Family Honor

Chapter 19

The fire in the fireplace looked exactly the same. It would always look exactly the same. It was a gas fire. I was looking good. Double-breasted blue pinstripe suit, white shirt open at the throat. Black ankle boots. Tiny silver hoop earrings. Brock Patton was behind his desk, in his big high-backed, red leather swivel chair, where he seemed to feel most comfortable. Betty Patton sat in a caramel-colored leather wing chair to his left.

“You’ve found her then?” Patton said.

“Yes. She’s well and safe.”

“Where is she?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You what?” Betty Patton’s voice was like chilled steel.

“I can’t tell you where she is,” I said.

“Why not,” Betty said.

“She doesn’t want you to know.”

“Ms. Randall, are we not employing you?”

“So far,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Betty said. “Where is she?”

I shook my head.

“You cannot sit here and tell me you are going to substitute the judgment of a fifteen-year-old runaway for that of her parents,” Betty said.

“Actually, I’m substituting my judgment,” I said.

“You have no right.”

“You hired me,” I said. “You didn’t purchase me.”

“And we can fire you,” Betty said. Her voice remained quiet and very cold.

“Something happened,” I said. “That made her run away.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know something happened.”

It was as if Brock had disappeared. It was me and Betty Patton.

“Woman’s intuition.”

“I have resources,” Betty said. “Give me back my daughter or face serious consequences.”

“You wouldn’t have a thought, either of you, as to what might have been the, ah, precipitating event in your daughter’s departure?”

“There was no event. Millicent is spoiled and childish. But she is quite capable of manipulating any adult gullible enough to believe her.”

“Do you have anyone but me looking for her?”

“Perhaps we should.”

“But you don’t?”

“Of course not.”

“She’s afraid of something,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

Betty’s ugly little laugh was derisive. “She’s a neurotic child,” Betty said.

“Has she been getting therapy?” I said.

“Doesn’t every teenaged brat that can’t cut it get therapy?” Brock said.

When he spoke it felt like an intrusion, something foreign to the angry exclusivity that connected me to Betty.

“Shut up, Brock,” Betty said.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Brock said. “‘Shut up,’ she explained.”

“Who’s her therapist?” I said.

“That is no concern of yours,” Betty said.

I nodded.

“Did you or your husband have a fight with Millicent before she left?”

“Ms. Randall,” Betty said. “I am not some Irish scrub woman, I do not fight with my daughter.”

“She’s very angry with you,” I said.

“Millicent doesn’t know what she’s angry about,” Betty said. “She is a petulant adolescent. Had you ever raised one you might be less inclined to take her at face value.”

Actually I thought it was Betty that was taking Millicent at face value.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Do you have a license to do what you do?” Betty asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, if my daughter is not back here promptly you will lose it.”

“Oh, oh!” I said.

“And that will be the least unpleasant thing you’ll face.”

“If you’re going to threaten me,” I said, “you need to be specific.”

Betty shook her head. I looked at Brock.

“And you?”

Brock tossed his hands in the air.

“I have long ago given up trying to work things out with women.”

I sat for a moment.

“Okay,” I said. “Your daughter is well and safe. And, despite the paralyzing impact of your threat, I will make every attempt to keep her that way.”

I stood. Neither of them moved.

“I have warned you, Ms. Randall,” Betty said, “don’t take what I’ve said lightly.”

“Hard not to,” I said, and turned and marched out. I love a good exit line.