Page 21 of A First Sight

I toldMel to have his PI friend drop off his findings at the office on Friday afternoon and then further instructed Mel not to give them to me until the end of the workday. It was now four on Friday afternoon, and I regretted the second decision and called Mel into the office.

I forced myself to go through the usual end-of-day things with Mel before asking for the manila envelope he was holding. As soon as he left, I closed my office door behind him, anticipation twisting my stomach in knots.

Settling in my chair, I took a deep breath before opening the envelope and pulling out the two dozen or so sheets of paper.

Maggie McCrae was indeed the daughter of Patrick and Shannon McCrae, born in Edinburgh. Her mother died when Maggie was barely a year old, and, a couple of years later, Patrick married an American widow with children of her own, one Theresa Carideo. Patrick moved his family to California, beginning in San Jose but ending in San Ramon, where Maggie’s younger half-siblings were born.

The PI had included a paragraph each for Maggie’s siblings, step-siblings, half-siblings, apparently, two nephews and a niece of Theresa’s who were also brought into the family. I barely skimmed those, noting only the ones who lived here in the city and could help if something was indeed wrong.

Some of the information in her biography was on the Philharmonic’s website and the concert program. Still, I found a few new bits interesting, such as she also played the piano, cello, guitar, and bagpipes. The last made me smile, but that didn’t last long because the third page was where everything changed.

Maggie broke her lease almost three years ago, and no other leases showed up with her name. While she could have been anywhere, I suspected she moved in with her boyfriend at that point.

As I read through the report, everything seemed to have been fine up until this year, but in June, a social media post showed hints of a healing black eye and split lip and later a couple more posts of images showed signs of bruises. The latest happened a few months ago.

I sank back in my chair and took several deep breaths. It confirmed what I suspected.

That fucking bastard was abusing her.

I didn’t know exactly how long I stared at the papers on my desk. The alarm on my phone chimed. I was supposed to have dinner with Uncle Ben and Stellan in thirty minutes. It tempted me to call and cancel, but I knew I’d go out looking for Dale Leighton if I did that.

I wanted to beat that coward senseless.

No, it was best to go somewhere people could talk me out of doing anything stupid.

I was fuming, and traffic did nothing to help my temper as I made my way across the city. By the time Stellan let me inside, my anger was closer to the surface than it had been in a long time. It must have shown on my face because the moment Stellan saw me, his eyes went wide.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said as he shut the door. “I’ll get out the good stuff. Ben is in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner.”

I nodded stiffly and headed for the kitchen. It didn’t look like I could get away without disclosing something was wrong. I yanked lose my necktie, feeling like I couldn’t breathe. I was furious, and obviously, it showed.

“Did you even go home?” Uncle Ben said as he glanced over his shoulder at me. Then he did a double-take and turned in my direction. “What happened?”

I sat on the barstool and dropped the envelope on the island counter. A moment later, Stellan appeared with a glass and handed it to me. He leaned against the counter next to Uncle Ben, and they watched as I gulped half the liquid in one go. It was indeed the good stuff, but I barely tasted it, which said something about my current state of mind.

“All right, lad.” Uncle Ben handed the wooden spoon to Stellan and came over to stand next to me. “Out with it, before you give me a heart attack. Or before you explode. You look...ashen.”

“He’s abusing her.” My voice was flat, almost emotionless, the way it only became when I crossed from heated anger to a cold fury.

“Who’s being abused?” Stellan asked. “That Maggie McCrae girl?”

I nodded, staring down at the glass in my hand. “I had a bad feeling, so I hired a PI to look into her.” I gestured to the envelope. “He delivered today.”

I handed them the envelope, and I calmed down as they skimmed the report. Although nothing in it directly proved she was being abused, she could have gotten those bruises in other ways, but all signs pointed toward it.

“Does she have family nearby?” Uncle Ben finally asked.

“She’s Patrick McCrae’s youngest with his first wife,” I said. “Two siblings in New York and a lot more all over the country.”

“So not just a big family, but a wealthy and powerful one, too,” he continued. “I’m sure they would help her if she reached out. She has resources.”

“Aye.” I cleared my throat. “But she might be too embarrassed to tell her family.”

There was a pause before Stellan spoke. “She’s not Belle.”

My head snapped up. “I know that,” I said, my voice shaking. “I couldn’t save Belle, and I couldn’t save our daughter, but if Maggie is being abused and there’s any chance I can save her, I will. And damn the consequences.”

NINETEEN

---