Page 102 of Paternal Instincts
The elevator arrived, and we took it to the ground level. At the Equinox, I opened the rear compartment, and we both locked away our holstered weapons since we were officially off duty. Quaid placed the bag of test kits inside before adding the file. Instead of stepping away, he opened the folder and stared at the FedEx envelope on the top of the pile. He turned it over twice, viewing the back and the front again. He traced the printed label, but after a second, his finger stilled. A frown marred his brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s… not the same. It’s missing something.” Again, he turned it over, then back.
“What do you mean?” I glanced at the cardboard envelope, but it appeared like any other. “There’s no return address, but we knew that already.”
“No…” His fingers wandered to the upper corner and traveled along the edge. He turned the envelope over, examined the back, and righted it again. “The label. It’s fake. Az, there’s no tracking number. When letters are sent via FedEx, they get tracking numbers, right? It should be right here, but it’s not.”
I glanced at where he pointed, but he was right. The label seemed authentic at a quick glance, but on closer inspection, it was clear someone had created a believable replica. But they had forgotten one important detail. The tracking number.
Quaid stared from the envelope to the hospital, his frown deepening, his gaze clouding with thought. Before I could ask him what he was thinking, he slammed the rear compartment of the Equinox and took off toward the building and the door we’d come through.
“Quaid?”
But he didn’t respond, so I raced to catch up. The man was a long-distance runner with legs that went on for days. I joined himfrequently for morning jogs, but when he got it in his head to go fast, I couldn’t keep up. He outpaced me every time. That morning, he wore sneakers instead of loafers, and I didn’t stand a chance. He was on a mission, and I had no clue what that mission was.
“Quaid! Slow the fuck down.”
I caught up with him at the elevators, where he pounded the call button, staring at the numbers above the two cars. The first indicated it was several stories up and climbing. The second car was even higher and not moving.
“Goddammit.” He shot off again, aiming for the stairwell.
“Motherfucker.” I darted after him, bursting through the stairwell door on his tail. In an instant, he was half a flight ahead of me and gaining distance. He took the stairs three at a time, bouncing up them effortlessly.
I’d seen those girls at the gym who spent an hour or more on the StairMaster like it was nothing. I tried that beast of a machine once and almost died in under ten minutes. Quaid was like those girls. He could run up a hundred flights of stairs without breaking a sweat or raising his heart rate. No wonder he had delicious glutes, but fuck me.
“Do you plan to kill me before our baby is born?” I shouted after him. “Jesus Christ, Quaid, I can’t… shit.”
He didn’t slow, and by the time we made it to labor and delivery, I was out of breath, gasping and bent over with my hands on my knees. Quaid continued without pause, like we had embarked on nothing more than a leisurely stroll in the park.
Lungs burning, I chased after him. He paused in the hallway outside Imogen’s room, where Ronald and Bess chatted calmly. Imogen’s father and Nixon’s mother seemed to be the only two who didn’t try to strangle each other when in proximity to one another. The pair startled at our sudden and explosive arrival.
Quaid cocked an ear and seemed to be listening to the sounds coming from within Imogen’s room. Sounds indicative of labor. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but his brief look of distress made me wonder if he felt responsible. None of this was his fault, and I hoped he didn’t blame himself for the woman’s premature labor. She’d done this to herself.
He bypassed the two grandparents and continued to the waiting room, barreling inside. I caught his arm on the threshold, but he tugged free and scanned the room.
“What’s going on?” I hissed, still wheezing from exertion.
“He’s not here.”
“Who?”
Quaid didn’t respond.
Benedict sat in the corner of a sofa. Odelia, who had been busy on her phone, sat on the opposite couch. Neither spoke, both staring at us after our abrupt entrance.
Quaid said nothing for a long moment before turning to face me. The cogs in his brain spun as he studied my face. His tongue danced along his upper lip.
“What is it?”
“Where did you say Clementine was found?”
I frowned, not following his train of thought. “The ambulance driver didn’t give me an address. He said it was a parking lot at a complex in the Flemingdon Park area. Why?”
“Flemingdon Park,” he muttered, frown deepening. “Shit.” He withdrew his phone and connected a call. A second later, he said, “Where are you?”
I didn’t know who he was talking to or what they were saying, but Quaid’s face remained set in a complex contortion of thought Iwas used to seeing when he was fighting with the final few pieces of a puzzle, forcing them to fit together.
