Page 30 of Paternal Instincts
I landed on Ruiz’s doorstep and stabbed the ringer. A moment later, I was greeted by a clamor of squealing children and running feet before the door swung open, revealing two girls close in age. Maddy, who was eight or nine, was blonde and fair like her mother. Her sister, Anna, was seven and the spitting image of Ruiz, with a darker complexion and brown locks that swept her shoulders.
“Hi, Prince Charming,” they said in unison, giggling like little girls often did. Quaid and I were both Prince Charming, having earned the nickname after celebrating our wedding in a castle.
Before I could properly greet them, Ruiz appeared, landing a hand on each of their shoulders and redirecting them out of the doorway. “What did I say about answering the door without an adult present?”
“Don’t do it,” Anna said, wearing a shit-eating grin not unlike the one I saw frequently on her father.
“Exactly, and yet, here we are. Go play Barbies or something. No more TV. It melts your brain. Daddy’s gotta work, remember?”
They ran off with the same high-pitched squeals as when they arrived, shouting claims for this Barbie or that Barbie.
Once they cleared out and the noise calmed, Ruiz opened the door wider. “We can work in the kitchen. Did you get Quaid’s email?”
“Just now. Still waiting on a picture of the kid.”
I accepted Ruiz’s offer of coffee and sat at the table. He had two laptops up and running and a stack of folders that must have been other work he’d brought home for the weekend.
My phone pinged with a message and an attachment.
Quaid: Crowley Thomas Davis. 8yrs old. Height 51 inches. Weight 53 lbs. Both stats were taken at his last dr. apt in May.
The photo was a picture of a picture. A school shot Quaid had probably been given that would live in his pocket until the case was solved. The image was clear and showed a gangly child with shaggy brown hair, round cheeks, and a smile that showed oversized adult teeth in front.
Another text landed.
Quaid: Lab emailed. No fingerprints on the note except those belonging to the parents. Still waiting to hear from FedEx about who the driver was. I also want to know if we can trace the package back to where it was mailed.
I relayed the FedEx issue to Ruiz.
“Tell him I’ll take care of it and not to worry.”
I passed the message along, and we settled into the task of reviewing security footage, hoping we might discover if Crow had arrived at the Soccerplex and, if so, who he might have left with. A familial abduction meant he would likely have gone willingly with whoever showed up, given they gave him a reasonable enough excuse.
The entire time we worked, it was to a background of giggling, playing, and singing, along with constant interruptions for Daddy to help with an awkward Barbie shirt or shoes that wouldn’t stay on and requests for juice and snacks.
It amazed me how well the surly IT guy maneuvered from one task to the next—professional computer nerd to loving and attentive father—never losing focus and always ensuring his kids were indulged. To some, his morning might have seemed chaotic, and it was, in a way, but I couldn’t wait for it to be me.
Chapter 8
Quaid
Jordyn and I arrived at the Davises’ shortly after eight with meticulous plans for how we wanted to share Crowley’s abduction with family members so we could best evaluate individual reactions. After finding extra vehicles in the driveway and lined up along the side of the road, I suspected we were too late.
Jordyn noticed them too and groaned. “Please tell me these cars belong to our people and not members of the Davis and Walsh clan.”
“I have a bad feeling.” Byour people, she likely meant the constables brought in to canvass the neighborhood or perform the search, but the former finished the previous day, and the latter had met in the Soccerplex parking lot, so far as I understood.
The feeling of unease was amplified when Zoey Gershwin, the family liaison officer we’d left at the house the previous night, greeted us at the front door with a pinched expression and crossed arms. Zoey was young and inexperienced, only a few months on the job, and the best we could come up with on short notice.
“Nixon went behind my back and against your orders and called his parents and brother this morning to tell them about the kid. I’m sorry,” she said at my and Jordyn’s matching scowls.
Jordyn cursed under her breath, but there wasn’t much we could do except roll with it. A phone call warning us would have been nice, but managing a distraught household could be a lot to juggle, so I forgave Zoey for the oversight.
“What are we walking into?” I asked, calmer than my partner.
“Benedict and Bess are here. They’re Nixon’s parents. When they arrived, the tension skyrocketed, and Imogen locked herself in the bedroom, claiming she needed to rest. Things calmed down somewhat until the brother showed up a short time later. I believe his name is Flynn. The instant he stepped foot in the house, all hell broke loose.”
I recalled Nixon mentioning bad blood between his brother and parents.
