by Jaycee Clark
“My daughter is not fucking merchandise,” he bit out.
Ian was silent as he opened several drawers on the dresser. Quinlan looked in the nightstand. A few medical supplies, as if leftovers. A piece of bandage, wipies, a lid . . . alcohol?
Anger beat into fury and Quinlan stood wishing he’d . . . wishing he’d . . .
“I should have come out here for her. I should have . . .” He took a deep breath. “She wanted space. I gave her her damned space and look what happened. Would you have given Rori space?”
Ian sighed again and shook his head. “I thought we were here to look, but fine. I’d like to say no, I’d have followed her wherever the hell she went.” Ian stared off into space for a moment and shook his head again. “But she’s her own person, a strong and independent woman. Fact is, if she had really wanted some time away from me, from Darya, to decide if we were what she really wanted . . .” Ian nodded. “Yeah, I’d have given it to her, otherwise she would have been forced to stay, wouldn’t she? And then I’d never know if she stayed because she wanted to or because I’d cut off all her other choices. Then again with Rori, if she wanted to leave, really leave, she would have no matter what. Thankfully, she, we decided we both wanted the same thing—an us.”
“See.”
“Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve doesn’t matter, Quin. Beat yourself up later. You shouldn’t have let her go in the first damned place, or at least should have checked up on her. And she shouldn’t have kept the pregnancy from you. You’re both at fault.”
Quinlan turned to his brother. “Sometimes you are a right pain in the ass.”
Ian smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s why you like me best. Go look in the other rooms.”
Gladly. He couldn’t stay in there another minute.
“Fuck it.” He stalked from the room and walked down the hallway to the next door. The house was not that complicated. Not big. A normal house in a normal neighborhood. Not run-down, not upscale. Simple middle-class. Living and dining room at the front of the house. A sprawling kitchen in the middle and bedrooms in the back and to the side. Her room had been in the back of the house. If the room Ella had been kept in was such a nightmare, what the hell would he find in the other rooms?
He took a breath and turned the knob, silently pushing the door open with the flat of his hand.
The room was bright and cheery. Yellows and blues. Three cribs sat in front of the window. A dresser with one of those changing pad things on top. Or he thought that was what his brother Gavin called the one in their own nursery.
Three cribs. Three.
Chills danced over his skin.
How many more babies were out there while their parents looked for them? Then again, maybe those were legitimate adoptions. Or maybe those mothers weren’t lucky enough to get away.
He walked to the cribs and gripped the pale wooden rail of one. The beds, of course, were empty. No child slept in them. The sheets had been stripped from the mattresses here as well. Lifting his hand, he realized that here too the crime scene guys had been busy. He wiped the dust off onto his jeans.
Had his daughter been kept here? In one of these beds? There was no way to tell, he supposed.
Both he and Ella had already provided DNA samples to match with anything anyone might find. They’d provided it to both the state boys here and the feds. Ian had also taken samples and sent it off to a private lab operated by a friend. Quin didn’t ask, didn’t care as long as they got the results quickly and their daughter was found alive and well.
The late day light slanted into the room, casting shadows. He gripped the rail of the crib again.
God, please, please, let them find his daughter. Please.
He gazed down at the mattress. Where had they taken her? If this was their drop house, as Ian called it, then where was his daughter?
The police checked all the hospitals and there was no child there who could be his.
Please, God . . .
He didn’t know what he could possibly find that the crime guys would have missed. A sound in the doorway had him whirling around and then cursing as his leg caught. He gripped the crib behind him as he stumbled and cursed.
Jareaux stood leaning in the doorway. “I figured one of you Kinncaid boys would show up sooner or later.”
Quin merely stared at him.
“You really shouldn’t be here, Mr. Kinncaid.”
“Where else might I be, Jareaux?”
The agent shrugged, bit down, and something shifted in the man’s eyes. “I don’t know, maybe with your wife?”
“She’s resting.”
“In fact, she’s not. She called my number, wanting to know what all I know, wanted to know if I knew this address so she could help by coming here. Apparently the agents she was talking to earlier wouldn’t bring her here.”
No. Fucking. Way. Quinlan pushed away from the crib, stabbed his cane into the carpet and walked to the doorway. “She’s not coming here. She barely got out of here alive.”
Agent Jareaux stared at him. “I’m well aware of that fact, probably more so than you.”
Movement out of the corner of his eye had him turning toward the room from hell. Ian’s dark head leaned out. “Oh, it’s you. Took you longer than I thought it would. Sneaking around, Jareaux? Word is you’re rogue. Though I’m glad it’s you that showed up and not the locals, they don’t like me much,” he muttered before going back into the room. Then he poked his head back out and said, “Might want to watch what you say to the kid, he’s got a mean right hook. Always had one.”
“She’s not coming here,” he repeated, looking slightly down and into the eyes of the fed.
Jareaux’s eyes were flat, and yet there was something else hidden in the depths. Anger?
“Mr. Kinncaid, this is not the place for you.”
“And did you tell her the same thing?”
Jareaux nodded. “In fact, I did. The crime guys tore this place apart. They found nothing. Well, a few things, but nothing that said where your daughter was. Nothing that said, bad guys, this way.”
Smart-ass.
“Perhaps I should ask what you’re doing here, Jareaux? Agent Sabino made it clear you were off this case, if there ever was one.”
“You’re standing here and you’re questioning if there’s a case?” Jareaux asked him.
Quinlan didn’t like him. He remembered the words Ella had spoken, the ones written in her journal.
She’d trusted him. That idea alone pissed the hell out of him. That his wife would trust this son of a bitch. He tried to shove it aside, but just the sight of the man set his teeth on edge, even knowing the man was trying to help them find their child, even if it was only to serve his own purpose—whatever that might be.
When he was even with the damned man, he used his cane to sweep the man’s legs out from under him. He put the top of his cane on the fed’s throat and leaned down, his knee on the bastard’s chest.
“I’m getting tired of this,” Jareaux bit out.
“Are you? I don’t really care what you’re tired of, Jareaux. You used my wife as bait. Our unborn daughter as bait because you couldn’t do your job. I knew that, but seeing the bed, the eyebolts. Her fucking blood . . .” he said quietly.
He ignored Ian’s, “Quin.”
He leaned a bit more on his cane, watched Jareaux’s eyes widen. “No one puts my family in harm’s way.”
“Where were you?” Jareaux gasped out.
“Right here if I’d followed my gut. I damned well would have been here and ruined your golden opportunity if I’d received her letters. But you knew that.” He leaned onto his knee, until they were almost nose to nose. “I. Want. My. Letters.”
Ian grabbed his shoulder. “Enough, Quinlan.”
One last look into the fed’s eyes. He stood and stepped back. “Not nearly enough.”
“Yes, well, I thought Brody discussed this with you. Assaulting federal agents, even when clearly warrante
d, regardless if they are about to lose their jobs, is rather frowned upon.”
He leveled a look at his brother, who only raised a brow before Ian looked down at Jareaux and offered the man a hand.
Jareaux sat up and rested his arms on his knees, looking from one to the other. A muscle bunched in his jaw. He stood, taking Ian’s hand.
“Are you both going to stand out here continuing this entertainment, or are you going to help me flip the bed?” Ian asked.
With one last warning look, Quin walked passed Jareaux and into the bedroom, where Ian had already pulled all the furniture away from the walls. They pushed the heavy-logged frame from the wall and lifted it, flipping it to its side. There was nothing stuck to the back of the headboard, nor anything under the bed frame. They did find older, worn holes on the headboard.
“Stripped the anchors here. So they put in new ones on the side,” Ian said, pointing to the eyebolts about halfway down the bed.
“We’re still waiting on blood analysis to see how many times this place might have been used,” Jareaux shared.
He could picture it all too damned clearly. Ella tied to the bed like a fucking animal, trapped and scared, screaming until she lost her voice.
Quinlan could only shake his head. “I need some air.”
He walked out of the house and into the early evening. The air was cold but he didn’t care. He started walking. The streetlights flickered and finally came on.
She’d been trapped in that fucking house. And what had he been doing? Flying out here, sleeping at the Richardsons, talking to police while his wife had been in hell.
He’d heard the doctors say what she’d gone through. Heard the police talk and question.
But the reality of being in that room. The bloodstains.
Her raw, almost nonexistent voice.
She’d screamed long and loud for help that never came.
Because he’d been too damned proud to fly out here and try just one more time. And one more time after that.
If he had, he’d have seen. There had been the phone call, but there was no way to trace it. He could have had Ian look after she’d called and Rori had answered. Why the hell hadn’t he?
Pride again.
He was pissed. He’d freaking waited for her to call him back, to leave a damned number, and there had been nothing until she called on Friday.
If he’d just . . . If he’d only . . . He could have found her, could have had Ian find her in probably less than five minutes if he’d wanted to badly enough.
He’d have known. Never, never would he have left a pregnant wife, especially not one that he was crazy about, not one he was in love with.
Just a nonpregnant one who claimed she didn’t want a life with you?
If he’d just been here!
She wouldn’t have been alone. Alone and scared and bound to that damned bed cutting her wrists on zip ties she couldn’t break.
So how had she gotten out? The ties had been cut, or had to have been? Maybe sometime during the labor and delivery they’d cut her loose, knowing there was no way a laboring woman could escape when far enough into the labor?
That made sense.
Then they’d taken her baby . . . His daughter.
And Ella.
Ella had been left for dead. She’d been left to bleed out on that damned mattress. Alone. Scared. Terrified and waiting for help that never came.
He stopped and threw his head back, wanting to yell . . .
But that would accomplish nothing. Not a damned thing. He looked up at the sky, the colors vibrant and screaming.
Why?
Why did this happen to us? he wondered at the sky, at God.
“What do we do?” he whispered. “What did I do?” Because surely she hadn’t done anything for this sort of punishment.
Which was just a stupid-as-hell thought.
A breeze touched his face.
So what did he do now?
Go forward. That was all there was.
They’d find their daughter, and then? Then, he had no idea.
An image of Ella flashed in his mind. A before-and-after picture.
Before, her smiling, her dimples winking at him, her eyes dancing with laughter while her blue hair had blown in the breeze. Now? Now her hair was a shade darker than his own and a bit too brown. Her eyes didn’t laugh. They didn’t see anything. And the only thing he saw in them was fear.
He’d fix it. Somehow, some way, he’d fix it all.
• • •
Ian had talked to Jareaux for a few minutes to give Quinlan some time, but not too much time. He’d seen the look in his brother’s eyes and on his face. Guilt. Guilt and fear and worry and . . .
No telling where the idiot would walk to if given too much time. Ian strode toward the front of the house and waited for Jareaux before he shut door.
“You shouldn’t have brought him,” Jareaux told him.
“Probably not, but then you shouldn’t be here either, should you?” Ian said.
Jareaux sighed and raked a hand over his head. “Probably not. Look, I know he’s against it, but I honestly think it’d be a good idea to get Ella over here. Seeing the house, the room, might jog her memory.”
He’d thought the same thing, but then again, Ella wasn’t Rori.
“Or it might just break her.”
“I don’t think so. I could be wrong, but any woman whose blood loss was to the point hers was, who still made it outside and found help . . . that woman is stronger than those around her might realize. The people who took her and did this, they underestimated her. I’d hate to think you guys did the same thing. I know I did.”
Ian grunted and looked over at Jareaux. “Normally, feds only annoy me, and people only out for themselves, to make a name, to make the next collar, whose mistakes endanger innocents—they piss me off.”
Jareaux shrugged. “It’s okay. Normally, you mercenary types only piss me off.”
Ian reached for his front pocket before remembering he’d quit smoking. He watched as his brother stopped a couple of blocks away and threw his head back. Kid was on a high simmer.
“My brother is usually . . . easier,” he settled on, “than the rest of us.” He looked back at Jareaux. “But this? All of this . . . He rather hates you. You put his family in jeopardy. We Kinncaids are rather touchy on that fact.”
Jareaux put his shades on, even though they weren’t needed. “Sometimes we all make mistakes.”
Ian stilled. “See, my brother’s laid-back, he might take a swing at you, momentarily cut off your air supply, think about other things he could do. Me? I’d just kill you.”
“Threatening a federal officer, Mr. Kinncaid, is also frowned upon.”
“I’ve a feeling you won’t hold that title for long, Jareaux.” Ian only smiled, and knew it held no humor. “I never threaten, Mr. Jareaux. I simply take care of matters.”
Jareaux jerked open his car door. “I’ll just bet you do.” He fingered his tie until it loosened. “I wish I’d never heard the name Kinncaid.”
Chapter 29
Albuquerque, Tuesday, after midnight
Please forgive me. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe being around adoptions all the time let me see that there were more out there to help. I only wanted to help. I sold the Kinncaid woman’s baby to a wonderful couple. The way I went about it was wrong. I know. Now, he knows too and he doesn’t want me anymore. No one will understand. No one will ever forgive me and I don’t blame them. I don’t know why I did it and there’s no way to undo it. I don’t know what else to do. Please tell Ella I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. She really was my friend, I didn’t lie about that.
~ Lisa
He read back through it and realized there should be another really there at the end. With a black-gloved finger, he typed the rest of the note. Yes, that would work. Perfect.
He wondered again if the man he had hired had accomplished what he’d set out to do, if he’d managed to kill the stu
pid Kinncaid woman. Really, how hard could it be? She’d been released from the hospital earlier today. Whether that would make it easier or harder, he wasn’t yet sure. Either way, the bastard better do what he was paid to do.
At this point, though, it would hardly be over. If only it were that easy. Best thing to do is to clip the ends and hope things did not continue to unravel.
In the end, hopefully, his ass would be covered, but something told him he’d always be looking over his shoulder.
Walking to the bathroom, he cut off the faucet before the tub overflowed, felt the water and then wondered why he cared. It wasn’t like she could feel it.
Wiping his hands on his pants, he stood and strode back into the bedroom. Carefully, so as not to touch anything, he stripped her down to her underwear. “Not long now, dearie. Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. All those Ambien pills I put in your drink and blended with the fruit and alcohol, it won’t be long anyway.”
He slipped his gloves back on. It really worked great knowing what her scripts were. Sleeping pills and alcohol, one of the oldest tricks in the books if one wanted to off themselves. Personally, he had never wanted to, never truly understood when people did, but then most people would never understand why he did what he did. That was fine with him. He hardly needed approval. He just didn’t want to get caught.
This was another loose end to clip off.
He carried her to the bathtub and gently placed her in it. Then he put the knife into her own hand and studied it for a moment. No, wait, that’s not how she would hold it, is it? He placed her fingers a bit more naturally against the hilt of the sharp kitchen knife. Then he sliced it down her left arm. He frowned. Probably should have done the right first. Did a person who was right-handed slice their left wrist first? If tendons were severed and nerves, then how did they then hold the knife to cut the other wrist?
He’d never thought about it before. Maybe he should have just let the pills take their toll. Of course, he could just drown her in the tub, but that could leave bruising.
She’d wanted to sleep with him earlier and he never passed up a chance to fuck the woman. She knew her way around a man’s cock and he was more than happy to oblige. If anything came of it, it wasn’t like their affair wasn’t known about. He knew two of his nurses knew and Kevin had known.
