Gone by Mallory Kane Page A

the kid’s a smart-a—”
    “Don’t talk like that around him,” Rhoda interrupted. “If you want any help from me, you’d better get us better accommodations.”
    “Good grief, woman, what else could you ask for? There’s electricity, food, bottled water to drink—”
    “I need water to clean with,” she insisted.
    “I got you a five-gallon jug of water. It’s sitting right outside the door. You can come and get it.”
    “What? You get it.”
    “Aw, hell, no. You’re liable to run out. Heck no.”
    “Me and Joshy are going to get into bed and read picture books, since there’s nothing else to do here. We’ll sit on the cot while you bring the water in. Then you can go start making arrangements for a better place for us to stay.”
    “You’ve already got food and water. I got toys for the kid and books for you. What else do you want? A big-screen TV?”
    Rhoda scowled at him. “It doesn’t have to be big-screen. And how about a microwave, and some more fruit. Yogurt, a couple of those microwavable complete meals that don’t have to be refrigerated. Coffee would be nice.”
    Howard gaped at her. “Anything else, your highness? If I get you some of that, you’ll help me?”
    “If you get me some of that, I won’t be waiting for you with an iron bar from that cot across your thick skull next time you come here. If you get me all of it, I might decide to help you, depending on what your plans are on the off chance this stupid scheme works.”
    From behind her, on the cot, Joshy murmured, “Tupid Howarr.”
    * * *
    M ARCIE PACED FROM the foyer to the kitchen and back, over and over again. Every time she walked into the kitchen, her eyes went straight to the section of newspaper that she’d folded and laid on the counter and her anger ramped up another few notches.
    She picked up the paper, skimmed the article again, although by now she could quote it word for word, then slapped it back down on the table.
    When she’d first spotted Joe’s photo splashed across a double column, she’d stared in disbelief and shock. Then she’d read the headline—Local Attorney’s Connection with Delanceys Shocks New Orleans—and skimmed the short piece.
    Joe? Her Joe was the illegitimate son of Con Delancey? For a moment, the words floated around in her brain like letters in alphabet soup and all she could do was wait for them to settle down. She felt the numb tingling of shock all the way to her fingertips, although why, she wasn’t sure. His mother was Kit Powers, Con Delancey’s long-time mistress. It made perfect sense that they’d had a child together.
    Other things made sense now, too, like what Howard had said to Joe about getting the money. If you ain’t got that money yourself, you and I both know where you can get it easy enough. Joe’s kidnapped son was a Delancey. Joe could go to the Delanceys for the money.
    Or could he? Everyone knew how the Delanceys felt about family. But they, like everyone else in the New Orleans metropolitan area, had seen the paper by now. How were they reacting to the news that Con Delancey had a bastard son?
    She found herself back in the foyer, looking through the sidelights at the street, dimly lit with street lamps. Where was he? She looked at her watch. Anger bloomed in her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. He’d known all this and hadn’t told her. But when? When had he known? Just yesterday? Had he read the article with as much shock and trepidation as she had? Or had his mother told him years ago? It didn’t matter. In either case, he’d kept it from her.
    But why? Embarrassment? Shame? Some misguided notion of protecting her or Joshua? Whatever the reason and no matter how angry she was, her heart ached for him. Through all the years they’d been together, he’d never talked about his dad. Whenever she’d tried to bring it up, he’d changed the subject or shut down. She’d always figured, given his mother’s lifestyle, that he didn’t know who