“Rachel found out what I was doing. And she’s good friends with Jaclyn Jones and some of the other mothers at Brynlock.”
That was what story Paul was going to stick to. He wasn’t telling anyone that he’d lost control. That the instant his wife had questioned him, he’d broken.
Struck out at her.
He’d never hit Rachel before. He’d grabbed her a few times. Shook her once. Scared her far more than he wanted to think about.
But he’d always apologized after.
The last thing he had ever wanted to do was hurt her. She…might have disappointed him through the years, but he had no doubt he had done the same to her. He was larger, stronger, more forceful, more powerful. That had come with responsibility to her. Responsibility he hadn’t lived up to.
Relationships were reciprocal, after all. And he had loved her.
For six years, he had loved that woman. Had wanted to provide for her. Her and the girls.
From the moment he had met Rachel, he had known she was meant to be his.
All that would have made their lives more perfect through the years had been if they had had a son. And if Rachel hadn’t threatened him, hadn’t yelled she was going to call Jaclyn that very night and report that Paul was spying on her.
That would have destroyed everything.
He took the money Eugene Lytel held out. Paul counted it quickly. “Where’s the other half?”
“Delivery fee. You screwed up. Didn’t follow through. Now, I have to get my ass back to St. Louis before my team is needed to search for you. Take it and go—before I bust you myself. I am sure I can find an excuse for why I’m out here. Hell, my mom doesn’t live too far from here. Maybe I just stumbled right into you. Wouldn’t that make me the hero?”
Paul looked at the son-of-a-bitch’s eyes. That was exactly what the man was wanting to do. He had no doubt Lytel had pocketed his money.
His fists balled.
Eugene Lytel was evil through and through.
74
Miranda led the way, holding the little boy in her arms as he slept. This was not what she had ever expected to happen. But she had not been about to leave the kid sitting in that…place. It had taken her three extra hours just to track a six-year-old boy down.
He hadn’t even been in Indiana.
Someone had hacked the social services database somehow and listed the boy in a completely different state than where he actually was. When she got a chance, she was going to talk to her contacts at the Missouri division of child services. He had been far too young to be housed with teenagers. Teenagers with histories of violent behaviors. What had happened to him definitely shouldn’t have.
She didn’t have a clue how that could have happened.
Miranda had just been very lucky the state he was in was Missouri. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t be snuggled in her arms right now.
She had a valid license as a foster parent in the state of Missouri. She knew enough people high up the food chain. And she’d be speaking with the legal department at PAVAD about her taking the boy into protective custody as soon as she possibly could.
She had rather just taken him, without truly asking permission.
Fortunately, Ed Dennis had told her to do what she had to. That man hadn’t liked the photos she’d sent him of the group home, anyway.
Miranda had absolute faith that the director would fix this.
That she’d sent him those photos after she’d carried off Bentley Sullivan—well, Miranda would deal with the fallout from that later.
Paul Sturvin could have walked right in with a weapon and taken the boy with very little stopping him. If he’d wanted him. And from the visitor’s log at the last group home the boy had been in, Paul Sturvin might have just wanted that very thing.
He’d visited his nephew on a weekly basis.
In her experience, sometimes, it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. When it was the right thing to do.
“You just walk in and shake up the world all the time? Just do what you want, full speed, damn the torpedoes?” Tag asked.
He’d been relegated to carrying Bentley’s single duffel bag of belongings. The little guy had latched on to Miranda and wasn’t about to let her go. She’d pulled him from the back seat and he’d immediately drifted right back to sleep.
Stealing her heart while he did it. She shifted him, slightly, to relieve pressure on the cast. He never stirred. It was only two p.m.; yet he slept like he hadn’t rested in weeks.
Maybe he hadn’t.
“When necessary.” She shot the man next to her a significant look. “And admit it—you weren’t about to leave him there, either.”
“No. I wasn’t. But I don’t have the director of PAVAD to back me up, though. That was a little nifty.”
“Ed does come in handy,” a female voice said from a nearby office.
Miranda stopped walking, as the head of forensics stepped out of her office. Marianna smiled tiredly. “Hello, Miranda. Shayna was looking for someone from your team. Who is this?”
“Meet Bentley Sullivan. Paul Sturvin’s nephew. He was being housed in a group home here in St. Louis with thirteen on up. Paperwork had him listed as being sixteen. His social worker had been told he didn’t belong there. Yet they left him there for weeks. Said they didn’t have another bed. Well, I have a few spares in my condo. So…here he is. The director and Dr. Jones said to take him into custody.” So maybe that wasn’t exactly how it had happened, but it was close enough.
“How old?”
“Six.”
“Oh my. He’s very small for six.” Marianna put one hand on his back. “And his clothing is far too big.”
“And dirty. I don’t think he’s been bathed in a few days. Maybe longer. That group home needs seriously investigated, Mari. I’m going to send the photos I took on to the proper departments once
