Sebastian was at the gym when his mother called. He fished his BlackBerry out of the pouch of his sweatshirt, which he’d tossed on the floor beside him, and relaxed on the seat of the bench press he’d been using.
“I’ve got Malcolm’s signature on stacks and stacks of checks. Will that work?” she said the moment he answered.
“No, a signature isn’t what we need. It doesn’t include enough letters. And signatures can be different from regular writing.” He mopped the sweat on his forehead with the towel draped around his neck. “We have to have a letter of some kind. The more writing, the better.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to find it. Most men don’t write letters anymore, Sebastian, at least not very often. If they do, it’s on a computer.”
“What about a greeting card?”
“You and I both know that Malcolm wasn’t the type to give Emily cards.”
“There could be more practical things.”
“Like to-do lists and grocery lists? They get thrown away. Why would anyone keep them? If I had to provide a sample of your handwriting, I’m not sure I’d have any more luck, unless I could use some of your old schoolwork.”
She had a point. He tended to call her or e-mail her. He didn’t write letters-or lists-unless it was on his computer or BlackBerry. But that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “You’ve gone through every box?”
“Not every box. There are a lot here. Some are stacked too high or they’re buried behind the furniture and are difficult to reach. But I’ve gone through the ones that I can get to without tearing the whole place apart.” A change in tone indicated tears. “I found Emily’s journal. Seeing that, reading parts of it…was heartbreaking. And I’m finding plenty of Colton ’s schoolwork. The poor kid…” she said on a sob.
Sebastian steeled himself against a similar onslaught of emotion. “Nothing from Malcolm?”
She sniffed. “Nothing from Malcolm.”
Resting his elbows on his knees, Sebastian hung his head. This couldn’t be easy on his mother. He didn’t think he’d be able to go through that stuff himself. Even after all these months, the pain was too raw. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I want to help you,” she said. “I want to see Malcolm behind bars as much as you do. I’d like it if you could come home and live a normal life. But I doubt we’ll get the handwriting samples you need. Not from this collection of miscellaneous odds and ends.”
Sebastian closed his eyes. There had to be some of Malcolm’s writing somewhere. Maybe Colton ’s stepfather hadn’t kept a journal or written any letters that were with Emily’s stuff, but surely the Turner family would have something.
Question was…did he have the nerve to ask them to look? They weren’t too happy with his views on the suicide. They didn’t want to face the possibility that Malcolm might’ve turned his back on them.
Suddenly it occurred to him. He had a sample of Malcolm’s writing at his condo in New York. It was a sheet of spiteful complaints Malcolm had left on the windshield of the Porsche Sebastian had owned back then. One day, Sebastian, Constance and Colton had been out in the BMW; Colton had sustained a sports injury, and they’d taken him to the hospital, but Malcolm didn’t get the word. He’d gone to pick up Colton without taking his cell phone. Then he’d been furious that the misunderstanding might make him late for his weekly poker game.
Sebastian had kept the hateful note in case he ever decided to sue for custody. He wanted to be able to prove that Colton ’s stepdad had a dark side-a temper disproportionate to whatever trigger set it off.
If only he’d known how dark Malcolm could be…
“Mom, forget about the storage,” he said.
“You want me to stop searching?” She sounded relieved.
“Yes. I know where we can find what we need.” In that note, Malcolm had used almost every foul word in the book. But now Sebastian was glad Emily’s husband had put his thoughts on paper.
“Where?” she asked.
He told his mother where to look; then he smiled as he hung up. “You won’t get away with it,” he said to an imaginary Malcolm, setting his phone aside so he could finish lifting weights. He needed to get back to the motel and call the florist. It wasn’t likely that they’d have an address other than the P.O. box Malcolm put on everything else.
But Sebastian planned to check, just in case.
Malcolm admired Latisha as she moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. She made a damn pretty sight wearing nothing but his T-shirt. He would never have guessed he could be so attracted to a black woman. He’d purposely kidnapped these girls because he thought they’d pose less of a temptation sexually. But now that he was being a little more open-minded, he had to acknowledge that Latisha was as fine as any young woman he’d ever seen.
Damned if he’d admit that to another white person, though.
The image of his father, his face contorted with disgust, appeared in Malcolm’s mind, but he quickly shut it out. He no longer had to worry about pleasing that racist ass**le. Warren Turner didn’t even know that his youngest son was alive.
Latisha must’ve felt him watching her because she sent him a tentative smile.
Maybe kidnapping her hadn’t been a mistake. Besides making life more enjoyable in other respects, she’d been cooking and cleaning all day.
But her sister. God, Marcie was a different story. When he’d gone into the bedroom to tell her he hadn’t hurt Latisha one tiny bit, she’d called him a ra**st devil and spit in his face. If she ever got free, she’d be dangerous. She was the type who might come after him. He should kill her and get it over with, but he couldn’t do it quite yet. It hardly seemed fair to go back on his word so soon after Latisha had made him happy.
“I’m not a ra**st,” he said aloud.
Latisha stood at the stove. “What?”
“I said I’m not a ra**st. I didn’t force you. You offered, I accepted, and you enjoyed yourself as much as I did, right?” Heck, she was the one who’d asked for more.
The answer came so softly, he could hardly hear it. “Right.”
“What?”
After clearing her throat, she spoke louder. “I said ‘right.’”
“You need to tell your sister because no matter what she says, I’m nothing like the men I used to put behind bars. I’ve met them. I’ve seen the crime-scene photos. I know what they’re like. You don’t have a single bruise on you.”