“It was Emily Barton.” Halston sighed, rubbing at his eye. “How’d she die? Overdose?”
“No. It was a homicide.”
That seemed to surprise Halston, and for a moment he simply stared at Mark. “Murdered? Why?”
“We don’t know that yet.”
The color had drained from Halston’s face and for a second, he simply gaped before reaching for the glass again and downing the remaining liquid.
“We’re still gathering information about the victim and the crime. The name you supplied—if correct—will go a long way in helping us do that. Can you tell me how you knew her?”
Halston sat back in his chair, seeming to need a moment to gather himself. Mark gave it to him, glancing around the room, taking in the paneled walls, the rich drapes, the two groupings of luxurious furniture, the grand piano in the corner. He couldn’t imagine waking up every day in a place like this. It would feel like living in a museum.
“Emily Barton,” Halston mumbled. “She’s the woman who ruined my son’s life. And mine, though I own most of the blame for that.”
Mark leaned forward. “I think you need to tell me about Emily.”
Halston sighed, meeting Mark’s gaze. He looked weary suddenly, older than he’d first appeared. “My son, Hal Junior, took up with Emily Barton when he was barely eighteen years old, his whole life in front of him. I told him to cut her loose. She was pretty to look at, but trash is trash. I don’t know how many times I told him not to let some two-bit whore with dollar signs in her eyes trap him. The boy didn’t listen.” Halston paused, looking off into the past, his expression set, deep sadness in his eyes. “Wasn’t even six months before he knocked her up, the dumb fool. I offered her money to get the hell out of town. Told her she’d never get a dime otherwise. As expected, she took it.”
When Halston lapsed into silence again, Mark asked, “What’d you hope she would do with the baby?” Your grandchild. Your blood.
“At the time? I didn’t care as long as she didn’t give him or her our name. I wasn’t even convinced the baby was my son’s. Girls like that . . . well, anyway. Now? Time and circumstance change things, don’t they?” He paused and when he began speaking again, there was a hitch in his voice. “Hal never was quite the same after she skipped town. Fancied himself in love with her, I suppose. He’d dabbled in illegal substances, thanks to her, but when she disappeared without a word, he started the heavier stuff.” He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “He was killed in a high-speed drag race, heroin in his system.”
Mark took a deep breath, his heart going out to the man. “I’m sorry for your loss. I lost a daughter myself. I know the agony.”
Halston Fairbanks met his eyes, an understanding flashing between the two men who’d survived the un-survivable. Despite the difference in the way Mark would have handled the situation Halston Fairbanks spoke of, the loss of a child was something Mark wouldn’t wish upon anyone. He’d made the offer that drove Emily from town and perhaps led to his son’s spiral downward, but Emily Barton had accepted it.
But now? Halston Fairbanks looked like an old man filled with regret. “What’d she do with the baby?”
“I didn’t know until two weeks ago. Turns out the boy was less than an hour away from me his whole life. Emily gave him to a man who raised him off the grid, away from society. He grew up in the woods outside of Helena Springs.”
The boy. Raised off the grid. Mark sat in shock for a moment, digesting the information.
Lucas.
Holy Christ. Lucas had family. Lucas was a Fairbanks. The woman at the bed and breakfast with an arrow through her throat had been his mother. But if she gave him up for adoption—legally or not—why in the world had she opted to give him to Driscoll instead of a nice family in the suburbs? Had it simply been a matter of money? He flinched internally, picturing some of the unthinkable things he’d seen mothers do to their children for drugs over the span of his career.
Halston Fairbanks had just provided several answers, and ushered in a whole slew of new questions.
“Isaac Driscoll.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the name of the man whose property he’s living on. Although to say he ‘raised him,’ is a stretch. Lucas, that’s the name of your grandson, said he barely had a relationship with the man. And Isaac Driscoll was found dead a week after Emily Barton, murdered in the same manner.”
Again, Halston Fairbanks gaped, but then shook his head, released a loud whoosh of breath. “Can’t say I’m sorry.”
Mark understood that. Now that it was becoming clear that Driscoll had had far more to do with Lucas living alone in the woods the way he was, and that his motives were more than likely nefarious in some way Mark was still trying to figure out, he couldn’t muster much sympathy for the dead man either. Lucas was a different matter. Lucas had never been given a chance to live a normal life. But why?
“Today is the first time you’re hearing his name? You didn’t know anything about him prior to two weeks ago?”
He shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“Do you know what Emily’s connection to Driscoll might have been? Did she give you any indication why she’d given him her baby?”
“Because she was an addict. He probably paid her. Who knows?”
They were both silent for a moment, Mark attempting to piece together this new information. He was surprised that the victim’s fingerprints hadn’t gotten any hits. It was rare that a person with a lifetime of addiction—if Halston was correct—avoided at least a run-in or two with the law. She’d gotten lucky. On one front at least. “What did Emily want the night she called from Helena Springs?”