Page 20 of Bad Blood
Michael took another step forward. Even though I couldn’t see a hint of anger on Thatcher Townsend’s face, my gut said that Michael could, that he’d been watching his father’s rage building—at the accusation, at the fact that it had come from his own son, at the way his son had aired dirty laundry in front of outsiders, sullying the Townsend name.
“Don’t tell me you have too much integrity, too muchclass, to sleep with your partner’s daughter.” Michael had a very particular reaction to rage. He threw fuel on the fire. Thatcher Townsend saw himself as the founder of a dynasty, the social equal of any man. Heneededto be seen that way. And Michael knew exactly what the cost would be of taking that away. “You can take the boy out of the slums,” he told his father lightly, “but you can’t take the slums out of the man.”
There was no warning, no tell on Thatcher’s face. His fists didn’t clench. He didn’t make a single sound. But one second, Michael was standing in front of his father, and the next, I heard acrackand Michael was lying on the ground.
Thatcher had backhanded him.You hit him hard enough to put him down and keep him down. But in your own mind, you’re rewriting the story already. You didn’t lose your temper. You didn’t lose control. You won.
You always win.
Dean stepped between Michael and his father as Lia dropped to the ground to check on Michael.
Thatcher Townsend just went to pour himself another drink. “You’re welcome in my home,” he told us as he exited the room. “And do let me know if I can be of any help.”
There was a difference between knowing that Michael’s father was abusive andseeingit.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Michael said, pulling himself to his feet and wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand, “but I thought that went well.”
The casual tone in Michael’s voice nearly undid me. I knew that he wouldn’t want my pity. He wouldn’t want my rage. And whatever I felt, he would see it.
“Well?”Dean repeated. “You thought that wentwell?”
Michael shrugged. “In particular, the fact that I introduced you to my father as my good friend Barf is a memory that I will treasure forever.”
It doesn’t matter unless you let it matter. I ached for Michael, for the boy he’d been, growing up in this house.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked Sloane.
She was standing beside me, very still, her breathing shallow and her skin pale.Thinking about Aaron. Thinking about what just happened to Michael. Thinking about your father. Thinking about his.
Sloane took three tiny, hesitant steps, then threw herself at Michael, latching her arms around his neck so tightly that I wasn’t sure she would ever let go.
My phone rang. Once I saw Michael’s arms curve around Sloane, I answered it.
“That didnotgo well.” Agent Sterling’s greeting reminded me that we were wired with video and audio feeds. “I won’t ask if Michael’s okay, and I won’t say I told you so. I will, however, let you know that Briggs is looking forward to seeing Thatcher Townsend booked for assault.”
I set the phone to speaker. “You have the entire group,” I told Sterling.
For a moment, I thought she might repeat her statement about Michael’s father, but she must have decided that Michael wouldn’t thank her for it. “What did we learn?” she asked instead.
“When Thatcher said Michael was wrong, he wasn’t lying.” Lia leaned back against a grand piano, crossing one leg in front of the other. “But whether he meant that Michael was wrong about part of it or all of it, I couldn’t say.”
I replayed Michael’s accusation in my head:I think you were screwing her. I think you paid a visit to her the day she disappeared. I think you threatened her. I tried to sink into Thatcher’s perspective, but instead, found myself adopting Michael’s.You accused him of sleeping with her. You accused him of threatening her. You didn’t say that you thought he took her. You didn’t accuse him of breaking into her studio or trashing it in a rage.
“Anything else?” Agent Sterling’s voice broke into my thoughts, but as Lia reported on the only other relevant lie she’d caught—Thatcher’s reference to Remy as one of his closest friends—my brain cycled right back to profiling Michael.
You didn’t come in swinging. You didn’t lose your temper. You said that this went well. I followed those facts to their logical conclusion: Michael didn’t believe his father had physically harmed Celine in any way.If you had, you would have swung back.
I studied Michael—the bruise forming on his face, the way he was standing, the way he kept his body angled away from Lia’s.
When Lia pressed you for answers in Celine’s room, you said something guaranteed to make her run. And when I opened my mouth to continue the conversation…
Michael had done his best to push us away. He’d wanted to be in Celine’s room alone. And something he’d seen there had led him to come have a drink and a conversation with his father.
The wheels in my head turned slowly at first, then faster.You don’t believe your father took her. But here you are. Back in Celine’s room, Michael had cavalierly referred to the girl as one of our vics. He’d come here to have a chat with his father, but had focused more on finding out if his father had threatened Celine—if he’d slept with her—than on finding out where Celine might be now.
Because you already know.
Michael took one look at my face and stepped toward me. I thought back to the crime scene. Dean and I had assumed that the shattered glass, the easel, the turned-over tables, all of the debris, had been the result of Celine fighting back against her assailant.
