“Fair enough,” Naomi said.
Jared told the detective the little he knew about them. Natalie said her parents were separated, her father strict. She said she came from Florida. Jared admitted that he had never really met her dad, never set foot inside the house until he broke in.
“I’m sorry about that,” Jared said to the detective. “But I was scared. I thought Tabitha—Natalie—might be in there. Hurt. Or worse.”
Naomi gave him a reassuring pat on his hand. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be pressing charges over a broken window.”
“It’s not the only window I broke on that house. Did you see the kitchen window was all taped up?”
“We did,” Naomi said. “Did you try to get in that way first?”
Jared looked at Jenna and then over at the detective. He told her he’d broken the window one night when he saw Natalie’s dad kissing her on the lips in the kitchen.
“I lost my shit,” he said. “I got so angry. And jealous. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Is that why you asked me about fathers kissing daughters?” Jenna asked.
“Sure. It seemed weird, but I didn’t know. You and I never kiss, not that way. But I don’t know about fathers and daughters.”
Jenna pulled her sweater tighter around her body. “Your instincts were probably right. Is it possible this girl was being abused by her father?” Jenna asked Naomi.
Naomi kept her face a blank mask, revealing nothing. “We’re looking into everything.” She turned to Jared again. “Is that all of it? Any other relevant details? Anything at all?”
“That lock on the bedroom door,” Jared said. “Do you think he kept her in there?”
“He let her go to school,” Naomi said. “She wasn’t a prisoner all the time. And she didn’t tell you or anyone else at the school that she was being mistreated or abused. She could have run away, and she didn’t. Right?”
Jared’s shoulders rose and fell, a hopeless shrug. Or an admission of defeat. “I wish to God I knew more. I really do. I’d give anything to be able to see her again and learn more about her. But most of the things she told me were lies.”
Jenna reached over and rubbed his back. She ached for him. It was bad enough to get dumped, to lose his first love, but to lose it all in such a shocking way. She felt powerless to ease the boy’s pain. She might have to get him help. Real help.
“Is that all, Detective?” Jenna asked.
“No,” Naomi said. “I have to keep bugging you two.” She reached into the pocket on the inside of her jacket. Jenna thought only men’s clothes had a pocket there. “We’ve identified the body we found in that house. Or I should say, you found in that house. I need to know if you know him.”
She brought out a photo of a balding, middle-aged man wearing very unstylish glasses. “Recognize him?”
“No,” Jenna said.
But Jared said, “Sure. That’s Mr. Allen. I go to school with his son.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jared picked up the photo, staring at the awkward, posed portrait. It looked like something taken at work, maybe for a company Web site, and the smile on the man’s face looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than sitting in front of a camera.
“How do you know him?” Detective Poole asked.
“I don’t really know him,” he said. “I know his son, Bobby. Bobby and I were on a soccer team once.” He looked up at his mom. “Remember that year I played soccer for the Optimists’ Club? Bobby was on the team.”
His mom nodded, although he couldn’t tell if she really knew who the kid was or not.
He said to the detective, “His dad used to come to some of the games. Once he got into an argument with a referee over something stupid. He thought Bobby had been fouled, but the ref didn’t make the call. The whole thing was insane. We were losing, like, ten to one. We were kids. But he ended up getting the team a red card. I felt awful for Bobby. He stood there with his head down while his dad made an ass of himself. That’s who it is, isn’t it?”
Detective Poole nodded. “Indeed. Henry Allen is the man you found deceased in that house.”
Jared stared at the picture again. It was hard to imagine that lump in the living room, that still, cold, bloated body, had once been a living man, someone capable of fathering a son and arguing with a referee. He had felt the same way at his grandfather’s funeral years earlier. He couldn’t reconcile the stiff, overly made up body in the casket with the vigorous man who had once lifted him in the air and swung him around. Jared knew everyone ended up that way, dead and cold, empty and lifeless. It didn’t matter if the body was in a funeral home or on the floor of a shitty house. Dead was dead.
Had Tabitha—Natalie—met the same fate?
“He was murdered, right?” Jared asked. “That’s why all the blood was behind his head.”
“We’re treating it as a homicide,” Naomi said. “Did you ever see Mr. Allen in the vicinity of Natalie’s house?”