“Morning,” Marley’s voice brings me back to the present moment from the tumultuous train of my thoughts.
“Good morning,” I smile. “How did you sleep?”
“Great,” Marley says, looking at the table. “Pancakes! Yummy!”
I smile again. Dominic was right, without even knowing it. Leaving this household would be a grave mistake. I don’t know how I would start my days knowing that I will never listen to this sweet little voice again or see her bright smile.
This is about so much more than just money. This is about a little girl who has been hurt so much in life already when she lost her mother, who deserves only the best and to be loved unconditionally.
“Come on,” I tell her, walking over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go brush your teeth so you can sink them into a pancake or two.”
“Or five!” she exclaims joyfully.
“Or five,” I repeat, chuckling, as we head to the bathroom.
Marley sings while she brushes her teeth, and I wait for her in the doorway. Sometimes, it takes so little in life to be happy. And I’m glad that I partly get to bring that happiness to this sweet child.
Chapter Twelve
Dominic
It’s a slow morning, when the phone on my desk rings. I pick it up, not taking my eyes off my Mac.
“Yes?” I say absent-mindedly.
“Mr. Hart, I apologize for the interruption,” my secretary Dorothy is heard on the other end of the line, although she is really just in front of the door. “But the police are here to see you.”
I frown. “The police?” I echo.
“Yes, sir,” she confirms in that old school, country style validation. “Should I send them in?”
I blink heavily several times, glancing at the door. “Yes, let them in,” I instruct, and a moment later, she appears, keeping the door open and allowing two men inside. They turn politely to her, thanking her, and a moment later, the three of us are left alone.
I stand up from my desk and approach them. “Good morning, gentlemen,” I greet them as cordially as I can, trying to hide my confusion as to why exactly they are here.
“Mr. Hart,” the older one is the first one to talk.
He seems like the type that wakes up hugging a bottle of Jack, then tries to clean up a little in the morning, but he never quite manages to do it successfully. His hair is both balding and grey, parted in the middle, which is giving him a strangely comical look, although there is nothing even remotely funny about him, his camel-colored overcoat or his muddy shoes.
“I’m Detective Puttner,” he introduces himself, “and this is my partner, Detective Lowe.”
We both turn our attention to the younger man, his scrawny build would make him a better fit for any job, other than a policeman. However, he looks much better kempt than his partner. Perhaps he hasn’t seen as many murders and how low a human being can actually sink but there’s plenty of time for that.
“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” I ask, walking back to where the phone is situated on my large, mahogany desk.
“No, thank you,” Detective Puttner tells me officially, signaling that there will be no small talk. That’s fine by me. I wait for him to continue, and he does immediately, keeping a distance between us. “We are here to ask you a few questions about the kidnapping of Michael Morris.”
“Kidnapping?” I repeat. I’m not sure if this knowledge surprises me or not. “So, there’s been a ransom note?”
Detective Puttner gives his partner a meaningful glance, meaningful only to them, then he focuses his attention back on me again.
“Mr. Morris is safely back home,” he informs me with a tone that advises me to ask less and answer more.
“I’m very glad to hear that,” I nod.
For some reason, he doesn’t seem to believe me.