Page 15 of Played
He leans closer, and the sadness in his dark eyes is now tinged with fury. “You are my last resort, Mr. Blackthorn. Not because you’re good at what you do, but because of who you are.”
What the fuck does that mean? I remain silent, letting him play his hand before I reveal mine.
“I hope you hate your father, Mr. Blackthorn. I sincerely hope you hate him as much as I do.”
Now he has my attention.
“Because he knows something about my little girl’s disappearance. I am one hundred percent sure of it.”
What the fuck? I breathe in through my nose, maintaining the calm facade that serves me well in this job even as my heart pounds violently against my ribcage and my mind is flooded with questions. My father is a cruel piece of shit, but this? Could he truly be involved in Cassidy’s disappearance? “And you think that his only son is the person you want looking into this? That sounds like quite the risk, Mr. Jones.”
He scrubs his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up and giving him a stronger air of desperation. “A risk I have no option but to take. I have nowhere else to turn. The cops won’t do anything. And every PI runs for the hills once I mention your father’s name. For some reason, he’s untouchable in this part of the country, in case you didn’t know that.”
Oh, I fucking know it better than anyone.
Curtis’s eyes narrow to slits. “But I figure you do know that, and that’s why you left. And if I’m wrong…” Defeat weighs his shoulders down. “Well, I already have nothing left to lose.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t take this case, can I? I can’t look into my own father for something like this, no matter how much I hate him. “Why is it you think my father is involved?” I ask, too curious to walk away without knowing more.
“He was the last guy she gave a private dance to in that club she worked at.”
“And? I’m sure she gave plenty of guys a private dance.”
Curtis shakes his head. “But he…” His lip curls in a sneer. “He was the one. Her boss at the club told me your father really took a shine to her. He visited a few times and was only ever interested in her. He was the cause of our last argument.”
“How so?” I ask.
“She’d been telling me for weeks about this man, some guy with lots of money and influence. Despite what the cops thought,I didn’t hate her job. I wanted her to be safe, and I disliked that she was constantly looking for an easy way out. And when she came to see me the day before she disappeared, she told me she’d already quit her job because this asshole asked her to. She said he was gonna take care of her. Gonna set her up in her own fancy place so she wouldn’t have to work again. She didn’t give me his name, but now I know it was your father. It makes perfect sense.”
Does it? There are coincidences, but surely that’s all they are. “Because she danced for him? That’s quite the leap.”
He shakes his head. “No, not because of that. It was the tattoo. That’s how I know it was him.”
“The tattoo?”
“The day she quit, she went and got herself a tattoo, right across the top of her back.” He traces his fingers over his shoulders. “It was healing when she came to visit, and I told her she was an idiot for defiling her body like that.”
Aware of my own visible tattoos, I arch an eyebrow at him.
“I have nothing against tattoos. But she got a tattoo for some guy she barely knew.”
I lean forward. “What was the tattoo, Mr. Jones?”
His eyes narrow. “It was a crown, and right beneath it, right across her back, were the words ‘King’s Princess.’ Kyngston fucking Worthington.”
My blood runs cold. Memories of overheard hushed conversations flicker through my mind.I’ll be there when I can, princess. I need you too, princess. Be patient, princess.He called them all princess. That way he never needed to remember their names.
It’s still a leap, but my gut tells me my father was indeed her rich guy. However, I’m self-aware enough to know that’s my own bias speaking, and the straws Curtis Jones is grasping atare made of very thin paper. “There are hundreds of rich and powerful men in New York, Mr. Jones.”
“Yeah, but not a lot of them go to some seedy club for a lap dance, do they? I’m sure they have higher-class, more discreet establishments they prefer to frequent. But your father just happened to visit there the day before she quit. And then she disappeared a few days after she started telling me about a guy so rich he was gonna take care of her and she’d never have to work again. That ain’t no coincidence, Mr. Blackthorn, and we both know it.”
“I assume you told the police all of this?”
“Of course I fucking did. But they spoke with him, and he never denied paying for a dance at the club. He denied ever seeing her before or after that though, and obviously because he’s who he is and I’m some shmuck used-car salesman …” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and he doesn’t have to. My father has far too much influence in this little corner of the world.
“When was the last time you heard from your daughter, Mr. Jones?”
He blinks, surprised. “You’re taking the case?”
