Page 118 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“You can try,” I say. “Ican try. And I can avoid taking jobs from asshole mercs who don’t care about who they hurt.”
De Leon nods and picks at his chips, which must be going cold by now. Mine are. Disgusting.
“It’s kind of like the daddy thing, isn’t it?” De Leon asks, examining a cold chip. “Do you think that’s why it appeals to us? Because we weren’t able to save everyone. But maybe we can get a do-over with one person? If we can keep one little safe, maybe everything else we’ve seen and done, maybe it’s okay?”
I hear the hitch in his voice at the end. I don’t look over, don’t try to stare him down. I just let him know he’s not alone. “Yes,” I say. “It’s more than okay. It’s a win.”
One thing I love about Brits? They stay put.
Pete Clarke has moved a whole sixteen miles away from where he grew up, to the historic city of Exeter. I infuriate De Leon by doing the tourist thing on the way to the interview, but the likelihood I’ll ever be back here is slim to none. I don’t want to miss the famous cathedral.
Mellow from all the history, and an easy interview in which Pete Clarke confirms everything Fred Evans told me, I let my guard down.
The shock of seeing the blonde sitting in Miz Skirmish’s gingham wing chair is sharper than a bullet.
I stumble a step. De Leon immediately slides in front of me, his hand going to the pocket of his cargo pants, where I’m guessing he has a weapon.
“No,” I say to him. Through the buzzing-static surprise of seeing her, I realize I’ve never shown De Leon a picture of her. I was so focused on Ness and his goons, it never occurred to me we’d need to dodge our target, too. “That’s Miranda Porter.”
She crosses one long leg over another and smooths her cream silk skirt over her knee. “Hello, Max.”
I nod numbly at her. There’s more than an awkward pause. A long, prickling silence stretches.
De Leon finally breaks it. “I’ll wait at the bar.”
I nod at him and drag myself to the empty chair across from Miranda.
Miz Skirmish, all smiles, bustles in with a tea service. She pulls over a spindly table and sets it between us. After preparing the tea to Miranda’s smiling direction, she pats Miranda’s shoulder and bustles off.
“Did she tell you I was here?” I ask.
Miranda gives me a smile that’s all icicles under blue-steel eyes. “My best friend since I was four? She’s Leeza Skirmish’s cousin.” She takes a sip of tea and leans forward over her rounded belly—shouldn’t she be bigger at eight months?—to snarl, “I grew up around here, Max. I’ve known these people all my life. And whatever that cow Tilly Mitchell might say, I still have friends here. One of whom is on the way to arrest your arse for invasion of privacy and harassment.”
I straighten my spine, pushing my shoulders against the chair’s padded back. Maybe what I’ve been doing isn’t nice, isn’t polite, but it’s not manslaughter, either.
“You sure you want to play it that way?” I ask her. “Yourfriendshave been awfully forthcoming about things you might not want me sharing with an officer of the law.”
The perfect peach flush of her cheeks pales a shade. “Really,” she says flatly. “What? That I was a wild child? That I had more than one boyfriend before I got married? Is that why Logan sent you here? To pick apart my character?”
I let another silence stretch while I decide whether to take her down now or let Logan do it in court.
Finally, I decide Logan has enough on his plate. He doesn’t need to deal with this bitch, too.
“I know your half-brother drowned in the pond behind your house while you were upstairs having sex with Fred Evans. I know the housekeeper and your parents were gone. That you were all drinking, even though you were underage, even in England. And that you were supposed to be watching Nicholas.” Her teacup rattles against the saucer and she puts it down hastily. “And I know there’s no statute of limitations on manslaughter. Think it through for a minute. Do you really want me telling anyone but Logan what I know?”
She puts her head down so I can’t see her eyes and takes a ragged breath. “You monster.”
“You’re not in any position to judge me, Miranda.”
She curls her hands over her belly. “This is my baby.”
“She’s Logan’s daughter, too. He wants custody. He’ll take good care of her, but you’re not going to be part of her life. Or his. Or Emily’s.”
She raises her head and I’m tempted to scoot my chair back. She looks utterly feral, eyes bloodshot and bulging, lips peeled back from her teeth, the cords in her neck raised in sharp relief against her skin.
She’s not my mother. She can’t hurt me.
I shift and settle deeper into the chair.
