Page 54 of Paternal Instincts
“Mrs. Davis?”
“I don’t remember saying that. I was… out of my head… with fear. I wanted—needed—to blame someone. He should never have contacted the police.”
Quaid glanced in my direction, but I had nothing to offer. He’d witnessed the hysteria, not me, but I doubted that she didn’t remember what happened. Amnesic episodes weren’t as common as they made it seem in the movies.
Producing the evidence bag with the note inside, Quaid presented it to Imogen. “Can you tell me what this means?”
She stared at the plastic-covered page, but I wasn’t sure she was seeing it. Tears filled her eyes. Her lips quivered. She clenched a fist around the comforter, the fabric bunching in her grip. “I don’t know.”
Quaid stared for a beat longer, then said, “I don’t believe you.”
Imogen didn’t move. The tears never fell. It was as though they hung frozen in time on her lashes. She didn’t respond to Quaid’s accusation, zoning out as though he might decide to give up and walk away.
Quaid continued, using a detached way of speaking that was sometimes necessary when dealing with sensitive cases—or stubborn suspects. “I think you know who took your son, Genie. I think you know the meaning behind these notes, but I can’t figure out why on earth you won’t tell us anything.”
She could have been a statue. Unblinking. Unmoving. Unresponsive in every way—except for the white-knuckle grip on the comforter.
Quaid sighed and turned the note around, puzzling the lines of text on the page with a furrowed brow. “Let me tell you what happens next. Whoever took your son initially demandedthe truth. They threatened you with potentially damning information they felt couldruin you. They also implied that you might have damning information on them. Now, it sounds like they no longer need you to tell them the truth because they figured it out on their own. They sound angry, and maybe they’re holding something over your head, and maybe you have information that could hurt them, too, but here’s the key point I want you to take away from this note. The threat is exponentially worse this time, Genie. Because now it involves your son’s life, and I fear if we don’t get to the bottom of this quickly, Crowley is going to come home in a body bag.”
Harsh? Perhaps, but I knew what Quaid was doing. He wanted her scared. He wanted herto cooperate.
Quaid paused for a long time, staring at Imogen, who kept her head down and mouth shut, rooted to the comforter like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
My husband’s frustration mounted, evidenced by his ticking jaw, clenched fists, and the concrete set of his shoulders.
He gave her more than enough time to think and speak. When she continued to refuse, he collected the note and stood. Looming over her, voice a taut bowstring, he said, “The problem with a case like this, Genie, is that I’m not in a position to get your son back because I don’t know who this person is or what they want. What I do know is that perpetrators like this often act impulsively, and at some point, they will realize there is no positive outcome for them. You need to make an important decision.” He paused. Waited. She wouldn’t look up. “Is your secret more important than Crowley’s life?”
Quaid could have been bluffing. We didn’t know for certain that Imogen knew anything, but the way she was acting and the way Quaid described her response to the note made her awfully suspicious. For all we knew, she was covering for her husband, and whatever was going on was out of her hands.
Quaid shook his head in disgust and headed for the door. I followed on his heels.
Before he could close it behind him, Imogen spoke. “Mr. Valor.”
Quaid paused, the door half open.
I didn’t think she would speak again, but after several beats, she peered out from under her bangs. “Crowley isn’t in danger. He would never hurt his son, but I don’t know how to get him back.”
Chapter 14
Aslan
If I thought for one second that my husband would go to bed when he got home, then I had no right being married to him because it would have shown that I didn’t know him at all. After a battle with Jordyn—Quaid adamant in his position that Imogen implicated Nixonagainin the abduction of their son, and Jordyn stubbornly insisting the husband’s grief was genuine—I’d torn the two apart and called a time-out.
Quaid wanted to drive Nixon downtown, put him in an interview room, and make him sweat until he got answers. Jordyn thought they should do the same with Imogen. I reminded the pair that they were grieving parents with another child who needed attention. They had to come up with a better solution for getting answers.
My comment earned matching sneers, and I was lucky they didn’t send me packing.
It took a miracle to encourage them to call it a night and revisit the case with fresh eyes in the morning. Crowley had been gone since Tuesday. Four days and counting. Ambiguous and dodgy Imogen wasconvinced the child would come to no harm. We had to have faith that she was right. At that point, the case had proven to be far different than a typical abduction, so perhaps the same rules didn’t apply.
I agreed with Quaid when he pointed out that Imogen’s hysteria and accusations seemed noteworthy, but I also agreed with Jordyn that Nixon seemed less suspicious than his wife. There was more going on that we didn’t know about. Secrets, lies, and a missing kid.
Finally, after hours of wildly debating the next course of action, I convinced them to agree that nothing would be solved at close to midnight.
Zoey was at the house overnight. If anything came up, she would call.
When we got home and Quaid set up a base of operations at the kitchen table, I went with it. At some point, I would physically remove him from his computer and drop his ass in bed, but he needed to vent and stew and ponder the evidence. Get it out of his system. It was his way.
I ordered his favorite cauliflower crust vegetarian pizza, chicken wings, and garlic knots from the pizzeria down the street. When it arrived, I plated him some of everything and set it beside his elbow.
