Page 53 of Paternal Instincts
“Excellent is subjective.”
I kissed the top of his head. “It will come to us, Quaid. Don’t worry over it.”
We stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for as long as was reasonable, knowing if Jordyn returned and found us like that, she would go through the roof.
With the household in order, I left the two MPU detectives to decide who was interviewing whom while I ventured to the kitchen to see what I could find for Imogen to eat. If I knew anything about pregnant women, it was that they needed food. Often. At least Amelia had when she was pregnant with her kids. Bryn had shared many of her constantly changing cravings over the past few months.
Once, when our surrogate expressed a passion for dill pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, Quaid turned an awful shade of green. I may not have known the kinds of food Imogen craved, but I did knowdespite the crisis that had upended her life, the baby and mama needed fuel.
Nixon sat slumped on a stool at the kitchen island, upturned hands braced under his chin, propping up his head. He barely acknowledged my presence as he stared at a spot on the finished wood surface. His tears were gone, but his eyes remained bloodshot and swollen. He was as rumpled today as he’d been the previous day at the station.
I said hello, and he mumbled something indecipherable.
“I’m getting your wife some food. Are you hungry?”
“No.” It was the answer I expected, but I suspected the man wouldn’t know a hunger pang if it vibrated through him under the circumstances.
I rooted around the fridge and found fixings enough to make two sandwiches. Shaved deli meat, tomatoes, lettuce, Havarti cheese slices, full-fat mayo—I silently pumped a fist in the air—and Dijon mustard. Above the microwave, I discovered a loaf of sourdough bread, one day expired. Good enough. It wasn’t growing mold, and I could toast it. No one would be the wiser.
I popped a few slices into the toaster and organized the counter. As I assembled two sandwiches, I kept an eye on the man at the island, trying to see beyond the wall of grief to anything deceptive that might live under its surface. His despair seemed genuine. If he was faking, the man should move to Hollywood.
I plated the two sandwiches and slid one across the island in Nixon’s direction. “I know you said no, but if you eat something, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”
“Can’t. My stomach is too upset.”
“Probably because you haven’t eaten properly in days. Buddy, I know the signs of malnutrition. I live with an expert food avoider. Ifyou eat that sandwich, I promise your brain will wake up, and things will feel less hopeless.”
He dragged the plate in front of him, eyeing it skeptically. “Eating a sandwich won’t bring my son back.”
“No, but it might put things in perspective. We need your help.”
Reluctantly, Nixon picked it up and took a bite, chewing with no enthusiasm. I waited until he took a second bite, then a third, before retreating with the sandwich I’d made for Imogen.
I ran into Quaid and Jordyn in the hallway and was informed that Jordyn would talk to Nixon, and Quaid and I would approach Imogen. “Delicately,” Quaid warned. “She’s already had one meltdown. We don’t need another.”
***
Imogen, propped in bed and surrounded by pillows, granted us entrance. She thanked me for the sandwich but didn’t seem any more enthused about eating than her husband. Since there was nowhere to sit, I positioned myself at the window, glancing through the thick branches of a full oak and scanning the street. The media vans were in the same place they’d been since I arrived. A neighbor was outside talking to one of the reporters.
Quaid requested permission before lowering himself to the edge of the bed. I sensed he didn’t want to loom. The interview required a certain amount of delicacy and trust. It was not time to be in a place of authority or appear threatening. “How are you feeling, Genie?” he asked.
“I’mfine.” She stared at the sandwich like the bread was green and the inside was crawling with maggots. “Where’s my daughter? I should check on her.”
“She’s with Constable Gershwin. Zoey. Detective Doyle picked her up some dinner, so she’s eating.”
“Thank you. Is Flynn still here?”
“No. We’ve sent everyone home for the night. Nixon is talking with my partner.”
The comment didn’t garner a response.
“Genie, we need to chat about what happened earlier.”
Imogen meticulously picked the crust off the sandwich, tearing each piece to crumbs and leaving the bits on the edge of the plate uneaten.
“Genie?” She wouldn’t look at Quaid, no matter how often he personally addressed her. “Genie, you accused your husband of being responsible for Crowley’s disappearance. You shouted at him to give your son back as though he might know where Crowley is. I need you to tell me what you meant.”
Imogen set the plate aside, not having touched the food. She didn’t meet Quaid’s gaze, staring at the comforter instead.
