Page 18 of Paternal Instincts
Jordyn shifted to face me. “With a ransom note like the one we got, shouldn’t the parents know who’s threatening them? Isn’t that the whole point behind making a demand? How can they stop a behavior if they don’t know what behavior to stop?”
“They can’t, which is why I’m convinced they know who’s responsible. It’s likely why they didn’t come forward before now. Maybe they thought they could resolve it without police interference.”
“And something went wrong?”
“It usually does.” I glanced at the house, half expecting Nixon to be waiting at the door or front window. He wasn’t. “The thing with ransoms, be it a demand for money, information, or any other form of extortion, the abductor puts themselves in a tight situation. They’ve acted impulsively, often irrationally. They’ve done the unthinkable. If they get what they want—money, information, or whatever they’re asking for—how can they risk returning the child? Chances are the authorities know who they are by that point. The parents definitely do. The perpetrator has committed a felony. They’re going to prison. The child was spontaneous leverage, a last resort, but they didn’t think through their actions.”
“They were angry and desperate.”
“Yes. Now, even if they get what they want, the child has become an inconvenience. Which is why we need to proceed with extreme caution. These types of perpetrators are prone to panicking and running. They got themselves in a pickle and don’t know how to safely get out. Ideally, they would leave the child behind, perhaps somewhere public where they’ll be recovered quickly, but they’re also the type who are most likely to commit murder or take their own life because they have backed themselves into a corner.”
“Great.”
I glanced at Jordyn, reading the worry lines across her forehead, knowing I wore a matching pair. “In this case, information is paramount. Not only do we need lists of people in the Davises’ lives, but we need to know if they’ve been contacted by the abductor again and not told us. Ransom notes usually come with deadlines. Ours didn’t. Until the person establishes some form of communication, or we learn differently, we have to assume the child is alive.”
Jordyn seemed to roll that information around. “But Quaid, if the parents know who has their child, why wouldn’t they tell us so we can get him back?”
I stared at the house, seeing the note inside my head. The words. The meaning. “Because they, too, have secrets. ‘If you ruin me, I’ll ruin you.’ The threat goes both ways.”
“But it’s their child.”
“Which is what makes this so dangerous. The stakes must be high. We need to figure out what this family is hiding.”
***
The interior of the Davises’ residence was as neglected as the exterior. No one had cleaned or picked up in days. Nixon led us through a messy kitchen—counters covered with crumbs and the sink full of unwashed dishes—where Sparrow sat on her knees at a cluttered table with a Lunchables pack and juice box set out on a kid-friendly place mat.
God help Nixon, but he’d recognized his shortcomings and tried to amend them.
I winked at the forlorn child, but she didn’t smile back. Too much was happening in her young life, and the short reprieve from stress Aslan had offered earlier was over. Sparrow looked as exhausted as her father. She needed a bath and a good night’s sleep. I feared she would get neither.
“We need a family liaison asap,” I whispered to Jordyn.
“I’ll make a call once we get a second.”
Moving into the next room to interview Sparrow’s parents felt like a betrayal. Instead of eating the prepackaged snack pack, the young child followed our retreat, lower lip jutted in a pout. I wanted to go back, sit with her, and make promises I couldn’t keep.
I fought the urge and trailed after my partner.
A tired-looking pregnant woman lay on the couch. The coffee table beside her was full of used tissues, empty bowls, and mugs full of half-drunk coffee or tea. I couldn't be sure whether they belonged to her or Nixon, but they were further signs of the couples’ mounting grief.
Nixon fussed, arranging pillows around his wife, telling her to rest, put her feet up, and not strain, but the instant Imogen noticed us, she pushed her husband away and maneuvered herself into a sitting position.
She wore a formfitting tank top that barely covered her lump—it didn’t look like a maternity style—and cotton shorts that wouldn’t have gone around her swollen belly if she tried. The waistband sat below the baby bump, leaving a peek of pale, stretched skin where the two articles of clothing didn’t quite meet. Her feet were bare and slightly swollen.
When Nixon offered her slippers, she waved them off. “But sweetie.”
“I’m fine.” Although styled in an intricate knot, Imogen’s long brown hair had fallen loose from its elastic. Several frizzy flyaways fanned her face. She would have been pretty if not for the accumulation of stress wearing her down and the dark circles under her eyes.
Nixon, abandoning his attempts at helping his wife, introduced us. “Detectives, this is my wife, Imogen.”
When the woman tried to get to her feet, Nixon protested but gave her a hand in the end.
“It’s Genie, please. Can I get you something to drink?” Moving winded her, and she clutched her lower back, arching forward and making her belly seem larger.
“You aren’t doing that, sweetie. Please sit down and rest.” Again, Nixon’s suggestion was ignored.
“We’re fine, Mrs. Davis,” I said. “Don’t trouble yourself. Please sit. I understand you’re on bed rest.”
