Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3)(66)

I park behind the silver car and shut my engine off. As I open the driver’s door, I see a flutter of movement at the window so I know someone’s definitely in there.

By the time I exit my SUV and hit the top porch step, the front door is opening, leaving the screen door in place as a barrier. I assume that’s Cat’s mom staring out at me, but I can’t be sure as they look nothing alike. This woman is shorter than Cat by several inches and has thinning blonde hair that’s pulled back into a bun. Her skin is overly tan and although she can’t be more than mid-forties, the damage from the sun creates an almost leather-like look that adds hard years onto her.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a voice that’s unfriendly and brusque.

“Trish Lyons?” I counter.

She could deny it, but I can tell by the look on her face that it’s her. Still, she plays dumb. “Depends who’s asking.”

I don’t have time for this shit. “My name is Rand Bishop. I’m a friend of your daughter’s. I want to find her father, and I want you to tell me his name. I’m prepared to pay well for the information.”

Her face morphs from skepticism to interest the minute I mention money. Her hand shoots out, and she pushes the screen door open. “Come on inside and we’ll talk.”

I step inside, pleased to find the interior cool. Her house is well kept but a little worn. Carpet and furniture looking as if it dated back to Cat’s childhood days. I glance around and don’t see a single picture of Cat and while it doesn’t necessarily surprise me, it does sadden me. This woman hasn’t minded taking money from Cat over the last several years but she doesn’t care enough about her to even have her photograph on display.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks me as I follow her into the kitchen that sits right beside the living room with a short, half-wall divider between the spaces.

“No thanks,” I say.

She sits at the small, round table in the center, nodding at the chair opposite of her. I take a seat, lean back, and clasp my hands on the table.

“How much money are you willing to pay me for the name of Cat’s father?” she asks, her eyes now gleaming with the possibilities.

“Ten thousand,” I say, ready to haggle with this woman. She’s going to try to squeeze everything out of me, no doubt.

“That won’t do it,” she says and rubs a finger over her chin thoughtfully. “But twenty-five would.”

I know I can get her down more because I recognize the lust for the money in her gaze. But I want something more than just the name of Cat’s father from her, so I tell her, “Done. However, after this, you don’t ever ask your daughter for another dime. You can contact her to inquire as to how she’s doing, wish her happy birthday, or just in general try to be a mother. But you don’t squeeze her for money ever again.”

Rather than respond to my offer, she says, “That husband of hers is dead. I expect she’s inherited a ton of money. Seems like I’m selling out short at twenty-five now that I think about it.”

I could lie to this woman, tell her that Cat didn’t get any inheritance, but that doesn’t necessarily sit right with me. So I hedge a little and tell her the truth as it stands today. “Cat doesn’t have anything other than a little bit of money she got from pawning her jewelry. She was kicked out of her home and told she’d been cut out of the will. She’s working a job right now making fifteen bucks an hour. She’s got nothing to give you.”

That was all truth. Her eyes are calculating as she considers what I’ve said.

“But I do have money… lots of it, and twenty-five thousand is more than fair to pay for a name and a final payoff for you to leave Cat alone.”

“What does she hope to gain by finding him?” she asks, not because she cares for Cat but because she’s trying to see if there’s another angle to exploit.

I ignore the question because she doesn’t deserve to hear anything about Cat’s need to find herself. It’s partly this woman’s fault that her daughter is so lost. Instead, I say, “I’ll give you half now for the name and the other half when I find him.”

“What if you don’t find him?” she asks, leaning forward with shrewd eyes.

“If I don’t find him, then you don’t get the rest of the money.” I lean forward and hold her stare.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” she pouts.

“Take it or leave it.” I was done negotiating and I knew she was going to take it. No way she was turning her nose up at $12,500 in cash right now.

Trish stands up from the table and walks back into the living room. I don’t follow but watch her pull a small box out of a rattan chest on one end of the couch. She opens it up, riffles through, and comes back to me, sullenly handing me a piece of paper.

I take it from her and see it’s a computer printout of a news article dated February 3, 2003. There’s a grainy picture of a man wearing a military uniform with a beret. The title says, “Fort Bragg Soldier Awarded Bronze Star”.

“I would Google him every now and then,” she says, nodding down to the paper in my hand. “Found that a few years ago, but not really sure why I kept it. Was just curiosity, I guess.”

My eyes move back and forth as I read the short article: