Determination, cold and hard, steeled his jaw. He looked from the counselor to the doc. “Will you call the minute there is any change?”
The doc nodded. “If any information does come forth, it will likely come from her.” He nodded to the dark-haired female who’d now set down her fork. “She’s the oldest, we think. And she’s definitely the strongest mentally. Possibly she was procured more recently, had less brainwashing and torture, or is just more resilient. More of a survivor. You get them sometimes—the ones who just defy all odds.”
As Maddocks strode toward the hospital exit with Holgersen, his phone vibrated again in his pocket. He slowed his pace and took out his phone, recalling suddenly that someone had tried to reach him earlier while he was talking to the doc.
“Maddocks,” he snapped as he pressed his cell to his ear. Seeing those girls catatonic like that had snuffed his last vestiges of patience. He burned to find and nail whoever had done this to them. So far Madame Vee and Zina were squarely in his sights. They were both being held on remand in a prison up the island peninsula, but neither had spoken a single word during interrogations so far. They needed someone to crack. Needed a break.
“Dammit, James—” His ex’s voice came through his phone, strident. “You spaced Ginny’s appointment again.”
Maddocks stopped dead in his tracks, checked his watch. Already 6:17 p.m. Shitshit. Ahead of him Holgersen came to a halt and crooked up his brow in question.
Maddocks waved him ahead, indicating that he needed a minute. As Holgersen slouched off with his peculiar lope, Maddocks stepped aside into a hospital waiting area that was vacant.
“Listen, Sabrina, I—”
“Don’t ‘listen’ me—Ginn’s appointment was at four thirty. I just called her to see how it went, and she told me you never arrived to pick her up, which meant she missed her therapy session altogether.”
Guilt sliced sharply through him. He’d been so swallowed by the scope of managing the fallout from the Amanda Rose takedown and the subsequent barcode girls investigation that he’d clean spaced his agreement to drive his own daughter to her therapy appointments. As it was, Ginny’s critical-incident stress therapy was a direct result of his role in the Baptist investigation. She’d almost died because of what he did for a living—hunting heinous monsters. And this time the monster—Spencer Addams—had turned around and zeroed in on Maddocks’s vulnerability. His own child.
Maddocks dragged his hand through his hair.
Crap. Why didn’t Ginny call and remind me when I didn’t show? It hit him suddenly—maybe she had. Maybe it was his own kid’s call that he’d ignored while engrossed in conversation with the doc, while he was trying to save the daughters of strangers.
“I’ll sort it—”
“She sorted it. Ginn made another appointment on her own, but you and I agreed, James. We agreed that she could remain living alone on the island only if you were there for her. You promised to take her to all those therapy sessions.”
Maddocks loosened his tie. “I said I’ll sort it out, Sabrina. It’s just—”
“It’s just the story of our goddamn lives, and I’m sick of it. It’s just why we couldn’t make our marriage work. It’s just why we never felt like a family. It’s just why you’re not fit—never were—to be her father. It’s why Peter—”
“Enough.” He ground the word out between clenched teeth, his body temperature elevating further.
It’s just the reason I moved out here and took this job—to make amends, to be close to my daughter, to build a relationship with her . . . to try to salvage what was left of my family . . . to be a good father.
He still hadn’t got it right—he’d let his own baby girl down again because he’d been sucked into tunnel vision over the barcode girls.
Was this what it always boiled down to in the end—focusing on nailing the bad guy, then going on to nail the next? Fighting your best fight to bring murder vics and their families justice while struggling to also build a nest egg, a home, a family, and it’s worth fuck-all in the end? Was there actually a way to work a major crimes case and still be a devoted husband and father, still attend all those school functions, sports events, music recitals that he’d missed over the years, yet still give victims their full due?
He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “I’m going to make this work,” he said coolly. “I—”
“No, you won’t. You’re involved in that big case, I know that. And from past experience I also know what that means, the hours you keep. I can’t imagine how you’re even going to care for that lame three-legged mongrel of yours, let alone manage a relationship with that . . . that cop—”
“Angie. Her name is Angie. That cop saved our daughter’s life, Sabrina.”
A moment of hesitation. Sabrina cleared her throat. “I . . . I know,” she said, her voice softer. “And I’m grateful for it, I really am, but it was your job with homicide that landed Ginny in danger in the first place. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m getting onto the first ferry over to the island tomorrow. I’m going to help Ginn pack up her things, and I’m bringing her home to the mainland. She’ll live here with me and Peter. We’ll see that she follows through with her critical-incident stress therapy and that she gets all the moral support she needs. I’ve already arranged with a local psychologist to fit her in. This is not a good time for her to be on her own, and she can transfer her credits to UBC. The school has a much higher reputation than UVic.”
His jaw grew tighter and tighter as his ex rattled on. “I’m going to hang up now,” he said quietly. “I’m right in the middle of something—I’ll call you back when I can talk properly.”
“James—do not do thi—”
He killed the call and checked his messages. One missed call from Angie. Nothing from Ginn. He punched in Ginny’s number. As the phone rang, he went to the window behind the chairs in the seating area and looked out into the parking lot. Mist shrouded the evening. Darkness came early this time of year. Rain fell soft and insidious, and water squiggled down the pane. Under a misty halo cast by a light in the parking lot, Holgersen was walking Jack-O, the three-legged mutt Maddocks had rescued after a hit-and-run last Halloween. His chest tightened at the sight of his partner with his aged, hobbling dog. The guy was an enigma. Full of odd ticks and seemingly unable to string two grammatically correct sentences together, but he was one of the most astute investigators Maddocks had encountered in his lifetime of policing. And he suspected Holgersen’s idiosyncratic speech was either a tool to set people off guard or a distraction behind which he hid. But what was he hiding? That was the question. An unspecified unease whispered through Maddocks as he watched the pair. He liked Holgersen but was not entirely sure he could trust him.
“Dad?”