The Sins that Ruin (Obsidian Knights Secret Society #3)

33. Malone

THIRTY-THREE

Fucking Dale Hanlon, prick of the century, rapist, and general dickbag being missing isn’t actually a good thing.

Because I don’t think Grant has the client list. At least not past the basic names that I already know about. He doesn’t even have the key to the safe.

There was panic in his eyes, but I saw something else, too. Something I hadn’t picked up on before, but this time, with his kid missing, I saw it.

Resentment… for his brother.

From what I can work out, Dale seems to control most of the clientele, and therefore, most of the business.

Including UR Fantasies and other sensitive clients.

Grant’s the type to talk big, but when push comes to shove, he’s more the face of it all. And I don’t particularly like him either.

He’s more concerned with money and reputation and stopping the threats than doing much about getting his kid back. He told me to find the list—and I’m to fucking blame if anything happens to the girl.

The main office has been picked over by the Knights and then by me. I’m tempted to go back there, but the fact that Grant Hanlon armed me with the alarm code for the Sugar Hill place tells me it might be there.

It doesn’t take long for the car to get me there against the morning traffic. I use the key I stole from Scarlett and punch in the alarm code to turn it off.

I start my search right after I turn my phone back on. There’s a wild energy in my veins, and I normally love shit like this, but for some reason, not today.

Maybe it’s because my fucking target is MIA. I stick one AirPod in my ear and call Smith, working my way through the house. “Anything yet on Amelia or Dale Hanlon?”

“Not a fucking thing on Dale. He just… disappeared. Hasn’t used his card, so whatever the trip is, he’s off the grid, old style, using cash,” says Smith.

I frown as I crack the safe in the bedroom. It’s a keypad, so it’s easy with the special UV black light I keep attached to my key chain. The main buttons touched show up, and the numbers coincide with the date and month of Scarlett’s birth, so it’s easy to unlock. It opens and I rifle through it.

“Shit.” I grit my teeth.

“What is it?”

“Just money and his passport in the safe and some jewelry I bet belonged to Scarlett’s mother.” I lock it up again and take a long look around.

With a frustrated sigh, I head down to the office with the locked drawer. There’s no time for more than the letter opener to jimmy the lock.

“Why the fuck,” I say, “would anyone keep an empty drawer?”

“To hide in plain sight,” Smith mutters. “You know this thing is weird, right. It’s a hell of a coincidence that someone else wants the list, along with Jones and the client.”

“The client wants to see the list, not have it,” I say. “And yes, it is. Makes me think of fucking fishing.”

“For red herrings?”

“A whole fucking bunch.” I pause. “We’ve got the uncle who’s seemingly content not to include the police in the search for his kid, a kidnapper who has yet to set up a time and a date to make an exchange, and a suddenly popular and elusive client list.”

“What’s Grant got to say about that?” Smith asks.

“He doesn’t have the list.”

“But you found something…”

“I found something, but we still haven’t cracked it, if it’s something to be cracked. And I get the feeling it’s about the fucking older brother.”

“Scarlett’s dad.” He pauses. “What’s your problem with him?”

“Not your fucking business.” I switch the subject because I can’t think about the blood I’m going to spill. I’m betting the prick’s okay; men like him always land on their feet. And he’s taken himself away for… I don’t know.

That’s the thing.

I don’t fucking know.

“I don’t really buy that Grant Hanlon doesn’t know where his brother is. And he’s either lying about the list, or he really doesn’t know anything about it. I’m betting it’s the latter.”

“Why?” Smith asks.

I feel around for a secret bottom to the drawer, but it’s solid. Maybe he did just lock it empty? I start to pull it out, intending to look at the bottom underside when the crunch of paper hits me.

“Because he seems more pissed at his brother than worried about his daughter.”

“Deflecting?”

I crouch down as I ease the drawer out.

“Shit. There’s something…” I reach in and carefully pull out the paper that’s stuck to the top of the drawer shelf. “A birth certificate…”

Oh, fuck me to hell and back. It’s an original birth certificate, and there’s writing on the back. Small. With a legend. Names, and on the other side, the code numbers and letters. “I just found the fucking key.”

“On a birth certificate.”

“Oh, fuck yes, right on the back, and you’re not going to fucking believe it,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “The certificate’s for Amelia Hanlon. The father’s Dale. Dale fucking Hanlon. That prick bastard.”

I hang up on Smith, take photos, and send them straight through to Smith and to Jones. Then I run my finger down the list. No Dark Desires. No Bishop or even a chess piece.

But… I remember something I saw at Grant’s house that time I showed up with Scarlett. I snapped a picture of it.

Rook. I think that was the word. I didn’t take much note then, but… if we’re going to go chess… DDa4—a4’s part of the language of chess. Bishop could be rook, and DD’s a no-brainer, if taken out of context. Dark Desires. Yes, Hanlon Shipping uses AA, DD, CC, ZZ for shipment’s sake, but what if that particular one is a code?

I send a text about it to Smith.

“Now all I need is a call from whoever’s got Amelia.” They’re definitely going to call. If they contacted Grant, they’re going to call me. What they’re doing is giving me time to find this list.

But they won’t be getting it. I want blunt force, so Orion’s standing by. We have eyes on Bishop. Eyes on that asshole I beat to shit last night.

It stands to reason that it might be Bishop because it’s the simplest answer, I think, as I open the safe down in the office with the same code as upstairs. Dale Hanlon isn’t exactly imaginative.

Simple, but I don’t know. What I do want to do is check on Scarlett. I resist. She’s safe and she’s got the ability to distract me in ways that are dangerous. Ways that undo me. Just fucking ways.

My heart squeezes to a stop and my blood turns to ice as I see a photo in the safe.

Mom.

With shaking hands, I pull it out, vaguely aware of the tsunami of rage coursing through my insides. She’s there at a party with my fucking father and a beardless Grant. Grant and Dale look a lot more alike than I thought at that age. There are other women in the photo, too. One of them’s clearly Scarlett’s mom; I can pick out the resemblance. The other must be Amelia’s mom. She’s young here, maybe eighteen. Both Amelia and Scarlett hold their father’s looks, too.

Dale.

Rapist.

Motherfucker.

Now brother’s wife stealer. Fuck, maybe he raped her, too. Made her put his name on one certificate, because why the fuck would Grant work with his brother if he knew?

I try to calm my breathing as I pocket the photo. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because I don’t have a photo of my mother. Or maybe I want evidence. I want to be reminded of my mission.

Because Scarlett gets in the way of that, too.

I didn’t even fucking realize that until this moment.

Shit. She’s dangerous.

Suddenly I turn and call Grant.

“Are you there, JM?”

“Not yet. Traffic,” I say, not sure why I’m lying, but it feels right. I don’t trust his brother and I don’t trust him. “Heard anything?”

“No.”

“Maybe,” I say, “we should be ready to contact the police. If you really don’t have any idea where the list is, then…”

“No. No. I’m going to text you the clients I know of. I do know some. I just don’t have the list.”

My smile’s tight. It pulls at my skin. “And if I can’t find it? I’m not a fucking lapdog. I’ll do better going in, guns blazing.”

“No!”

Interesting. Maybe he’s concerned about his daughter. Maybe he’s a lying sack of shit who’s close to his brother on the rotten branch of the family tree. “I’m here now. Gotta go.”

I hang up.

Then I call Smith. “I want eyes on Grant Hanlon. As in up close and personal. I think he’s up to something.”

“Okay, but?—”

“Just get it done for me, please? Shit, gotta go. Another call coming in.”

And bang, there it is. Right after I talk to fucking Grant. A text with a time and an address. The list for the girl, it says.

Then my phone rings. It’s like fucking Times Square on my phone. Everything’s happening all at once. This is a cell number, one I don’t recognize.

The text came from my people, because that’s the only phone number I give out as JM. This? It’s direct.

I wait a second before answering.

“Is this Malone?” a panicked female voice asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m Scarlett’s friend, Lacey. She gave me your number to call in case of anything. She’s gone.”

“What the fuck do you mean, gone?” The bottom to my world falls out. “Define fucking gone.”

“I got to SoHo where we were going to meet, and… someone took her. Broad daylight,” she says as sharp, clawed panic digs in deep, drawing blood. “They’ve got her. Kidnapped.”

I don’t panic. I’m not that kind of man. Not panic on this kind of vision-wavering, icy level. “Who?”

“The people who took Amelia,” Lacey says.

Fuck.