ll be contacted when the case is closed and evidence is released.”

“How long will that take?”

Detective Grant held my gaze. “Six months? Someone will call.”

Fucking hell.

The hoards of red tape surrounding anything simple at the LAPD weren’t much of a shock. I had more than enough memories of my father ranting about such things over a beer and burger when life was still sunny and rose-filled for me. Being on the other side of it was just as frustrating. However, given Detective Grant’s description of the incident, there might not be much of a car left to salvage.

I had to find my father.

This wasn’t the first time he’d stolen my car but as I settled into the bus seat and turned up my music to try and drown out the stink of sweat and off-fish, I couldn’t help but be grateful that this time I didn’t have to collect it from some back alley drug den.

I just hoped he wasn’t hurt. I was so deep in debt that I couldn’t even see the waterline anymore; most of that was inherited by my father. I was only twenty-three, yet I was the one working two jobs to keep a roof over his head and mine. I was the one paying two sets of bills, negotiating with loan sharks to keep the death threats at bay, and buying a new lock for my door each time he pissed someone off.

Most of the time, he didn’t even notice. Drugs did that. They say addicts have no idea how badly they are hurting others. Watching my father crumble over the years, all I gained was a sympathetic understanding of my mother and why she left. If I could, I would have left, too.

It was early evening by the time I made it to my father’s apartment. The curtains were drawn and despite knocking several times, no one came to the door. There was no guarantee that he was even here, but it was the first place I had to check. In the back of my mind, as I unlocked the door, I created a list of other places to check, just in case. If he was injured in the crash, I’d have to get him help.

“Dad?”

Stepping inside, I closed the door and pressed the back of my wrist to my nose, trying to combat the sharp, chemical smell that assaulted my nose. Ammonia mixed with three-day-old takeout and the acidic undertones of old vomit.

Lovely.

“Dad?” I called again, stepping around the unopened mail that littered the floor. The small lounge was littered with clothes strewn all over the place. Stained takeout containers filled one small table while needles, foil, and other drug-related items spilled off of a side table next to a broken lamp.

“Dad, are you here?”

I picked my way through his disgusting apartment and reached the kitchen, where my heart stopped in my chest with the force of a punch.

In the kitchen, on the table I’d spent my childhood wolfing down cereal, sat a black holdall bag filled to the brim with money and sparkling jewelry.

2

SELENA

“Dad… what the hell have you done?!”

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