to this interrogation. “If this kid hasn’t surfaced in eight years, the chances of finding her alive are not good.”
“But you do think it is possible to track her down, Marc, so at least we’d know what happened to her?”
God, he shouldn’t feel anything, but that look on her face... She was desperate, and he couldn’t offer much hope. “No one vanishes into thin air, but with kids, there is the unforeseeable luck factor. Freaks and traffickers prey on them. Or some random wacko may have taken a liking to her, and she wound up a nut job’s thrill. The FBI will find your Jane Doe, just a matter of time, but no one may ever know what happened to your other girl.”
To Courtney’s credit, she took reality standing. No drama. No tears. No pleas for him to sugarcoat the truth. Just that lovely face growing brittle around the edges as she struggled to cling to a last bit of hope, no matter how unrealistic.
“Wish I had a better opinion. Good luck.” He tried to make his escape.
But by the time he’d set down the cup and gotten halfway to the door, he heard Courtney say, “Even so, Marc, I have to look. Please tell me where to start.”
The plea in her voice stopped him. “You start by figuring out when your real girl was last seen. Until you figure that out, you can’t unravel where she might have gone.”
“Okay.” Her clear gaze clung to him, so eager, but the frown forming on her smooth brow convinced him that she didn’t have any idea how to proceed.
He wasn’t surprised. “I can tell you where to look, but I can’t magically give you the instinct to know what to look for. I can’t help you. You’ll have to take my word.”
This time, he was out the door before she could stop him with another question.
CHAPTER THREE
IF MARC HAD not been starving, he would have stayed in his room until the house had emptied after dinner. Too many drugs, too many stairs and the effort of taking a shower had kicked his ass all over again.
He wasn’t in the mood for people and wanted to sleep off the drug hangover. Unfortunately, between the smells of his mother’s cooking and the noise level that told him how good the food was, he had no choice. He made a mental note to keep protein bars in his room for the duration of this visit so he could avoid family gatherings altogether.
Against his better judgment, he made his way downstairs again. The thumping of his cane must have announced his arrival because Damon said, “Guess who’s gracing us with his presence.”
Caffeine and a shower hadn’t taken the edge off. If Marc had been thinking clearly, he would have used his phone and a twenty to bribe his niece Violet into bringing a plate upstairs.
“To what do we owe this honor?” Damon asked.
There were a few laughs from around the table, but Marc ignored his brother, which was easy to do since the kitchen looked like Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. He noticed Courtney immediately, seated beside his mother, quiet in the midst of all the noise, so beautiful. Sad, too, he decided. That was probably his fault. He should probably feel bad.
He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself when he still had to get to the counter, and make it to the table with a plate and silverware while maneuvering through the obstacle course of people crowding the food. Then he’d have to get to his seat.
The table was full. His mother was all about first come, first served, and hers was the only reserved seat—the corner closest to the stove. This was her throne to hear her tell it, so she could easily replenish serving bowls. While Marc had been growing up, that seat had been at his father’s right.
“My best girl and right-hand man,” Marc could remember his father saying. “My better half.”
Today, she was Marc’s savior. After taking one look at him, she started directing traffic.
“Scoot the twins toward Anthony,” she said. “Marc, sit next to Violet. She’ll make room.”
“Come here, Uncle Marc.” Violet patted the space on the bench beside her, a strategic corner placement so Marc would be able to stretch his leg out of everyone’s way.
By the time he dropped heavily onto the bench, food started making its way toward him. Marc turned his attention to filling his plate as the conversation resumed about the wedding. Nic was finally going to marry his high school sweetheart and the mother of his teenage daughter, Violet. This wedding was a long time in coming, and the family was thrilled.
Marc didn’t want any reminders of the upcoming nuptials, though. When he had agreed to be Nic’s best man, he had assumed accompanying his big brother to the altar wouldn’t be a problem. Now the thought of being on display to a church filled with guests annoyed him. He’d already tried to beg off, citing an inability to accomplish his best man duties, but Nic had flatly refused to accept his resignation.
Marc made quick work of dinner, glad when the conversation turned from the wedding to the Saints’ performance during preseason. Everyone had an opinion, and he listened, distracting himself from his awareness of Courtney, who ate next to nothing although she made a good show of pushing food around her plate.
He was probably responsible for her lack of appetite, too. His troublemaking mother must have thought so, because when the talk about the Saints lagged, she solicited opinions about whether or not he should help Courtney with her problem.
Marc should have seen it coming. He would have bet money Courtney hadn’t. Her expression froze along with the fork she held over the plate.
“Wait a second.” Anthony swallowed hard around a bite. “Am I hearing this right? Are you telling me Boba Fett DiLeo can’t track down a missing kid? Who is this kid—the Golden Child?”
Courtney blinked a few times, still surprised her shitty situation had become the entrée of table conversation.
Violet pulled a face. “I know Boba Fett, but who’s the Golden Child?”
“Vintage Eddie Murphy, niece girl,” Damon said. “Before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.”
Nic scowled. Some things never changed, and he did not like reminders that he hadn’t been privy to the existence of his daughter until two years ago.
“I didn’t say can’t track down,” his mother explained matter-of-factly. “I said won’t.”
Marc should have known nothing with this family could ever be simple. Setting down his water glass, he settled back to watch the show. He would not prepare a defense. He refused to play this game.
“I don’t understand.” Anthony feigned confusion. “Why won’t you help out Courtney?”
Every gaze at the table was suddenly on Marc. As brother in the middle, Anthony was slick. He had learned long ago to maneuver between family factions. The top shelf contained the power brokers—his mother, Nic, Marc himself. More often than not, Anthony preferred to swing with them, but there were times he played devil’s advocate or peacemaker. He wielded humor and stupidity with equal skill, and usually managed to emerge from family disputes unscathed. Marc did not have the patience for his brother today. Any of them.
“I
