Page 93 of Forbidden Want

“The cop, probably,” he said. “She never forgave me for letting her go with her mother. I lost my baby girl’s trust a long time ago.”

“You stick to trusting you? You don’t trust anyone else? No one?”

He showed her a smile. “If you weren’t so corruptible, I’d trust you.”

“Corruptible? You think I’m corruptible?”

“Hey, if it turns out your daddy’s dirty, least you can say it’s in the genes.”

“I can’t believe that. Just one look at Lachlan tells you our genes are good.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Strat said. “My Immie’s pure, she’s all her mom. Sometimes one parent gives their all to one kid.”

“My dad says I’m all my mom… Not so sure that’s a good thing though.”

“You remember her?”

“Sometimes I think I do… I don’t know if it’s memories or Lach’s talk putting pictures in my head.”

“You worship your brother.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You put him on a pedestal, he’s bound to fall off.”

“Lachlan’s got good balance. I believe in him.”

“Except you’re in trouble, and you’re not going to him.”

Not because she didn’t trust him to listen or support her. No doubt, if she started talking, he’d try to justify or come up with other plausible scenarios. But she knew him. Once the notion was in there, that it was even just remotely possible, he’d ask questions, and not just of her. Either he’d ruin his relationship with his father, that he valued so much, or, like Strat said, he’d have to see the man he worshipped slip from his pedestal.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Trying to make me doubt everyone?”

“I want you to be safe. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You think Conn is going to hurt me? Or my dad?”

“Honestly, Scamp? I think they all will.”

“All?” she asked.

They stopped.

The bakery. Cupcakes. Right where she’d asked him to take her.

With everything else going on, maybe it wasn’t a cupcake day. But she needed a peace offering for Steeple, something to distract him from asking all the right questions.

Cupcakes were as good a chance as any.

***

CUPCAKES did their job improving Steeple’s mood. On distracting him? Not so much. He’d got where he was by following the story. No amount of baked goods could change the fiber of the man. Unfortunately.

“No, Dorsey’s a dead end,” she said, sitting in Steeple’s office like it was any other day.

“Really?” her boss asked, pulling himself in further at the desk. “How’d you figure?”

“The cops couldn’t find anything. The McDades either. The girl’s probably dead.”

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