Shit. Joe eyed me once more. The rest of them didn’t know about his association with Cade at the club, and I’d just shot off my mouth.
“Seems like a long time, anyway,” I said.
That seemed to appease them.
“His mother died in a drive-by shooting,” Joe said. “In a tiny town in Iowa, right before Cade returned. Don’t tell me that doesn’t stink.”
I nodded. Joe was right. “I’m guessing Cade was involved. Offing his mother for selling him—”
“Wait,” Marj said. “How would Cade know what his father did? And do we even know his mother was in on it?”
“Whether Cade knew or not,” Talon said, “he could easily have blamed his parents for everything. For letting him go camping. For not finding him. A million different reasons. You have to understand. When you’re in that situation…” He shook his head. “You’ll blame just about anyone or anything.”
“He needs help,” Jade said. “We should get Melanie’s opinion.”
“Leave Melanie out of this,” Joe said. “She has her hands full in the city with the baby. I’ve got bodyguards on them as it is. I don’t want her bothered with anything else.”
“Do we know how Cade’s father died?” Ryan asked.
“Shot in a convenience store nine years ago,” Marj said. “Jade and I found the records.”
“Timing is just about right,” I said. “What do you bet Cade knocked off his old man and his mom both?”
“If he did, who can blame him?” Marj said. “His father sold him like goods to be tortured and abused.”
“We don’t actually know what he went through,” Joe said.
“Joe, come on,” Marjorie said. “We know.”
“Actually,” I said, “there’s a lot we don’t know. Where he was taken. What he went through. How he got out. Whether he was really trained by the FBI. Whether he actually went to law
school. And there’s only one way to find all this out. We have to find him.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Marjorie
I looked to Talon. His gaze was glassy.
I knew the look.
He was remembering.
My scar on my thigh began to tingle and itch.
But for my conception…
No. Can’t go there. Not now. Not when we have all this other stuff to figure out.
Damn it!
No more self-indulgence. How many times had I said that to myself? How many fucking times?
My phone buzzed. A text.
From Colin Morse.
My cufflinks are gone.