Page 75 of Paternal Instincts
“You can have the picture when I’m done. It can go on the fridge with the other one.”
“Thank you. Sparrow,” Quaid said, “Is it okay if Daddy comes with us into the kitchen for a few minutes?”
“You gotta ask more questions?”
“Yes.”
“About Crow?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at her father, her uncle, and Zoey, who lingered on the outskirts of the room. “I’ll stay with Uncle Flynn. Try not to make Daddy yell, okay? I don’t like that.”
“I’ll try.”
“Did you find my mommy?”
“No, not yet.”
“So, two people is missing now?”
“I don’t think Mommy’s missing. She’s just having a break.”
Quaid’s quick thinking and delicate answers seemed to soothe the girl’s curiosity. We didn’t know where Imogen had wound up, and the possibility of her involvement in the case was higher now than it had been that morning, but a five-year-old child didn’t need to know that.
Flynn kneeled beside the coffee table and took up a marker. “Can I help?”
“Sure. I have more paper.”
I nodded to the man, thanking him for giving us a hand.
We gathered in the kitchen. Quaid, Nixon, and me. Nixon offered us water, but we declined. He poured himself a glass and drained it in one long gulp before leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His posture suggested a defensive stance, and I got the feeling he was sick and tired of being implicated and interrogated about his son’s disappearance.
“Did you talk to Clementine?” Nixon snapped.
“Briefly,” Quaid said, startling me. When had that happened? “My partner is performing a proper interview right now.”
“Did she tell you we weren’t having an affair?”
“She did, and I believe you, Nixon.”
The man frowned. “Then what’s this about?”
I leaned against the kitchen island, aiming for a relaxed stance, hoping to take Nixon’s hostility down a notch as I took a turn speaking. “We’ve been looking into your family’s finances, Mr. Davis. I understand that Detective Valor explained that to you already.”
Nixon sized me up and down and shrugged. “Yeah. So? Good for you. Was I late paying my gas bill? Is my VISA too high? Have I made poor investments? I don’t know what you were expecting to find.”
Quaid extracted the printed bank forms Ruiz had prepared as evidence in case Nixon proved to be skeptical. “We didn’t know either.”
He offered the pages to Nixon who didn’t take them at first and peered warily at my husband, then at me.
Quaid shook them. “Take a look. Please.”
Nixon relented and examined the pages for a long silent minute, the creases in his brow deepening. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“As you can see at the top of the form, it’s an account in your wife’s name.”
“I see that. But… this can’t be right. Genie’s account is nowhere near this high. I’ve seen it. Recently. What are these deposits?”
