Once a Family

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  As Tanner understood it, Walter Beacham had died at the hands of a drunk driver. And his wife had given up on life. They’d never had any children. She had no other family to help out.

  Tanner had picked up the property when it went into foreclosure. Just happened to get a bid in during the fifteen-day period that had been restricted to owner-occupied bids before the place was offered to investors.

  That had been eight years ago and he and Tatum had been occupying it ever since.

  Another two years and his vineyards would finally start to show enough profit for them to start fixing up the property the way he’d envisioned when he’d first seen it.

  And his winery would stand in place of those old barns....

  “Can I get you a drink?” Callie asked, stepping behind the bar. “Whiskey? Or some wine?”

  “No, thank you,” he said. Alcohol was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

  And other than wine, he didn’t drink, anyway. None of the Malone children did.

  “I’ve come for my sister,” he said now. “It’s time for dinner and she has homework to finish before school tomorrow.”

  They could do this the easy way. If everyone cooperated.

  Tanner realized that it was possible the Harcourt adults didn’t know that Del had been warned to stay away from Tanner’s little sister. Didn’t know that their son was not only dealing and doing drugs, but was trying to pressure Tatum into doing the same. And into sleeping with him, too.

  Callie’s frown was his first warning that things weren’t going to be easy. “Tatum? But...she’s not here, Mr. Malone―”

  “The name’s Tanner,” he interrupted, more curtly than was called for. If the Harcourts thought their friends in high places were going to intimidate him—as Del had asserted when Tanner had thrown the punk out of his house two days before—if they thought their money was going to make it possible for them to take his sister away from him, they had another think coming.

  He’d been raising Tatum on his own for ten years. He wasn’t about to lose her now. Another three years and they’d be there. Just three more years. She’d be eighteen. Legal age of consent.

  Then he could set her free—a healthy, well-adjusted, well-educated adult Malone.

  A well-loved Malone.

  He swallowed. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mrs. Harcourt,” he started again, his hands at his sides as he stood tall and straightened his shoulders. He couldn’t do anything about the stained jeans he’d had on in the vineyard all day, or the equally stained button-up white-and-blue-striped shirt turned up at the cuffs. “But I assume your son is at home?”

  Tatum had rattled on and on about the perfect Harcourt home, the normal, perfect family Del had. Including the way they ate dinner together every night, at the same time, with no television on. Just Del and his parents, talking about their day....

  “Yes, Del’s upstairs doing his homework,” Callie said, coming out from behind the bar, her pretty, perfectly made-up features marred with a frown.

  Looking at the woman he saw more of his little sister than he liked. It was as though Tatum was modeling herself after this woman. As if he was not only dealing with puppy love, but a case of heroine worship thrown in, as well.

  Distracted for a second at the realization, he wasn’t about to let on.

  “Can you call him down here, please?” he asked, as though he was the president of the United States addressing Congress.

  “Of course.”

  The soft click of Callie’s pumps on the shiny wood floor as she left the room was followed by her voice in the distance, calling for her son.

  Tanner waited for the second call. For the sound of the woman’s footsteps on the stairs as she made a climb similar to the one Tanner had made a mere half hour before. Waited for her to realize that her son wasn’t home, either. The punk had taken Tanner’s youngest sister someplace and he wanted her back.

  “Yeah?” The male voice that sounded at the top of the stairs held none of the respect Tanner had heard two mornings before when the asshole had tried to convince him that he loved his sister and would never do anything to hurt her. It was Del. He recognized the voice. Not the tone.

  It was as if the kid was speaking to someone beneath him. A servant.

  Or a woman?

  “I’d like you to come down, please.”

  “I’m busy.”

  Did he talk to Tatum that way, too?

  “Del, do I have to call your father?”

  A door slammed. Tanner heard tennis shoes on the stairs. “I’m here, now what?”

  “Come into the living room, please.” Callie’s voice lowered, as though she didn’t want Tanner to hear what she was saying. Or how she was saying it?

  “What for?”

  Just then another door opened, somewhere deeper in the house. “Your father’s home.” Callie’s voice took on strength.

  And before anything else could happen, Del, dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a surfer shirt and expensive-looking rubber-soled sports shoes, entered the room.

  “Mr. Malone? What are you doing here?” The boy’s tone of voice changed again. Back to two mornings before. Like the asshole didn’t know Tanner had heard him addressing his mother?

  “He’s looking for Tatum, Del. Do you know where she is?”

  “No.” The boy’s chin lifted.

  “I don’t believe you.” Tanner didn’t bother with niceties.

  Callie glanced from Tanner to her son. “Del? Do you know something you aren’t telling us?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is,” Del insisted. Shrugging his shoulders he shoved his hands in his pockets, the blue ends of his blond hair giving him an air of otherworldliness that set Tanner’s already stressed nerve endings on edge.

  “Where who is?” The quiet, deep voice belonged to the tall guy in the suit who just entered the room.

  “Mr. Harcourt?” Tanner assumed the financier’s identity.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m looking for my sister. I have good reason to believe that your son knows where she is. She’s only fifteen, it’s a school night and she belongs at home.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance.” Stepping past his son as though the boy didn’t exist, Harcourt glanced at his wife.

  “This is Tanner Malone, Kenny. Tatum’s brother.”

  “Tatum’s missing?” The concern on the other man’s face appeared genuine as he swung toward his son. “What do you know about this, Del?” The voice was still low, but with a growling note. “If you know where that girl is, you tell us. Now.” Harcourt was almost gritting his teeth.

  Del shrugged again, but his head bowed a bit as he looked at his mother. “Mom, I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is.”

  Harcourt’s hand snapped out and formed a vise around his son’s arm, squeezing with obvious force. “I’m warning you, son, if you’re hiding something...”

  The threat was left unsaid, but Del seemed to hear it loud and clear.

  “I don’t know where she is.” Del looked his father in the eye, but backed half a step away, so that they weren’t directly facing each other.

  Something was going on there. Something bad. Unhealthy.

  But Tanner didn’t have the time or wherewithal to care. If Tatum’s friends didn’t know where she was...and Del didn’t have her...then...

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?” Tanner asked, holding his teeth together to keep himself calm. To prevent the panic that was raging inside him from taking control.

  “She’s not allowed to speak to me, remember? You said you’d take her cell phone away if she did.”

  In unison, the elder Harcourts looked at each other, then at their son.r />
  “What about on the internet?” Callie asked.

  “Answer your mother,” Harcourt demanded, more loudly than his wife, before Del even had a chance to respond.

  Del stared at the floor. Harcourt grabbed his son’s arm a second time. “Delaney?”

  “She private messaged me on Facebook this morning.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know.” The boy, pulling out of his father’s grip, backed up. “I didn’t answer her, okay? I knew he’d be watching.” He practically spit the word he’d as he looked at Tanner.

  “What did she say?” Tanner asked, still the calmest one in the room. If you didn’t count the frustration—the fear—raging inside him.

  “I can’t remember...” Del’s reply ended abruptly as his father took a step forward. “She said that she loved me.”

  “And?”

  “And, nothing.”

  Harcourt slapped the back of his kid’s head. Not enough to be considered violent or even cause Del’s neck to snap back, but harder than a love tap.

  Instead of cowing the boy, the slap seemed to have the opposite effect. Del straightened. He looked at all three adults in the room and said, “She told me she loved me. That’s all.” His tone told them he’d take any beating they wanted to hand out but they weren’t going to get another answer from him.

  Because it was the truth?

  Or because the punk was that determined to have Tatum all for himself?

  So he could knock his little sister around like his father did him?

  Looking at Callie Harcourt, Tanner wondered where she played into the “normal” Harcourt household. Did her husband intimidate her, too? With a little physical persuasion now and then?

  Or did they both just think that rough parenting was the only way to keep their far too rich and spoiled brat in line?

  If it was the latter, Tanner wasn’t sure he faulted them. He was sure he wasn’t going to get any closer to Tatum in that living room right then.

  “I’m going to the police,” he stated unequivocally to the room at large. “If you have anything to do with this, Del, you will pay.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “Save it,” Harcourt said to his son, walking behind Tanner to the vestibule. “If the boy knows something, I’ll get it out of him.”

  Even though he could guess what Harcourt’s tactics would probably be, Tanner wasn’t altogether sorry to hear it. “I’m sure the police will want to talk to him.”

  “We’ll be here all night.”

  Asking Tanner to keep them posted, the Harcourts showed him out.

  Tanner, already on his cell with 9-1-1, barely noticed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SANTA RAQUEL, CALIFORNIA, had to be heaven on earth. Sedona, who’d been born and raised in the quaint coastal town, sat on her deck Tuesday evening, sipping a glass of wine, munching on Havarti, grape jelly and French bread, while she watched the waves come in. Again and again. Washing to shore. Going back out to sea. Only to return again.

  They were steady. Assured. Reliable. Sometimes they were angry and plowed onto the beach with the force of a minibulldozer. Other times they were calm, almost sleepy, sliding quietly up on the sand and dissipating with hardly a trace left behind. But, always, they were there.

  Like the love her parents shared. With each other. And with her and her brother, Grady, a pediatrician in Scottsdale, Arizona.

  She didn’t know what she’d do without her older brother in the background of her life. He was her best friend. Her confidant.

  She couldn’t imagine being afraid of him....

  Sedona sipped. Bit off a piece of cheese and then breathed, pulling the salty tang of air deep into her lungs. Washing away the day’s impurities from her bloodstream as the ocean’s energy erased twelve hours’ worth of tension, blanketing her in peace. When she felt a little more relaxed, she’d go in and change out of the navy suit she’d worn to work that day. Slide into some workout clothes and take a walk on the beach.

  Grady had called the night before. Her older brother’s wife was expecting their second child. A man who’d dedicated his life to caring for children, Grady had clearly found his own piece of heaven when his son, two-year-old Cameron, had been born. And now he’d have heaven times two.

  Sedona was happy for him. She liked to hope that he’d found a bit of heaven in his wife, Brooke, as well. She just didn’t see it.

  The flap of the doggy door sounded behind her, and Sedona waited for Ellie—short for Elizabeth Bennet from the Jane Austen novel—to appear. The rescued, seven-pound poochin had to knock a few times before she trusted the entry and exit way Sedona had had installed for her. Every time she went in or out. Heavy plastic whooshed against metal framing again. And then Ellie made her appearance on the wooden decked balcony, stopping about a foot short of Sedona and staring at her. The little miss didn’t make a sound. Didn’t scratch at her or jump up. She just stared.

  “You could just take yourself, you know,” Sedona told her, setting her glass of wine down on the round glass-topped wicker table next to her as she scooped up her apricot-colored family member and carried her down the three steps to the small patch of fenced-in grass she’d had planted the week after she’d adopted her Japanese Chin/poodle mix.

  Ellie had been a couple of months old then. Sedona had been visiting Grady and had attended a barbecue with him and Brooke in a little town called Shelter Valley, Arizona. She’d heard about the animal rescue organization being run out of the local vet’s office and had asked to see the current rescues.

  And had fallen in love with Ellie on sight. The little girl held herself with dignity even after spending the first eight weeks of her life locked in a windowless shed with so many other puppies there hadn’t been enough floor space for them to live without lying on top of one another.

  Even now, three years later, Ellie didn’t travel far alone. She completed her business a short distance away and came right back, jumping a couple of feet off the ground to bounce off Sedona’s hip.

  Catching her in midair, Sedona thought about a walk on the beach. And noticed the Richardsons outside with their four-year-old son. The private stretch of beach behind her small house was shared by four other homes. And tonight she felt more like finishing her glass of wine than socializing.

  Besides, Joshua, the Richardsons’ son, liked to run after Ellie. His parents thought he was playing with the little dog. To Sedona, who admittedly coddled her little girl, the activity seemed more like torment.

  Margie Richardson saw her and waved. Still holding Ellie, Sedona knew she was going to have to go say hello. And could feel the tension beginning to seep back into her bones.

  She took one step and her phone rang.

  From the table. On her deck. Next to her glass of wine.

  “Saved by the bell,” she said softly to Ellie as she waved once more in the Richardsons’ general direction and hurried up the stairs to grab her phone.

  “I hate to disturb you again, Sedona, but you said to call immediately if there was any break in the Talia Malone situation.” Lila McDaniels did not sound calm.

  “I did and I meant it. What’s up?” Switching mental gears in a blink, Sedona set Ellie inside the French doors leading to her living area and, with her phone held between her shoulder and her ear, grabbed the glass of wine and plate of cheese and headed indoors.

  “Lynn Duncan just left Maddie’s. She called right afterward to tell me that Talia looks like a girl she’d seen a picture of on the news a little while ago. She’s a missing person. And if it’s the same girl, her name’s not Talia. It’s Tatum.”

  “Can you wait for me to get there before you do anything?”

  “Of course.”

  Wine down the drain, Sedona dumped the remainder of the ch
eese and bread into the trash and, making certain that Ellie was in her bed, grabbed her keys and was out the door.

  “She’s safe here.”

  “Exactly.” The old Ford Thunderbird started up first try and Sedona was on her way. “If she’s been reported missing, the police might return her to her family. With no bruising, no reports or evidence of previous abuse it might be that the most we can hope for is the assignation of a caseworker for follow-up....”

  Her mind was racing. With the laws. And the ways to use those laws to protect her young client.

  “I can’t not report her. Not now that I know who she is. She might be just what they suspect, a runaway. I can’t risk the lives of my residents if I get embroiled in a lawsuit.”

  “I know. I’m not suggesting that you should. Just let me talk to Tatum. And then I’ll call the police myself.”

  Good thing she’d only had a couple of sips of wine. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  TANNER WASN’T ABOUT to just go home and wait. He wasn’t a sit-by-the-phone type of guy. But the law enforcement representative he’d spoken with, a no-nonsense dispatcher who’d taken his report immediately at the neighborhood station when he’d stopped in, said an officer would meet him at his house.

  While the calm and efficient manner of the phone representative had reassured him, the urgency with which the department was acting set his anxiety levels soaring again.

  He’d pulled Tatum’s recent school photo out of his wallet and handed it over. He’d emailed some photos from his phone while he’d been standing in the station. He’d already given a list of the social media sites she used, complete with usernames and passwords, explaining that he’d made her share them with him as a condition of her right to go on the sites.

  And while he’d nodded, expressing his thanks for the officers’ help, they’d scared the shit out of him.

  They’d assured him that an Endangered Missing Advisory would be issued immediately.