When Talia’s shoulders visibly relaxed, Sedona exchanged a glance with Lila. The older woman nodded.
“Tell us what happened to you, Talia.”
The girl looked from one to the other of them. Her lips were trembling.
“You told Ms. Campbell that you were hit.”
Talia nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
“More than once?” Lila conducted the interview like the professional she was, and once again Sedona was filled with admiration for this woman who’d given up any chance of a life of her own, a family of her own, to run this wonderful, beach-front shelter and to give abused women a chance to know how it felt to be treated well. To give hundreds of women and children the chance to have happy families of their own.
“Maybe I was hit a couple of times.”
“Maybe?”
Talia stared downward. “Okay, a couple of times.”
“Recently?”
The girl shook her head. Shrugged. And then nodded.
“We need to know who you are, Talia.”
“I’m Talia Malone.”
“The ID you showed me bearing the name Talia Malone said that you live in an apartment in Los Angeles.”
“That’s right.” Talia picked at the side of her finger with a perfectly manicured purple nail.
“That apartment complex was torn down a couple of years ago. After a fire. The address is an empty lot.”
The slender shoulders between the two women shrugged again. “I moved.”
“The ID also says you’re nineteen, but you told Ms. Campbell you’re only fifteen.”
With her head bowed, the girl looked right, then left, and didn’t look up at either of them.
Sedona ached to help her.
Did the girl have family who would report her missing? Anyone who would care about her absence that night?
The same person who’d hurt her?
Right now, Sedona’s only concern was the girl.
“Talia?”
Those gray-blue eyes trained on her, and the wealth of hurt—and confusion—pooling in their depths grabbed at Sedona.
“You said I could have until tomorrow morning.”
“You can. We won’t call anyone until then. But at least tell us your name.”
The girl shook her head. “I told you, I’m Talia Malone.”
“Tell us who hurt you. Who are you afraid of? Who are you running from?”
Talia picked at her nails some more, around the edge of the nails, not touching the glossy purple paint.
“What if the person you’re afraid of followed you?”
“He didn’t.”
So it was a “he.”
“How do you know?” Lila’s quiet concern continued to flow around them, holding them all in a sacred place. For the moment.
“Because.”
“He could have had someone else follow you. Or someone might have seen you and told him they saw you get on a bus.”
Talia’s hands shook. She continued to pick. And if she kept it up, she’d soon draw blood.
Sedona covered the girl’s hands with her own. Holding on. She had no idea how it felt to have a trusted loved one turn on you with hate in his eyes, or violence in his words or hands.
But she knew, instinctively, that this young girl did. And knew she had to do something about it.
“Tell, me, Talia, please. I can’t help you until I know the problem. Who are we protecting you from?”
Talia’s fingers stilled and Sedona held her breath.
“My brother.”
The words fell into the room like a ton of bricks.
CHAPTER THREE
HE’D NEVER BEEN to the house, but Tanner knew right where it was. Behind the massive wrought-iron gate that might intimidate some.
But not him.
Stopping in front of the entrance, he searched for an admittance button. Had to get out of his truck to push it. And waited for a response.
“Tanner Malone here to see Del Harcourt,” he told the female voice on the other end of the speaker.
“Tanner? Tatum’s brother?” The female on the other end sounded delighted—and surprised.
“Yes.”
A click sounded, followed by whirring as the gates opened from the middle. “Come on in, Mr. Malone,” the woman said.
Hopping in his truck, Tanner did just that. Whether the voice on the other end belonged to a lenient housekeeper or a family member, he didn’t know.
And frankly, he didn’t care. He was on a mission.
The front door opened as Tanner pulled around the fountain in the driveway and parked in what would have been, at a hotel, valet parking: a triple-wide, paved area, beautifully landscaped with colorful blooms even in midMarch—completely unlike the single-lane dirt path that circled in front of his house.
“Mr. Malone?” A slender, blonde woman in her late thirties, dressed expensively in pants made from the same type of silken fabric Tatum had picked out for her honor society induction the previous month, came down the steps toward him, her hand outstretched.
He noticed her nails were painted red. Tatum wouldn’t wear red. She said it was for old ladies.
“I’m Callie Harcourt,” the woman said. Del’s mom. “Please come in. I’ve been anxious to meet you, but every time I asked, Tatum said you were working. You’re a very busy man.”
Any invitations to this home were news to him. “I’m a farmer,” he said, which, to him, explained everything. “But I usually make time to attend Tatum’s functions,” he added. He wasn’t perfect. But he tried.
“We’ve had a couple of barbecues,” the woman said, ushering him into a bright hallway with cathedral ceilings before leading the way to a great room with tile floors and voluptuous plush beige furniture that looked as if a guy could relax back into it and drink a beer if he had a mind to.
The art on the walls and various tables reminded him of some of the pieces out in his barn. Except these were in exquisite condition, hardly resembling his dusty and scarred versions.
“Tatum says you’re in the old Beacham place,” Callie Malone said, crossing over to what appeared to be a wet bar on the far side of the room.
“That’s right.” Tanner stood his ground about midroom. Ready to take on whatever came his way over the next few minutes.
He wasn’t made of money, but he was as powerful as the next guy when it came to protecting his own.
Callie stood with one arm on the bar. “The Beachams were friends of my parents. I can remember attending summer parties there as a kid. Those barns were fascinating.”
“I’m told they raised horses.”
“Arabians.” Callie nodded. “So sad, the way he died. She just let the place fall into disrepair after that. I’m told she’s in a home someplace up north.”