Bad Blood by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
Lia’s finely honed sense of sarcasm was all the more effective when she made the words sound completely sincere.
“And what do you suggest?” Briggs asked sharply.
“That the four of us go,” Lia retorted. “Obviously. Unless you really think that Thatcher Townsend is going to lose it and physically attack us all?”
“He won’t,” Dean cut in. “He cares about appearances.” He paused. “If I’m Thatcher Townsend, if I did have something to do with the disappearance of Celine Delacroix? I’d put on an even better show than usual.”
“And if Michael does his best to push his father over the edge?” Agent Sterling shot back. “If he goes on the offensive and his father snaps?”
Something dark and dangerous flashed in Dean’s eyes. “Then Thatcher Townsend will have to go through me.”
“If either of you question him,” I said to the FBI agents before they could respond to the threat inherent in Dean’s words, “the chances that Michael’s father will snap are very small.” Lia gave me a look that said You are not helping, but I plowed on. “Thatcher is grandiose and capable of enormous levels of self-deception. If he does snap, so long as there aren’t any other adults there, he might actually give us the information we need.”
Sloane cleared her throat and then made an attempt at helping my argument. “I would estimate that Michael’s father is seventy-one inches tall, one-hundred and sixty-one pounds.” When it became clear that none of us saw the relevance of that number, Sloane expanded: “I think we can take him.”
Lia turned and batted her eyelashes at Judd, who’d approached the discussion midway through.
“Fine,” Judd said after a long moment’s deliberation. “But this time, you’ll be the ones wearing cameras.”
I reached out to ring the Townsends’ front door, but Lia tested the knob and, finding it unlocked, let herself in. Eventually, she’d make Michael pay for the stunt he’d pulled back in Celine’s room, but she’d come riding to his rescue first.
“Drink?”
The moment I heard Michael’s voice, I crossed the threshold after Lia. I heard a faint clinking—glass on glass—and quickly surmised that Michael was pouring himself a drink and offering one to someone else.
I followed Lia through the house. Sloane and Dean did the same. In the living room—the same one where Briggs and Sterling had interviewed Celine’s parents—we found Michael with his father.
Thatcher Townsend accepted the drink Michael had made him, then raised the glass, a devil-handsome smile playing around the edges of his lips. “You should have answered when I called,” he told Michael, saying the words like a toast, like an inside joke that he and Michael shared. Just looking at Thatcher, I knew that this man was everyone’s best friend. He was the perfect salesman, one who specialized in selling himself.
Michael raised his glass and offered his father a charming smile of his own. “I’ve never really excelled at should.”
Once upon a time, Michael had almost certainly feared the moments when his father’s charming mask slipped. Now he took power from his ability to make it slip.
But Thatcher Townsend proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the mocking undertone in Michael’s voice. “How are you, Michael?”
“Handsome, prone to bouts of melancholy and questionable decision-making. And you?”
“Always so glib,” Thatcher said with a shake of his head, smiling softly, as if he and his son were reminiscing. He caught a glimpse of the rest of us out of the corner of his eye. “It appears we have company,” he told Michael. The older Townsend turned his attention to us. “You must be Michael’s friends. I’m Thatcher. Please, come in. Help yourself to a drink if and only if you can resist the urge to report me to the FBI for contributing to the delinquency of minors.”
Michael’s father was magnetic. Charming, friendly, larger-than-life.
You live to be adored, I thought, and no matter how often you hurt Michael, you never stop turning on the charm.
“Michael, darling…” Lia strolled over to join father and son, winding her hand through Michael’s. “Introduce us.”
In the span of a heartbeat, Lia had donned a persona I’d never seen before. It was present in the way she held her head, the way she glided across the floor, the musical lilt in her voice. Michael narrowed his eyes at her, but must have been able to tell from the look on her face that he was lucky she hadn’t chosen to make a more memorable entrance.
“This is Sadie,” he told his father, tucking a hand around Lia’s waist as he introduced her by her alias of choice. “And by the door, we have Esmerelda, Erma, and Barf.”
For the first time, I saw a flicker of annoyance cross Townsend Senior’s face. “Barf?” He eyed Dean.
“It’s short for Bartholomew,” Lia lied smoothly. “Our Barf had a speech impediment as a child.”
Like me, Dean must have suspected that there was a method to Michael and Lia’s madness, because he didn’t say a word.
“Question,” Sloane said, raising her hand. “Am I Erma or Esmerelda?”
Thatcher Townsend gave every sign of being amused. “I see my son has found a place where he fits right in. I’m sorry my wife couldn’t be here to meet you all. I’m sure Michael has told you she has an adventurous streak. She runs a free clinic here in town, but travels with Doctors Without Borders whenever she gets the chance.”
It was hard to picture Thatcher Townsend with anything but a society wife. My gut said that he’d mentioned his wife’s adventurous streak for the sole purpose of punishing his son for refusing him our real names. Fists aren’t your only weapon. You are a man of intellect—unless the boy forces you to become something else.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Celine Delacroix.” Dean was the one who cut to the chase.
“Now, Barf,” Michael chided, “let the man finish his drink.”
Thatcher ignored his son and focused his performance on Dean. “Feel free to ask any questions you would like. Despite my son’s insistence on treating everything like a joke, I can assure you that both Celine’s family and I are taking this very seriously.”
“Why?” Sloane asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Thatcher said.
“Why are you taking this so seriously?” Sloane tilted her head to the side, trying to make this whole situation compute. “Why were you the one to call in the FBI?”
“I’ve known Celine since the day she was born,” Thatcher replied. “Her father is one of my closest friends. Why wouldn’t I help?”
A flicker of movement caught my eye as Lia held her index finger against the side of her thigh, a subtle, downward-pointing number one.
That’s the first lie he’s told. Given that we knew that Thatcher and Remy had been in business together before either of their children were born, I doubted Thatcher was lying about how long he’d known Celine, and that meant that he was lying about his relationship with Celine’s father. Maybe you don’t consider him your friend. Maybe he crossed you. Maybe you’re the type to keep your enemies close.
“I appreciate that you want to find Celine.” Thatcher addressed those words directly to Michael. “I do too, but, son, you are looking in the wrong place for those answers.”
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Michael took a sip of his drink. “Kind of my specialty.”
I braced for Thatcher to snap. Dean moved subtly toward Michael. Thatcher, however, just smiled as he shifted his gaze from Michael to another target.
“Sloane, isn’t it?” he said, a demonstration that he’d known our real names all along. “I know your father.”
Some people had a sixth sense for vulnerability. In that instant, I had no doubt that Thatcher Townsend had made his fortune using exactly that skill. My gut twisted, knowing what even the mention of her father would do to Sloane.
“Grayson Shaw and I have some mutual investments,” Thatcher continued, tossing off Sloane’s deadbeat father’s name like they were old chums. ?
I didn’t need Lia to tell me that Sloane’s father hadn’t said anything nice about her.
“I was very sorry,” Thatcher said, his eyes catching Sloane’s and holding them, “to hear about your brother.”
My hand went for Sloane’s, but she didn’t latch onto it. Her arms hung listlessly by her sides.
“No,” Lia countered, taking a sudden step forward. “You weren’t sorry. You didn’t really care much either way. And incidentally, when you told Michael that he was looking in the wrong place for those answers, the only reason that was true was that one little word, those.” Lia’s voice went sultry and low. “Sometimes a liar’s biggest tells happen when he’s speaking the truth.”
The gloves were officially off. Thatcher Townsend could have come after me or Lia or Dean and we would have rolled with it. But he’d gone after Sloane, and he’d used her dead brother to do it. From the moment we’d walked into this room, father and son had been engaged in a game, each trying to out-maneuver the other, each determined to have the upper hand, the power, the control. That Thatcher had used Sloane to that end made me want to tell him just how transparent he was.
“What answers should Michael be coming to you for?” I asked instead. Sometimes, the best way to trap someone was to give them exactly what they wanted. In this case, control. “You’re a powerful man. You keep your ear to the ground. What questions should we be asking?”
Townsend knew I was flattering him, but didn’t care. “Perhaps if you gave me a bit of direction, I could be of service.”
“Speaking of services…” Michael set his drink down. “What services was Celine providing you?”
“Excuse me?” Thatcher managed to sound both incredulous and offended. “What exactly are you suggesting, Michael? Whatever differences you and I have had, you can’t believe that I had anything to do with Celine’s disappearance.”
“You always did enjoy telling me what I could and could not believe,” Michael said softly. “I couldn’t possibly believe that you’d meant to throw me down the stairs or that you’d intended to break my arm or that you’d held me underwater in the bathtub on purpose. What kind of man did I take you for?”
Thatcher didn’t react to even one of Michael’s accusations. It was as if he hadn’t even heard them. “Do you honestly think that I killed Celine? That I abducted her? That I would harm that girl in any way?”
I could feel myself wanting to believe him, even though I knew he was capable of violence. That was the kind of power Thatcher Townsend held over people. That was how convincing the emotions on his face and in his voice were.
“Do you, Michael?” Thatcher pressed. “Do you think I had anything to do with Celine’s disappearance?”
“I think you were screwing her.”
Thatcher opened his mouth to reply, but Michael pressed on.
“I think you got tired of screwing her. I think you paid a visit to her the day she disappeared. I think you threatened her. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” Thatcher said, without so much as a second’s hesitation. I looked at Lia, but she gave no indication that the man was lying.
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 much class, 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. He needed to 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 a crack and 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 and seeing it.
“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 went well?”
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 did not go 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
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.
But what if there was no assailant? The possibility took root in my mind. Sloane had told us that the debris was the result of someone sweeping their hands across the table, knocking its contents violently to the floor. We’d assumed that the UNSUB had done it—to hurt Celine, to scare her, to dominate her.
But Celine was a person who painted her own self-portrait with a knife. She threw her whole body into everything she did. She was strong-willed. She was determined. You have a temper.
“She did it herself.” I tested the theory by watching Michael’s response to my words. “That’s why you thought your father went to see Celine the day she disappeared. Something set her off.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Michael’s voice was absolutely devoid of emotion.
“Yes,” Lia countered. “You do.”
You trashed your own studio. I slipped back into Celine’s perspective. You swept the glass off the table. You broke the easel. You turned the table over. You soaked the place in kerosene. Maybe you were going to burn it. Maybe you were going to send the whole thing up in flames, but then you stopped, and you looked around, and you realized what the destruction you’d wreaked looked like.