Innocent Hostage by Vonnie Hughes Page A

time she found some photos. She leaned forward. Oh, yes. Breck Marchant was their son. He had his mother’s damn-you grey eyes and his father’s unruly hair. Those were the same intense grey eyes that had burned with anger such a short time ago. There the resemblance came to a screeching halt. Anna and Jeremy sat bolt upright, shoulder to shoulder, in a formal pose. Ingrid doubted that Breck had ever been formal in his life.
She clicked through their website. No mention of Breck. Just the studies they’d undertaken over the past twenty-five years interlarded with layers of techno-speak.
Maybe Breck had a point. Being brought up by these two rigid-looking academics could not have been easy. Especially when one took into account Breck’s loose-limbed gait, the dark hair that flopped over his forehead no matter how hard he tried to school it, and his diffident manner.
And maybe she was way off beam. She knew she had a bad habit of second-guessing people. It had become a defense mechanism in the difficult years after her father had left home. Or more correctly, after Marla had thrown her father out of their house. Way back as far as Ingrid could remember, her mother had been depressed. To try to keep her on an even keel, Ingrid had learned to second-guess Marla’s mood swings. But when Tom Rowland arrived on the scene, the depression had sloughed off Marla the way you’d peel off a wet coat. For that, Ingrid was immensely grateful. That was the main reason she’d been content to go along with whatever her stepfather suggested. Until a few years ago when she realized her parents took it for granted that she would live her life to their dictates. It had been a terrible struggle to break away from their benign dictatorship.
Had Breck Marchant suffered similar treatment from his parents? Or had there been something more sinister?
She went to bed early and lay there, wondering how she could find out more about the Marchants. She was just drifting off to sleep when she remembered his words about Tania: “I dealt with it.” What had Tania done that he’d had to deal with?
****
Before commencing his reconnoiter of the Kerr’s premises, Breck tried to coax some information about “Uncle Billy” out of Kit. Kit, however, was coping with his traumatic experiences with the Kerrs by blocking out all thoughts of them.
“Uncle Billy?” he asked blankly.
“Yes, you mentioned that he did martial arts, remember?”
Kit flicked his father a glance and pretended to be absorbed in pushing his dump truck around a corner of the sofa.
So far Breck had resisted attempts by the police psychologist to interview Kit. He’d wanted to give Kit breathing space, considering all that had happened recently. But perhaps he’d been wrong. Lord, this parenting thing was difficult. If only he knew why Natasha had disappeared. She would be invaluable at keeping Kit on an even keel. Dear Natasha. After all this time he still missed her.
He dropped Kit off at Jace and Abel’s and arrived at the Kerr’s house as the sun set. The living room was dim, the curtains pulled across the windows to keep sensation-seekers from peering in. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked loudly, its metronome-like rhythm getting on Breck’s nerves.
Where should he start?
He’d never broken into anyone’s house illegally before. During his second year on the force he’d had to break down a door when they’d suspected there was a dead body inside. But he’d had a couple of other cops with him and it was done on orders from his superiors. Sure, a couple of times with the AOS he’d had to move stealthily into position as the team settled themselves for a long wait, but that was not inside people’s houses. Mostly they hunkered down in garden sheds or garages; more often on high vantage points.
Leaving the back door ajar, he stood listening. If he got caught he would say he was looking for more of Kit’s belongings. Even so, it was a thin line he was treading. The