HE ABANDONED US, NOW HE WANTS MY SON

Chapter 5: Derick Draws the Line

DERICK

The call disconnected abruptly, with a beep. I didn't throw the phone. I didn't smash my fist into the wall. That kind of wild, blind rage was for men who didn't know how to handle violence or leverage.

I set the phone flat on the marble island, walked upstairs to the master closet, and pulled on a pair of dark denim jeans, a black wool sweater, and my heavy boots. My hands were completely steady, but my chest felt tight and hot.

Ryan is back. And your wife went to meet him.

Four years of raising a boy who wasn't mine by blood. Four years of checking fevers, paying private school tuition, teaching him how to swing a bat, and holding Nina while she cried in her sleep from old nightmares of being discarded by him and her parents.

I had never laid eyes on Ryan Flint. To me, he had only ever been a phantom, a pathetic boy who took a nineteen-year-old girl's innocence and ran like a stray dog the second life demanded a spine from him.

And now, the phantom was back. Flashing money at her hypocrite father. And my wife had walked out of our bed in the middle of the night without saying a word to me.

One more time, I checked on the kids. Amara was still breathing softly under her pink quilt; Malvin was still out cold. I locked the front door behind me, keyed in the security code, and called the one person in this city Nina trusted with her life.

Liz answered on the third ring, her voice raspy and slurred with sleep.

"Derick? What time is it? Is Nina okay?"

"Get in your car and come to the house, Liz," I said. My voice was level, but the tone left no room for questions. "I need you to sit with the kids. Right now."

The sleep left her voice in a second. "Derick, what happened? Where is Nina?"

"I am going to find her," I said, and ended the call before she could start asking questions I didn't want to answer on a recorded line.

Ten minutes later, Liz's car swung into our driveway, headlights cutting through the dark. She hopped out in a massive flannel jacket and sweatpants, her hair thrown into a messy bun, and jogged up the porch steps with fear all over her face.

"Derick, talk to me," she demanded, grabbing my forearm as I stepped out onto the porch with my car keys in my hand. "What is going on?"

I looked down at her. "Ryan is in town."

Liz froze. The color drained out of her face so fast it looked like she had seen a ghost. Her grip on my sleeve went slack.

"Oh, God," she whispered, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "No. No, that's impossible. He's been gone for six years."

"Your best friend didn't think it was impossible," I said, stepping past her down the stairs. "She left this house two hours ago to see him. Watch my children, Liz. If they wake up, tell them I went out for milk."

"Derick, wait!" Liz yelled after me, stepping to the edge of the porch railing. "Do not do anything crazy! Ryan is dirty, Derick! He isn't the same broke kid from six years ago! He's dangerous!"

"He's in my city," I said, opening the door to my truck and climbing into the driver's seat. "That makes him my problem."

I slammed the door, started the engine, and pulled out onto the main road.

I didn't drive blindly. I mounted my phone on the dashboard and dialed the private line of Andrew Mitchell.

Andrew was the Senior Managing Counsel for our oil firm. He had spent twenty years handling corporate blackmail, hostile takeovers, and maritime disputes. He had private investigators on monthly retainers in four different states. If a man checked into a high-end hotel in this city with money to throw around, Andrew could find his room number before the front desk printed the bill.

"Derick," Andrew's deep voice answered after two rings. He didn't sound asleep. Corporate lawyers at our level rarely slept past four in the morning anyway. "What is wrong with the offshore transit contract?"

"This isn't company business, Andrew," I said, my knuckles white on the steering wheel as I pushed the truck through a yellow light. "I need a personal locator run. Right now."

A pause on the line. "Go ahead."

"Ryan Flint," I said. "Arrived in the city within the last forty-eight hours. Driving high-end, plenty of liquidity. He wouldn't stay in a mid-tier motel. Run the luxury registers downtown. Grand View, St. Regis, the Carlton. Find out where he laid his head tonight."

I could hear Andrew's keyboard clattering through the speaker.

"Give me three minutes," Andrew said.

I drove down the empty highway toward the city, the tall glass towers rising against the dark sky. My chest was tight, but my mind was working through every legal and physical angle. If Ryan Flint thought he could step into this town and use old scars to rattle my household, he was about to find out the difference between a cowardly deadbeat and a man who had built an empire to protect what was his.

"Got him," Andrew's voice cut back in. "Ryan Flint checked into the Grand View downtown at three yesterday afternoon. Corporate card out of Chicago. Fourth floor, Suite 402."

"Send two of your security men to the lobby," I said, my voice ice cold. "Keep them out of sight, but have them watch the exits."

"Derick," Andrew warned, his tone suddenly cautious. "Whatever this is, keep your hands clean. You are Deputy Director of a multi-billion-dollar operation. The board cannot afford a physical altercation in a public hotel."

"My hands are clean, Andrew," I said. "For now."

I cut the call, took the downtown exit, and pulled into the main drive of the Grand View Hotel.

I didn't use the valet. I parked my truck right across the hotel's main entrance, killed the engine, and walked through the sliding glass doors into the lobby.

The night clerk looked up from the desk, his eyes widening at the look on my face.

Before he could open his mouth to ask if I needed assistance, the elevator doors at the far end of the lobby chimed.

The doors slid open.

Nina stepped out into the lobby. Her navy coat was buttoned up crookedly, her dark hair was a tangled mess around her shoulders, and she was clutching a manila folder against her chest as if her life depended on it. She looked pale, hollow, and completely shattered.

She took three unsteady steps across the polished floor, raised her head, and froze.

Her eyes met mine.

The color left her face entirely, and the folder slipped from her fingers, scattering legal papers across the marble floor between us.