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“So don’t get in my way.”
“Why would I?”
“You know, the lead detective thing. And the man thing. Just go along.”
“If I can,” he said, slightly annoyed, but maybe it would be good to see her in action, see if they really could make a team out of their new partnership. He doubted it but was game.
For now.
They walked along a brick pathway to the front door, which was opened as Reed pressed the doorbell and chimes pealed softly from within.
“Detectives,” a tall, slim man with a shock of white hair and rimless glasses over deep-set blue eyes answered. Austin Wells was in slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, an easy smile sliding across his tanned jaw, his voice deep, with just a hint of Georgia drawl. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Reed and Delacroix introduced themselves while Wells led them inside, through a two-storied foyer to a den at the base of a sweeping staircase. The room was an octagon with several sets of French doors cut between floor-to-ceiling bookcases, each entryway offering a different view of the surrounding grounds.
Owen Duval, dressed in clean jeans and a polo shirt, sat in a side chair near a massive wooden desk. His hair was still dark, but cropped close, a goatee surrounding his lips, his eyes dark and gray and haunted. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he didn’t get up when they entered.
To Reed, Duval looked guilty as hell.
But of what?
Wells motioned them into chairs that faced the desk, angled across from Duval, so they sat as quick introductions were made, Duval eyeing them suspiciously.
A glass pitcher of sweet tea was sweating on a silver tray next to several glasses, and Wells offered them each something to drink, but no one was interested. “Okay, then, let’s get down to it,” Wells said, and sat behind the desk. “This is all for the record, and please note that Mr. Duval has agreed to be questioned again of his own volition.” He set his phone on the desk and hit the record button, and Delacroix did the same.
Before a question could be posed, Owen looked up and met Reed’s eyes. “I don’t know why you all want to talk to me. Nothin’s changed. Yeah, I guess you all found some bodies, right, up at the Beaumont place, but I know nothin’ and I mean nothin’ about that.”
“Hey,” Wells intervened, holding up a hand. “Just let the detectives ask the questions, okay?” He sent him a we-talked-about-this look.
Duval nodded several times. “Yeah. Okay.” He rubbed his jean-clad knees.
“So, tell us what happened on the day that your sisters went missing,” Delacroix asked, and his hands stopped their incessant movement as he stared at her, his eyebrows pulling together. For a second Reed thought he was about to alter his story, that in the seconds he was staring at Delacroix, sizing her up, he was coming up with an alternative tale.
Instead, he blinked and gave a tiny shake of his head, as if dismissing the idea.
“I’ve already told you,” Duval said. “Jesus . . . will this never end?” And then after another stern look from his attorney, he repeated his story. “I was supposed to watch the movies with the girls. Instead, I dropped them off. It wasn’t that big of a deal, or it shouldn’t have been,” he added, rubbing a hand through his short hair. “It wasn’t as if Mom hadn’t left the girls with Holly—she was twelve and babysat all the time!”
“But you left.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe how everything had turned out, how dark it had become. How deadly. “I, um, I ditched the kids, told Holly about it and she was kinda pissed, but I thought, oh, big deal. She was mad at me all the time anyway. I thought she could handle it. I would be back before the movie got out and so, no harm, no foul.” His eyebrows drew together and the cords in the back of his neck tightened as he thought about it. “Then I took off to be with Ashley . . . Ashley McDonnell, she was my girlfriend at the time, and you know when you’re a teenager you just can’t get enough alone time, or any. My folks were strict and they acted like I was supposed to take care of the girls whenever they wanted. Mom, she kinda understood, but Harvey, he was”—Owen’s fists curled and relaxed, curled and relaxed as he searched for the right word—“a real ballbuster. He was a ‘my way or the highway’ kind of guy.”
“He adopted you.”
“Yeah . . . right after Holly was born. Mom made a big deal about it. We were all a ‘real family.’ ” He made air quotes and rolled his eyes. “That’s what she said.” He snorted. “As if.”
“And your biological father? I just got the records. He’s Reggie Scott? Right?”
Owen’s lips curled. “I met him. A couple of times . . . well, I might’ve met him as a baby, but I don’t remember him. It was just me and Mom and then Harvey. I can’t even recall a time when Harvey wasn’t around.”
All this wasn’t new information.
“Where did you meet him?”
“The last time was at a bar downtown. When I was . . . maybe twenty-two. Out of the blue he wants to talk to me, see how I’m doing. Just out of prison. Again.” Duval’s lips twisted at the memory. “He was all ‘hey, it’s great to see you,’ and ‘Wow, you’re a man, now,’ and ‘gee, I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you were growing up.’ You know, all that bullshit.” He glanced out the doors with a view of a pergola and pool. “And it was all a big con. All he wanted really was to hit me up for some money. Didn’t even buy my damned beer.” Frowning, he glared at Reed. “Why are we talking about my dirtbag of an old man? I never knew him and I never will.”
“Just checking details,” Delacroix said.
“Scott’s not a detail. He’s nothing. And by the way, I wouldn’t mention any of this to my mother. The last thing Margaret ever wanted me to do was get in contact with my old man. Now I know why.”
