Bad Blood
Page 16

“I appreciate that you want to find Celine.” Thatcher addressed those words directly to Michael. “I do too, but, son, you are looking in the wrong place for those answers.”
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Michael took a sip of his drink. “Kind of my specialty.”
I braced for Thatcher to snap. Dean moved subtly toward Michael. Thatcher, however, just smiled as he shifted his gaze from Michael to another target.
“Sloane, isn’t it?” he said, a demonstration that he’d known our real names all along. “I know your father.”
Some people had a sixth sense for vulnerability. In that instant, I had no doubt that Thatcher Townsend had made his fortune using exactly that skill. My gut twisted, knowing what even the mention of her father would do to Sloane.
“Grayson Shaw and I have some mutual investments,” Thatcher continued, tossing off Sloane’s deadbeat father’s name like they were old chums. “He told me that you’re quite brilliant, but he didn’t mention what a beautiful young woman you’re becoming.”
I didn’t need Lia to tell me that Sloane’s father hadn’t said anything nice about her.
“I was very sorry,” Thatcher said, his eyes catching Sloane’s and holding them, “to hear about your brother.”
My hand went for Sloane’s, but she didn’t latch onto it. Her arms hung listlessly by her sides.
“No,” Lia countered, taking a sudden step forward. “You weren’t sorry. You didn’t really care much either way. And incidentally, when you told Michael that he was looking in the wrong place for those answers, the only reason that was true was that one little word, those.” Lia’s voice went sultry and low. “Sometimes a liar’s biggest tells happen when he’s speaking the truth.”
The gloves were officially off. Thatcher Townsend could have come after me or Lia or Dean and we would have rolled with it. But he’d gone after Sloane, and he’d used her dead brother to do it. From the moment we’d walked into this room, father and son had been engaged in a game, each trying to out-maneuver the other, each determined to have the upper hand, the power, the control. That Thatcher had used Sloane to that end made me want to tell him just how transparent he was.
“What answers should Michael be coming to you for?” I asked instead. Sometimes, the best way to trap someone was to give them exactly what they wanted. In this case, control. “You’re a powerful man. You keep your ear to the ground. What questions should we be asking?”
Townsend knew I was flattering him, but didn’t care. “Perhaps if you gave me a bit of direction, I could be of service.”
“Speaking of services…” Michael set his drink down. “What services was Celine providing you?”
“Excuse me?” Thatcher managed to sound both incredulous and offended. “What exactly are you suggesting, Michael? Whatever differences you and I have had, you can’t believe that I had anything to do with Celine’s disappearance.”
“You always did enjoy telling me what I could and could not believe,” Michael said softly. “I couldn’t possibly believe that you’d meant to throw me down the stairs or that you’d intended to break my arm or that you’d held me underwater in the bathtub on purpose. What kind of man did I take you for?”
Thatcher didn’t react to even one of Michael’s accusations. It was as if he hadn’t even heard them. “Do you honestly think that I killed Celine? That I abducted her? That I would harm that girl in any way?”
I could feel myself wanting to believe him, even though I knew he was capable of violence. That was the kind of power Thatcher Townsend held over people. That was how convincing the emotions on his face and in his voice were.
“Do you, Michael?” Thatcher pressed. “Do you think I had anything to do with Celine’s disappearance?”
“I think you were screwing her.”
Thatcher opened his mouth to reply, but Michael pressed on.
“I think you got tired of screwing her. I think you paid a visit to her the day she disappeared. I think you threatened her. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” Thatcher said, without so much as a second’s hesitation. I looked at Lia, but she gave no indication that the man was lying.
Michael took another step forward. Even though I couldn’t see a hint of anger on Thatcher Townsend’s face, my gut said that Michael could, that he’d been watching his father’s rage building—at the accusation, at the fact that it had come from his own son, at the way his son had aired dirty laundry in front of outsiders, sullying the Townsend name.
“Don’t tell me you have too much integrity, too much class, to sleep with your partner’s daughter.” Michael had a very particular reaction to rage. He threw fuel on the fire. Thatcher Townsend saw himself as the founder of a dynasty, the social equal of any man. He needed to be seen that way. And Michael knew exactly what the cost would be of taking that away. “You can take the boy out of the slums,” he told his father lightly, “but you can’t take the slums out of the man.”
There was no warning, no tell on Thatcher’s face. His fists didn’t clench. He didn’t make a single sound. But one second, Michael was standing in front of his father, and the next, I heard a crack and Michael was lying on the ground.
Thatcher had backhanded him. You hit him hard enough to put him down and keep him down. But in your own mind, you’re rewriting the story already. You didn’t lose your temper. You didn’t lose control. You won.
You always win.
Dean stepped between Michael and his father as Lia dropped to the ground to check on Michael.
Thatcher Townsend just went to pour himself another drink. “You’re welcome in my home,” he told us as he exited the room. “And do let me know if I can be of any help.”
 
 
There was a difference between knowing that Michael’s father was abusive and seeing it.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Michael said, pulling himself to his feet and wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand, “but I thought that went well.”
The casual tone in Michael’s voice nearly undid me. I knew that he wouldn’t want my pity. He wouldn’t want my rage. And whatever I felt, he would see it.