Page 45 of Paternal Instincts
“But my grandson.” Tears shimmered in Bess Davis’s eyes. “I can’t leave until I know he’s home safe. Benny, stop fighting.” She tugged her husband’s sleeve, but the man planted his feet and refused to move.
A woman I didn’t know said something about toxic people being in places they shouldn’t, asking if they planned to buy their way out of the problem, and did anyone know what the ransom note said because the Davis family had more money than brains and no moral or ethical code to speak of.
Benedict had something to say about that, too.
“Oh, shut your mouth, you insufferable asshole,” the woman said. “We all know if there’s a price, you’ll pay it. Where’s that goddamn note?”
A pale and sickly-looking Imogen, planted on the couch, muttered, “Mother, don’t.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do.” The woman, Imogen’s mother, thrust a finger at Benedict. “This man is a plague on the earth. Corrupt like his son.”
Benedict raised his voice. Nixon tried to intervene, but Flynn held him back. My attention caught on Jude, hiding in the background. He glared warily in my direction, half concealed by Nixon and Flynn. When the hell did he show up?
I lost focus on the rising arguments when Jordyn shoved her way toward me. The room descended into its original bedlam as my partner hit me with a scowl to end all scowls. “Welcome to the party.”
“Jesus. What the hell is happening in here? Where did all these people come from?”
“Hell. They came express from hell.” Jordyn blew her long black bangs from her face and propped both hands on her hips, her annoyance glowing.
I scanned the room, trying to figure out who everyone was. The Davis family I knew. Flynn, Benedict, and Bess. The other elderly couple must have been Imogen’s parents. The fiery woman baring teeth at Benedict was no doubt the mother. I’d sorted out that much. A younger woman, who shared similar features with Imogen, sat beside her on the couch. The sister, I presumed.
Then it dawned on me. “Where’s Sparrow?”
Jordyn’s face turned blank, and she blinked a few times before scanning the room. “I… Shit. I haven’t seen her. I don’t know. Quaid, there’s been a lot going on.”
“And she’s a fucking child. Is no one watching her?”
I barreled through the clumps of fighting family members and caught Zoey’s arm. She was holding Benedict and Imogen’s mother apart because they looked about ten seconds from killing one another.
“Where’s Sparrow?” I asked Zoey, a bite to my tone.
She, too, blinked in confusion before shrugging. “Upstairs, maybe?”
“Christ.” I glanced between the feuding adults and back to Zoey. I didn’t know what my face was doing, but based on their expressions, it was something venomous. “That child,” I said to Zoey, “is a major part of your job. I told you that last night. Was I not clear? Ensuring the woman on the couch doesn’t put herself in premature labor because of stress is also your job. Calming Nixon’s tears and reassuring him we are doing all we can to locate his sonis your job. Not refereeing unhelpful drama.” At this, I glared daggers at the two grandparents.
If anyone was ashamed or felt guilty after my little speech, I didn’t know or care.
I ran for the stairs and took them two at a time. Sparrow’s room was the first on the right, and I stopped in the doorway, finding the child seated cross-legged in the middle of the bed, chin resting against her chest, hugging a raggedy Cabbage Patch doll from the eighties.
She didn’t notice me.
My heart skipped and stuttered at the sight as I tumbled back in time. I was six years old. Juni was gone. Taken. The police swarmed the house. Heavy boots on the stairs. Gruff voices I didn’t recognize, barking commands. Mom and Dad shouting, crying, and passing blame. A lamp crashed against the wall, thrown in anger. Mom beat fists against Dad’s chest, calling him an irresponsible asshole. Wailing, sorrowful heartbreak filled the nights. No one remembered I existed. No one recognized that I hurt too. The horror and terror of losing a sibling and a once happy family deteriorated before my eyes, and I’d dealt with it all by myself, without tools or support.
More than thirty years later, I was in therapy because of its lasting consequences.
“Hey.” My voice croaked, and I cleared my throat, finding a weak smile.
Sparrow lifted her head. Tears dampened her cheeks and shone in her pale blue eyes. “Hi, Detective Quaid.”
“Can I come in?”
She nodded but lowered her chin again, staring at the unicorn comforter spread over her mattress.
I approached and sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, touching her doll’s plastic shoe. “Who do you have here?”
“Her name’s Nora. Uncle Flynn found her at a flea market. He said he remembered Cabbage Patch Kids from when he was little, so he bought her for me.”
“That was nice of him. I like her orange hair.”
