soft click of Callie’s pumps on the shiny wood floor as she left the room was followed by her voice in the distance, calling for her son.
Tanner waited for the second call. For the sound of the woman’s footsteps on the stairs as she made a climb similar to the one Tanner had made a mere half hour before. Waited for her to realize that her son wasn’t home, either. The punk had taken Tanner’s youngest sister someplace and he wanted her back.
“Yeah?” The male voice that sounded at the top of the stairs held none of the respect Tanner had heard two mornings before when the asshole had tried to convince him that he loved his sister and would never do anything to hurt her. It was Del. He recognized the voice. Not the tone.
It was as if the kid was speaking to someone beneath him. A servant.
Or a woman?
“I’d like you to come down, please.”
“I’m busy.”
Did he talk to Tatum that way, too?
“Del, do I have to call your father?”
A door slammed. Tanner heard tennis shoes on the stairs. “I’m here, now what?”
“Come into the living room, please.” Callie’s voice lowered, as though she didn’t want Tanner to hear what she was saying. Or how she was saying it?
“What for?”
Just then another door opened, somewhere deeper in the house. “Your father’s home.” Callie’s voice took on strength.
And before anything else could happen, Del, dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a surfer shirt and expensive-looking rubber-soled sports shoes, entered the room.
“Mr. Malone? What are you doing here?” The boy’s tone of voice changed again. Back to two mornings before. Like the asshole didn’t know Tanner had heard him addressing his mother?
“He’s looking for Tatum, Del. Do you know where she is?”
“No.” The boy’s chin lifted.
“I don’t believe you.” Tanner didn’t bother with niceties.
Callie glanced from Tanner to her son. “Del? Do you know something you aren’t telling us?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is,” Del insisted. Shrugging his shoulders he shoved his hands in his pockets, the blue ends of his blond hair giving him an air of otherworldliness that set Tanner’s already stressed nerve endings on edge.
“Where who is?” The quiet, deep voice belonged to the tall guy in the suit who just entered the room.
“Mr. Harcourt?” Tanner assumed the financier’s identity.
“That’s right.”
“I’m looking for my sister. I have good reason to believe that your son knows where she is. She’s only fifteen, it’s a school night and she belongs at home.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance.” Stepping past his son as though the boy didn’t exist, Harcourt glanced at his wife.
“This is Tanner Malone, Kenny. Tatum’s brother.”
“Tatum’s missing?” The concern on the other man’s face appeared genuine as he swung toward his son. “What do you know about this, Del?” The voice was still low, but with a growling note. “If you know where that girl is, you tell us. Now.” Harcourt was almost gritting his teeth.
Del shrugged again, but his head bowed a bit as he looked at his mother. “Mom, I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is.”
Harcourt’s hand snapped out and formed a vise around his son’s arm, squeezing with obvious force. “I’m warning you, son, if you’re hiding something...”
The threat was left unsaid, but Del seemed to hear it loud and clear.
“I don’t know where she is.” Del looked his father in the eye, but backed half a step away, so that they weren’t directly facing each other.
Something was going on there. Something bad. Unhealthy.
But Tanner didn’t have the time or wherewithal to care. If Tatum’s friends didn’t know where she was...and Del didn’t have her...then...
“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Tanner asked, holding his teeth together to keep himself calm. To prevent the panic that was raging inside him from taking control.
“She’s not allowed to speak to me, remember? You said you’d take her cell phone away if she did.”
In unison, the elder Harcourts looked at each other, then at their son.
“What about on the internet?” Callie asked.
“Answer your mother,” Harcourt demanded, more loudly than his wife, before Del even had a chance to respond.
Del stared at the floor. Harcourt grabbed his son’s arm a second time. “Delaney?”
“She private messaged me on Facebook this morning.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.” The boy, pulling out of his father’s grip, backed up. “I didn’t answer her, okay? I knew he’d be watching.” He practically spit the word he’d as he looked at Tanner.
“What did she say?” Tanner asked, still the calmest one in the room. If you didn’t count the frustration—the fear—raging inside him.
“I can’t remember...” Del’s reply ended abruptly as his father took a step forward. “She said that she loved me.”
“And?”
“And, nothing.”
Harcourt slapped the back of his kid’s head. Not enough to be considered violent or even cause Del’s neck to snap back, but harder than a love tap.
Instead of cowing the boy, the slap seemed to have the opposite effect. Del straightened. He looked at all three adults in the room and said, “She told me she loved me. That’s all.” His tone told them he’d take any beating they wanted to hand out but they weren’t going to get another answer from him.
Because it was the truth?
Or because the punk was that determined to have Tatum all for himself?
So he could knock his little sister around like his father did him?
Looking at Callie Harcourt, Tanner wondered where she played into the “normal” Harcourt household. Did her husband intimidate her, too? With a little physical persuasion now and then?
Or did they both just think that rough parenting was the only way to keep their far too rich and spoiled brat in line?
If it was the latter, Tanner
