Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (best affordable ebook reader txt) 📕

Where was she on the nights he’d gone to bed hungry?  On the days when he’d ditched school, because he was embarrassed by his rainbow assortment of bruises?  By the knowing looks the teachers sent his way but never did anything about?

Where was she, when that stupid outreach program for underprivileged kids had first sent him away to camp?

In short, the bitch had been AWOL.

And her misguided reconciliation attempt… well, he’d simply turned that to his advantage.

Striding toward the bed, he took one last look at the girl, making sure she was cuffed securely.  With the drug he’d administered in her system, she should be out until this time tomorrow.

And he… he would be spending the night at the Inn.

Where the pleasure would definitely be his.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE commotion in the outer room brought Clay’s head up from his notepad, where he’d been running through his notations from the interviews conducted that morning.  Kim was out riding along with Deputy Jones, and Josh Harding was getting flyers printed with his newly completed composite.  However, as one of the voices carrying on the stagnant, recycled government-building air definitely belonged to Harding, Clay gathered his little Tiger Beat buddy was back.

The other voice was more difficult to distinguish, as it was hysterical.

Curious, he pulled himself out of the chair which was in danger of becoming a permanent attachment to his ass, and moved closer to the open doorway.

“Surely you have to know something,” Lola Rodriguez all but sobbed, the strain she was under etched into lines of fatigue on her bare face.  “It’s been almost three days.”

She had something – a T-shirt? – in her hands, which she was subconsciously stroking with her fingers.

Casey’s shirt, Clay concluded with a frown.

Josh, encumbered by the box in his hands, did his best to clear the obstacle out of his way, shifting it to one hip, so that he could talk to Casey’s mother without that barrier between them.  It was the body language equivalent of saying that even though he was busy, whatever he’d been doing wasn’t so important that he couldn’t take the time to speak with her.

“We’re doing everything we can,” he said, his voice, his stance, his eyes sympathetic.  “And we are making progress.  You know I can’t divulge too many details from an ongoing investigation – I’m sorry, I know how harsh that must seem – but suffice it to say that the composite we put out hit pay dirt.  We’re growing closer and closer to identifying the man who took your daughter, and that brings us that much closer to finding Casey.  I hate to say it, because I know each minute without her must be agony, but you just have to give us time to do our job.”

Lola nodded, tears threatening to break free from her already swollen eyes, and contemplated the shirt in her hand.  Then she held it out to Harding.

“It’s…” Her voice broke, and she struggled for composure, chest heaving mightily in her effort.  Next to her, poor Josh looked ready to crack.  “It’s Casey’s shirt.  The one she sleeps in.  I know you said that the dogs you brought in hadn’t been able to follow her scent beyond the fairgrounds, but…” she hesitated, looking both embarrassed and hopeful.  “I brought it in, you know, in case it might help you find her.  I heard somewhere that personal possessions can be used as some kind of link, and since that FBI agent is still working with you…”

Her voice trailed off, and Clay pressed his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose.

Dear God.  The woman thought he was some kind of psychic.

Josh, kind soul that he was, sat the box of flyers down on the floor beside his booted feet and accepted the T-shirt from the woman’s trembling hands.  “I’m not sure that’s the way it works,” he lied, with almost absolute believability. “But I’ll be sure to get this to him, just in case.”

Lola nodded her head again, pushed at her wild mane of hair.  “Okay.  Well, I…”  At a loss, she looked around the station, and Clay realized that now that she’d completed that task she felt totally useless.  Totally helpless to do anything to find her child.

As if her entire life as she’d known it was out of control, out of her hands.

Harding, once again proving himself to be more than just a pretty face, must have picked up on her emotions as well.  Because as Clay watched, Josh seemed to flip through his mental file of things that might give her some sense of purpose. “You know,” he said suddenly, snapping his fingers as if the idea had just dawned – add acting to the man’s list of skills.  “If you’re not too busy, it would be great if you could help me pass out these flyers.”  He bent over and pulled one from the box.  “This man was seen a couple of days ago with the man we believe took your daughter, and we’d like to bring him in for questioning.”

Lola took the flyer, looked from it to Harding.  “Do you think he might know where Casey is?  That he might help?”

“We’re not sure.”  That time, he’d fudged only slightly.  They weren’t sure if that man knew where Casey was, but it was pretty damn likely he did.  And as for him helping…

Was Satan into ice sculpting?

“But the sooner we get these flyers out, the sooner we might find him so that we can ask him that ourselves.  Do you think you’d be able to help?”

Good man, Clay thought.  He’d given her a relatively simple task with the short term benefit of distracting her from her misery, and had given her a small sense of hope without filling her head with wishful thinking.

Too much hope could be just as detrimental as no hope at all.

“Okay.” A solid sense of purpose eased some of the tension from her