“How much have you given him?”
“Around a thousand, or so.”
Or so? I aim my gaze at the road and hope she doesn’t notice me white-knuckling the wheel. It’s convenient that we’re already on our way to Craig’s, because it’s long-past time I sat his ass down for a frank conversation about just what the hell he thinks he’s doing taking a thousand dollars from my little girl.
I pull into the extended stay’s parking lot, braking too forcefully as I steer into a space. My mouth is jam-packed with questions, but I keep my lip zipped as we enter the building.
Teagan eyes me warily as we step into the elevator. “Jonah, why are you looking at me like I’ve done something wrong?”
“You’re not the one who’s done anything wrong, sweetheart.” This motherfucker might be her uncle, but I’m her Daddy, and I’m not about to let my baby girl get taken advantage of by some greedy piece of shit—even if he is technically her family.
The elevator doors glide open, spitting us out onto the third floor. As we approach Craig’s room, my phone vibrates with the incoming call I’ve been waiting two weeks for.
“Go on inside,” I tell her. “I’ve gotta take this. Do not give Craig anything until I get in there, not a single dime.” She nods, though I can tell she’s confused. I round the corner so Craig won’t see or hear me when he opens the door.
I answer the call. “Tell me you looked into Teagan’s uncle.”
“That depends,” Cal says. “Where are you?”
“Outside his hotel room. I just found out Teagan’s been giving him money.”
“She with you now?”
“In his room.” My body tenses. “What’d you find, Cal?”
“I’m thinking I should wait to tell you in person.”
“I think you’d better tell me now.”
He lets a few seconds pass before he says, “If I tell you, you’ve gotta sit on it until I get there. Do not engage—”
“Just fucking tell me, Cal,” I growl, my anger rising like mercury in an old-fashioned thermometer. My old partner’s sigh crackles through the phone.
“Craig Moss died of a stroke last year in Oregon,” he says. “With no next of kin, nobody notified the IRS or the credit bureau. However, someone’s been collecting his disability checks and opening up credit cards in his name.”
My blood runs molten as all of my limbs go taut.
“The guy’s dead? You’re certain?”
“I just emailed you a copy of the death certificate.”
I force my jaw to unclench to avoid breaking my own fucking teeth.
“If Craig Moss is dead,” I say, “then who the hell is in there with Teagan?”
“I don’t know,” Cal says, “but I already sent a unit to find out. Do not engage, brother. Wait until the unit gets there—”
“My uncle’s dead?” I turn to meet Teagan’s wide-eyed stare. She must’ve sensed something was wrong when I took the call, and decided to stay behind and eavesdrop. Smart girl. She heard the whole fucking thing. My side of it, anyway.
I hang up and pocket my phone. “I’m afraid so, sweetheart. The cops are on their way to question the man in that room.”
She nods like she understands.
Then she turns to bolt.
“Teagan!” I chase after her, but by the time I catch up, she’s already banging her fists on door to the imposter’s room.
The man pretending to be her uncle flings the door open.
“What the hell, Teagan?”
“Who the fuck are you?” she shouts.
His gaze darts from her face to mine. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m your uncle—”
“My uncle’s dead.”
The guy’s face falls, and a look of panic flashes in his gaze. He tries to close the door, but I catch it before it can latch shut. If this is going down, Teagan’s not going it alone. Not while Daddy’s by her side.
The guy stumbles back as I shove the door open.
“You two get the fuck out of my room or I’ll—”
“What?” I growl, getting in his face. “Call the cops? Tell ‘em we’ve caught you committing identity fraud?” Beads of sweat appear on his scalp. It takes all of my strength not to put him in a headlock. “Now, I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re doing here, but you’d better start talking.”
His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. He looks at Teagan.
“Don’t fucking look at her,” I snap. “Look at me. And do not doubt for a second that I won’t break your fucking face if I think you’re lying.”
“All right,” he says, raising his hands, “all right. I’m not Craig Moss.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m his brother. Teagan’s dad.”
I take a step back from the other man to glance between him and Teagan. How had I missed the resemblance? The pair could be the same song written in different languages.
Teagan’s eyes go wide. “You’re...my dad?”
He refuses to meet her gaze.