Chapter Five #2
Once upon a time, he’d been drawn to her in a way that was hard to ignore. She’d always had this spark. Reckless and wild in a way that made him feel like he was standing too close to a fire. Back then, he’d thought maybe they’d end up together. It had seemed easy, natural even.
But then Miranda happened.
It wasn’t like there’d been a big moment or some grand realization. Just a slow shift. Conversations that lasted longer, glances that lingered, and suddenly, it was Miranda he couldn’t stop thinking about. His feelings for Remi had faded. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.
But now, sitting in the cruiser with her, he wasn’t so sure.
Most of those feelings had been buried under years of grief, resentment and regret. But not all of them.
Brody flexed his fingers on the wheel, trying to shove the thoughts aside. This wasn’t the time for that. It wasn’t ever the time for that. His son was out there, and nothing mattered more than bringing him home.
Still, as the silence stretched between them, he couldn’t shake the flicker of something he’d thought was long gone. Something he wasn’t ready to name.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Brody kept his eyes on the road, the headlights carving through the darkness. His mind wouldn’t stop churning, each new piece of information clicking into place, but he was nowhere near solving the puzzle he needed to solve.
Since he didn’t know who had his other son, or who had orchestrated all of this, he couldn’t home in on one specific person, the way that Remi had been able to do when she’d been looking for Grace’s newborn daughter. This was a needle in a haystack, and the stakes were sky-high.
He had to tamp down the anger and fear that caused his stomach to fist into a knot, and think like a cop, instead of a father with a missing son.
“Pull up what you’ve got on Dr. Langley,” he continued.
Remi didn’t hesitate. “Curt Langley,” she said after accessing the file. “Forty-three years old. Former director of the fertility clinic that you and Miranda used.”
Brody’s jaw clenched at the mention of Miranda’s name, and his hands locked on the wheel until his knuckles went white.
Remi glanced over at him but kept going. “No criminal complaints against Langley. His record’s clean. On paper, anyway.”
“On paper doesn’t mean much,” Brody muttered.
“Exactly. When I was searching for Tarrant, I obviously did a lot of digging into Langley. He was in a perfect position to help Tarrant steal that embryo and set up the surrogate process.”
Brody glanced at her, his forehead bunched up. “Why would he risk that? A guy like Langley’s got a cushy career, a reputation to protect.”
Remi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Money.”
That single word hung in the air like a blade. It disgusted him that anyone would do something like this for money.
“Langley lives way beyond his means,” she explained. “Lavish house, expensive cars, luxury vacations. It doesn’t add up for someone with a doctor’s salary, even a fertility specialist. And black-market embryo theft probably pays a heck of a lot more than just treating clients.”
Brody’s blood boiled at the idea that someone entrusted with helping families grow would allow a child to be used as an accessory in covering up a crime.
Following the directions of the GPS, he exited the interstate and saw they were less than five minutes from Christina’s house. Brody intended to use that time to get more info. Because he had to have the complete picture before he could start sorting through the pieces.
“Give me a recap of Tarrant’s manslaughter charge,” he said because that was the start of all of this. That charge was the reason Tarrant had needed his baby to force Grace into destroying evidence, and something about that could be playing into what was going on now.
“It happened a little over two years ago,” Remi started, clearly recalling from memory since she wasn’t looking at her phone.
Her gaze was fixed out the window. “At a bar in San Antonio called the Urban Elixir. Exclusive, overpriced. One of those places where people pay too much for cocktails with fancy names. Tarrant was there, drunk. He hit on a cocktail waitress and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
When she rebuffed him, he got verbally abusive.
That’s when Andrew Davenport stepped in. ”
Brody’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Davenport’s the guy who died?”
“Yes,” Remi said quietly. “He was there with a friend and was just trying to do the right thing. The fight broke out fast. Tarrant shoved Davenport onto a table, and a wineglass broke in the process.”
Brody could picture it too easily. The chaos, the noise, the sudden shift from a drunken scuffle to something deadly.
“Tarrant claims he used the broken glass to defend himself,” Remi went on. “But there were two witnesses who said otherwise. They said Tarrant was the aggressor from the start. He stabbed Davenport in the neck, and the guy bled out before the ambulance even showed up.”
Brody swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. “And that’s why he needed Grace.”
Remi nodded. “Tarrant wanted her to destroy the witness statements and the security-camera footage from the bar. Without that, the case would have likely fallen apart, and Tarrant could have maybe gotten off with a slap on the wrist.”
Brody blew out a long breath. “Grace had to make a hard choice. Allow a killer to walk so she could get her baby. Or refuse to break the law and maybe never see her child.”
Remi made a sound of agreement. “And in the end, it cost her everything.”
Brody’s chest tightened, grief mixing with the anger. Because now his precious sons had been pulled into this. Not by Tarrant but rather by someone hell-bent on putting a permanent end to the SOB.
“We’ll need to talk to Eloise Davenport, too,” Remi added a heartbeat later.
Brody glanced at her, the name clicking into place. “Andrew’s mother?”
Remi nodded. “Yes. She’s been vocal about wanting Tarrant found. She wants him punished for what he did to her son. She’s got money and influence, and she’s not the type to quietly let things go.”
Brody let that sit for a second before giving a short nod. “We’ll talk to her.”
First on the agenda, though, was Christina, and he slowed at the entrance to her neighborhood. Brody wasn’t surprised to see the towering iron gates and the guard booth standing like a fortress checkpoint.
He rolled down his window, flashing his badge before the security guard even had the chance to ask.
“Sheriff Walker,” Brody said flatly. “We need to speak with Christina Turner.”
The guard’s eyes flicked from the badge to Brody’s face, then to Remi in the passenger seat, before offering a tight nod. “I’ll let you through, but I’m required to notify Ms. Turner of any visitors.”
Brody’s jaw clenched. “Of course.”
As the guard picked up the phone to call Christina, Brody’s mind spun with a worst-case scenario. The last thing he needed was to give the woman a head start if she was guilty of orchestrating this nightmare with his sons.
His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, the frustration knifing through him.
Don’t run, he thought. Don’t give me a reason to chase you.
Because if Christina Turner tried to flee, it’d be all the confirmation Brody needed that she wasn’t just some grieving sister looking for justice. She’d be something else entirely.
The guard hung up the phone and gave them a nod. “You’re cleared. Ms. Turner is expecting you.”
Brody didn’t say a word as he rolled up the window and drove through the gates. But every muscle in his body stayed tight the whole way in.
The neighborhood was all manicured lawns, towering hedges, and houses that weren’t really houses, more like monuments to wealth.
But Christina Turner’s place made the others look modest. The mansion stood at the end of a winding drive and looked like an English country estate with ivy creeping up stone walls.
Brody pulled the cruiser to a stop, cutting the engine.
He didn’t hesitate. The clock was ticking on his baby’s safety so he barreled right out.
Remi did, too, and she fell into step beside him as they approached the door.
It was massive, made of dark wood with wrought iron accents.
Brody didn’t even have to ring the bell.
It swung open before he could raise his hand.
Christina Turner stood there. Brody knew it was her since he recognized her from her DMV photo that he’d accessed before they’d left his place.
Her auburn hair was pulled back, flawless in that effortless way some people seemed to manage.
But it was her eyes—cold, assessing—that held Brody’s attention.
“Remi,” Christina greeted her.
The woman’s gaze shifted to Brody, lingering on him just long enough to make it clear she already knew who he was.
“You’re here to talk about your missing son,” Christina said, her voice flat.
Hell. Hell. Hell. The shock of her words rammed right into Brody and nearly robbed him of his breath. “What do you know about him?” Brody demanded.
Christina sighed and stepped to the side so they could enter. “Come in,” she insisted. “Because we have to talk.”