Page 119 of Playboy Pitcher
His smooth, matter-of-fact delivery startles me. “What?”
“Prescott. For her to switch off like that and concede to a man who drove her from her home, there has to be a reason. A reason important enough for her to sacrifice what she’s built with you. In my business experience, that reason is usually coercion.”
The nagging feeling I’ve had for the last twelve hours expands in my chest like an acid-filled balloon. “He’s blackmailing her,” I say, sinking my fingers into my hair. “But with what?”
A shuffle near the doorway catches my attention, and I look up to find my mother standing with her hip cocked against the molding, a cell phone in her hand. “Maybe I can help with that.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
My fatherand I are still sitting in the living room six hours later when Mom comes barreling through the front door with a man trailing her heels. He’s about my dad’s age, tall, with an undeniable presence. However, where my father’s ruthless streak could break your finances with the snap of a finger, this guy looks like his could break your legs with a snap of the wrist. Plus, there’s something about his used car salesman smile I don’t trust.
I’ve never seen the man before in my life, but he sure as hell walks right into my parents’ house like he owns the damn place. “CasaLaCroix,” he says, holding his arms out like a king returning home from battle. “It’s good to be back.”
Dad stands up, offering him his hand. “Soren, it’s been a while.”
The man grins. “Business has been good. For as many people that fall in love, there’ll be twice as many falling out of it. Nature of the beast.”
“That’s fucking depressing,” I mutter under my breath.
Unfortunately, it isn’t quite as to myself as I thought.
Releasing my dad’s hand, the man turns his attention toward me. “You must be Benson. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Funny, I haven’t heard a damn thing about you until today.”
Mom clears her throat. “Ben, this is Soren, an old friend of mine from before your dad and I met.”
I’m not sure what that means, and I don’t think I want to know.
He glances at her with a secret wink. “Elodie likes to keep me pushed under her fancy Persian rug since she found Park Avenue.”
“Soren!” she laughs, punching his side.
“Kidding,” he says, raising his palms. “Your mom and I are old friends, Ben, but I imagine telling your son you used to bust homewrecking cheaters for a living isn’t exactly dinner conversation.”
Wait.Back the hell up. I think I just had an aneurysm.
“She used to do what?”
Mom’s smile freezes as she motions for Soren to sit. “Enough pleasantries,” she clips. “Did you find anything?”
He nods, tapping the thick manilla folder in his hand. “Did a little digging on your girl Willow and that sister of hers. Took a while because I ran into a lot of walls.” Pausing, he glances at me. “Until Ben here remembered Brigitte Mays’s maiden name.”
I stare at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Searching inside the folder, he retrieves a document and holds it up. “I pulled some records from an overseas contact. It seems after Brigitte Cadieaux’s death, six-year-old Emmaline Cadieaux was listed as a missing person.”
He might as well have hit me in the face with a brick. “What? That’s impossible. Willow is her legal guardian.”
“Guardian, yes. Legal, not so much. This is a falsified document signed by Henri Laurent, aPolice Nationalecommissioner who resigned from the position two years prior. And this,” he says holding up a second document, “is the missing persons’ report. It’s marked resolved. The thing is, Emmaline Cadieaux was never found.”
Oh fuck. Willow, what did you do?
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your girl, Willow, smuggled Emmaline out of France and into the US illegally.” Reaching into his folder again, he pulls out a third document. “This is the report from the ASE, aka theAide sociale à l'enfance, aka child protection and welfare services. After Brigitte’s death, they were in the process of placing Emmaline in foster care while they searched for any relatives of Brigitte’s to assume custody.”
My head is spinning. “Are you saying a nineteen-year-old American girl managed to dupe an entire country all by herself, and no one knew? No one stopped her? No one has cared in ten years?” I scowl at him. “Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”
