Page 59 of Unwanted

Mark lifted the ornate gold knocker and rapped at the massive carved door, glancing back at the security gate he’d driven through, the name of the estate spelled out in scrolled letters above: Thornland. The door opened, and a man in a butler’s uniform stood before him. He inclined his head. “Sir, please enter. Mr. Fairbanks is waiting for you in the parlor.”

Mark stepped inside, feeling as though he’d just entered a game of Clue and Miss Scarlet was going to glide down the grand, curved staircase at any moment with a candlestick.

The butler led the way, extending his arm toward another grand door that Mark guessed led to the parlor where the owner of this estate and the many acres of surrounding ranch land lived. He’d called the contact number from the website the woman at the library had visited and spoken to Halston Fairbanks’s secretary. He’d been out of the office at the time, but Mark had received a call back a few hours later, saying Mr. Fairbanks could meet with him at his home outside Missoula.

“Thank you,” Mark said to the butler as he entered the room. An older man was standing at a bar cart near the window, and he turned as the door clicked shut behind Mark.

“Mr. Fairbanks,” Mark said, walking to the tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman and extending his hand. “Agent Mark Gallagher. Thank you for seeing me.”

They shook, Mr. Fairbanks’s grip strong, his eyes assessing. “Agent Gallagher.”

“Please call me Mark.”

Mr. Fairbanks nodded as he turned, moving back to the bar cart. “Call me Halston and you’ve got a deal. I was just pouring myself a drink. It’s about happy hour, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled, large, straight white teeth flashing. “Join me?”

“No, sir, thank you.” It was only four o’clock, and Mark didn’t drink on the job, but he figured this man was rich enough to designate happy hour to whatever time he chose.

“How long has your family lived here at Thornland?” Mark asked, as he heard ice dropping into a glass.

“It’s been in the Fairbanks family for four generations now. Almost one million acres of prime Montana land that stretches over six counties.” Mark knew that part because he’d looked it up before coming out there. He also knew that the Fairbanks family had earned its substantial wealth as owners of one of the top ten lumber companies in the United States. The current CEO of Fairbanks Lumber turned, smiling and swirling a crystal glass of amber liquid. “But I’m sure you’re not here to discuss Thornland. What is it I can do for you, Agent?” He inclined his head to a seating group, and Mark took a seat in one of the blue-velvet chairs, Halston sitting across from him as he took a sip from his glass.

“Mr.—Halston, I’m here because a woman was found dead in Helena Springs a little over two weeks ago, and I have reason to believe she contacted your office the day before she died.”

“Died?”

“Yes, sir.”

Halston Fairbanks regarded Mark over the rim of his glass, taking another small sip and then setting his glass aside. He let out a sigh. “Emily Barton.”

Mark was caught by surprise. “We don’t know the victim’s name yet. We recovered some prints, but so far—”

“It was Emily Barton.” Halston sighed, rubbing at his eye. “How’d she die? Overdose?”

“No. It was a homicide.”

That seemed to surprise Halston, and for a moment, he simply stared at Mark. “Murdered? Why?”

“We don’t know that yet.”

The color had drained from Halston’s face, and for a second, he simply gaped before reaching for the glass again and downing the remaining liquid.

“We’re still gathering information about the victim and the crime. The name you supplied—if correct—will go a long way in helping us do that. Can you tell me how you knew her?”

Halston sat back in his chair, seeming to need a moment to gather himself. Mark gave it to him, glancing around the room, taking in the paneled walls, the rich drapes, the two groupings of luxurious furniture, the grand piano in the corner. He couldn’t imagine waking up every day in a place like this. It would feel like living in a museum.

“Emily Barton,” Halston mumbled. “She’s the woman who ruined my son’s life. And mine, though I own most of the blame for that.”

Mark leaned forward. “I think you need to tell me about Emily.”

Halston sighed, meeting Mark’s gaze. He looked weary suddenly, older than he’d first appeared. “My son, Hal Junior, took up with Emily Barton when he was barely eighteen years old, his whole life in front of him. I told him to cut her loose. She was pretty to look at, but trash is trash. I don’t know how many times I told him not to let some two-bit whore with dollar signs in her eyes trap him. The boy didn’t listen.” Halston’s gaze grew distant, his expression set, deep sadness in his eyes. “Wasn’t even six months before he knocked her up, the dumb fool. I offered her money to get the hell out of town. Told her she’d never get a dime otherwise. As expected, she took it.”

When Halston lapsed into silence again, Mark asked, “What’d you hope she would do with the baby?” Your grandchild. Your blood.

“At the time? I didn’t care as long as she didn’t give him or her our name. I wasn’t even convinced the baby was my son’s. Girls like that…well, anyway. Now? Time and circumstance change things, don’t they?” He paused, and when he began speaking again, there was a hitch in his voice. “Hal never was quite the same after she skipped town. Fancied himself in love with her, I suppose. He’d dabbled in illegal substances, thanks to her, but when she disappeared without a word, he started the heavier stuff.” His shoulders sagged. “He was killed in a high-speed drag race, heroin in his system.”

Mark took a deep breath, his heart going out to the man. “I’m sorry for your loss. I lost a daughter myself. I know the agony.”

Halston met his eyes, an understanding flashing between the two men who’d survived the unsurvivable. Despite the difference in the way Mark would have handled the situation Halston spoke of, the loss of a child was something Mark wouldn’t wish upon anyone. He’d made the offer that drove Emily from town and perhaps led to his son’s spiral downward, but Emily Barton had accepted it.

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