Page 59 of Deny Me
“Hey, if it’s one thing I know, it’s love.”
King scoffed. “Right.”
Saint backhanded him in the bicep. King huffed out a laugh.
“Mymamáandpapáhave been married four decades. Myabuelaandabuelo, almost double that. You don’t get that kind of longevity unless you’re completely apathetic or love each other passionately. I’ve seen it”—he slapped his own chest this time—“so I know. You and Charlotte, you’re good together.”
“You haven’t really seen us together,” King pointed out.
“I saw you carry her off into the sunset last night. That was enough.”
King couldn’t argue with that. He’d been shaking with Charlotte in his arms, imagining everything that could have happened to her, how many ways she could have been hurt. Holding her safe, knowing with absolute certainty that she was okay had seared away the last of his denial. He’d wanted her in his arms forever. And no, they hadn’t discussed it, but he had a feeling his friend wasn’t wrong.
They hit I85 headed north and used 285 to loop around Atlanta toward Walton County. Jessica Arnold hadn’t just switched jobs; she’d changed apartments as well. Because she’d received a warning that there might be problems with the baby-selling ring she’d gotten mixed up in? King didn’t know, but they’d sure as hell find out today. He had that feeling in his gut that said his team was zeroing in on their suspect. They would stop whoever was targeting women from CF, the Feds would make arrests and tighten the belt on whatever leg of the nationwide ring was operating in Georgia, and Becky, her baby, and Charlotte would be safe. They just needed to keep following the thread to the end.
He had a feeling Jessica Arnold was the biggest part of that thread so far.
They took I20 to Oxford and exited, heading north. The apartment complex was situated in a rural area about ten miles out, one of those random, built-up towns with not much more than a Walmart, a McDonald’s, and a couple of grocery stores. King circled to the middle of the complex, building 1624, apartment D. “Ready?”
Saint slipped off his seat belt and opened the door. “As I’ll ever be.”
They might both be muscular, but their boots made barely a sound on the metal stairs. King had been trained in the police academy and on the streets to keep quiet. Saint? His friend was an open book about almost everything in his life, everything but that. If Dain knew where Saint had been trained, he’d kept it confidential. The big man moved like a panther in the forest, not a sound escaping as they crossed the concrete landing to the door of Arnold’s apartment. King met his friend’s eyes, received a nod, and knocked firmly on the door.
A couple of minutes passed. King was preparing to knock again until movement behind the door told him their prey had arrived.
“Who is it?”
Moments like this, King wished it wouldn’t be impersonating an officer to pull out police credentials. Instead he flashed his JCL badge. “We’re investigators with JCL Securities, Ms. Arnold. Could we speak for a moment?”
No movement. A single woman alone, she’d have plenty of reasons not to open the door. Of course, the same applied if she was guilty of something and looking to ditch them, too. King kept the scowl on his face but stepped back, allowing Saint to flash a bright white smile at the peephole.
“Ms. Arnold, we just have a few questions. Would you like to call our superiors and confirm?”
King counted to thirty before the sound of the lock opening reached them. Saint’s smile turned smug as he turned to King. “Works every time,” he whispered.
“Shut the hell up,” King whispered back. Smug bastard.
And not wrong—that grin did work every time.
Jessica Arnold was a pretty woman with average height, weight, hair and eye color. As she stood in the doorway in comfortable leggings and a soft T-shirt reaching her thighs, it became obvious they’d interrupted a casual day at home just as they’d hoped. Saint’s eyes warmed as they traveled over her, and King could see the appeal. A little young and probably more than a little naive, but hey, that wasn’t her fault. He’d reserve judgment until he found out if she was guilty of what they suspected.
“Ms. Arnold,” Saint said, “we needed to speak with you about Becky Jones.”
The woman’s brow creased in a way that seemed genuine. “I’m afraid that name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She was a patient at Fulton Memorial’s clinic, a sixteen-year-old who was pregnant. We were told you ran a support group at the hospital for single mothers.”
The confusion froze on her face. “The support group?”
“Yes,” Saint said. “Would it be possible to discuss this inside? We know medical information is…delicate.” He flashed her another smile. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
“Um.” King swore he saw beads of sweat pop up on her brow. “There were several Becky’s there. We were quite full most of the time.”
“Right. This is Becky Jones.” Saint withdrew a small image of Becky from last year’s class photos. “Do you recognize her now?”
Full-blown panic shattered the woman’s composure. “No, of course not. I mean…no, she’s not familiar.” She stepped back, and King knew she was going to close the door on them. “This must be a mistake. I’m sure someone else—”
“No,” King growled, low and deep. “No mistake. I think you’re exactly who we need to speak to.”
