This Side of Desperation

By Nikki Kincaid

A missing child. A one-armed detective failing at life. A government-sponsored application to conceive a child. What could go wrong?

Disgraced ex-cop Sarah Malone has hit rock bottom. She lost an arm to the same brutal attack that killed her partner, the private detective business they shared is bankrupt, and her divorce is final. So when wealthy Mrs. Perrine comes to her for help finding her missing granddaughter, Sarah takes the case. What has she got to lose? 

 

Determined to prove herself, Sarah will do whatever it takes to find the missing child. But in this world where fertility rates have plummeted and human trafficking has soared, finding a missing child is both dangerous and, some would say, foolhardy. 

 

As Sarah digs in, she realizes that sometimes the truth is far more complicated than you could ever imagine. Will finding the missing child be the key to making up for her past or will it add one more item to her ever-growing list of mistakes? 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikki Kincaid
• Release date: May 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201290047

Nikki Kincaid

Nikki grew up with a love of all things crime, noir, and the darker side of life. She lives an ordinary, crime-free life with her husband in Montana. I love hearing from readers and other fans of thrilling fiction. Please visit me at NikkiKincaid.comor drop me a line on social media!

Book preview

1

SARAH

A single drink at the Hotel Grand Prioutt cost more than a week's worth of groceries, which is why, when I found myself in the bar on a Wednesday afternoon, I ordered a glass of water with lemon. I didn't know I had to specify ice so I sipped the lukewarm beverage with my right hand, keeping my left arm in my lap.

I'd dressed up for the occasion: my best sweater, a pair of jeans that were becoming too small, and pointy-toed flats I'd bought for a friend's wedding six years ago. The blister formed almost as soon as I'd put them on, and I couldn't find a parking spot so I'd had to walk almost a full block to the hotel, cringing with every step.

But Mrs. Agnes Perrine had been one of Charlie's best clients and this was the first time she'd contacted me since Charlie's death. In fact, when Charlie died, I'd put her file in the drawer of clients who would probably never bother with a one-armed ex-cop-turned-private-detective. I didn't have the charm, wit, or connections of my former partner.

So when I saw her name appear on the cracked screen of my cellphone, I'd kicked Meow Mix in my rush to answer it. The tabby hissed as he darted under the couch. I answered in what I hoped was a professional (read: non-desperate) tone of voice.

Mrs. Perrine had always been generous to Charlie when she needed him to track down her opioid-addicted daughter. But the old woman had been MIA for three years—ever since I'd joined Charlie at the firm. Charlie said it was because her daughter had finally gotten clean after giving birth.

Motherhood has that effect on people, I guess.

I wouldn't know. I'd never been lucky (or rich or poor) enough to qualify for H.S., the procedure that helped so many women conceive since fertility rates plummeted a generation ago. And besides, divorce has a way of stopping even the slightest chance of pregnancy.

Miss Malone?

I'd been about to take a sip of water. The liquid sloshed over the glass and down my chin. I twisted around.

Agnes Perrine was as stately as she sounded on the phone. Short but thin, salt and pepper hair sprayed to perfection, a pressed pantsuit, complete with a purse I'm sure cost more than I make in a year.

Mrs. Perrine, I said, knocking the table in my scramble to rise. It's a pleasure.

Mrs. Perrine frowned, her bony hand cold. Pleasure's all mine. Her eyes flicked to my prosthesis but didn't linger.

Can I get you anything? The water's delicious.

It was a joke, but Mrs. Perrine didn't smile. She raised a finger at the waitress. Vodka tonic, please.

Right away, ma'am.

Mrs. P settled herself across from me. I was sorry to hear of Charlie's passing.

A ring of water pooled around my glass. I wiped at it with my good hand, keeping my left arm in my lap. Since the shooting I found if I kept it out of sight, I could hide the fact that the arm, from the elbow down, was fake.

If he hired you, she continued, I trust you are as discreet as he was?

Of course, I said, adding, Ma'am.

Good. She waited until the waitress placed the vodka in front of her and disappeared again. And I also trust he had a file on my daughter?

He did.

Mrs. Perrine sighed. Then I won't bore you with her history. It's enough to say she's gone off again.

I'm sorry to hear that.

Mrs. Perrine scowled. Only this time, the fool has taken my granddaughter with her.

My stomach twisted. Painkillers, illicit fertility drugs, and a new drug called vex that gave users a paranoid euphoria combined with a mistaken belief in their own immortality were the hottest things on the black market at the moment. It was no place for a child.

I need you to find them, Mrs. Perrine said. Find them and bring them back. Her lips thinned, wrinkling the skin like an old school marm. Or at least my granddaughter. Sophie can rot in whatever drug den she's holed up in.

Yeesh.

Mrs. Perrine— I started.

If that girl took that sweet, innocent child into one of those places she no more deserves my love than the next junkie on the street.

Addiction is a disease, Mrs. Perrine.

The old woman hit me with such a glower that I cringed and backpedaled. I mean, it's a disease, yes, but she shouldn't have taken your granddaughter if that's—if that's where she's gone.

Of course that's where she's gone, Mrs. Perrine snapped. I've seen enough of her falling off the wagon to recognize the signs. She's been a bear to live with. One minute anxious, the next lashing out, playing with Eranda then abandoning the poor child to go sleep it off. Yesterday she took Eranda and never came home.

Do you have any idea where they went?

None at all. The old woman sounded stoic, but I'd seen enough family members of the addicted to know inside she was terrified for her granddaughter, and although it came out as anger, she was also afraid for her daughter.

I need you to find her, Mrs. Perrine continued. Find her and bring back my grandchild.

As my lemon water grew more and more sour, and lukewarm, Mrs. Perrine recited every person who might know where Sophie had gone. She gave me phone numbers, addresses, and locations Sophie had used to get drugs in the past.

And then there's Tyler Vasquez. Eranda's father.

Not a fan, huh?

Ha. It was the closest to a smile I'd seen from her. The good-for-nothing has been in and out of rehab almost as much as Sophie. Why we ever let him father her child…

It was H.S.? I asked. Hypersalpingoectasia, or H.S., was a procedure developed by some enterprising pharmaceutical company to thicken the uterine lining. Combined with a drug that pushed underachieving ovaries to ovulate, it helped fertility rates, but it also required a bank account the size of Mrs. Perrine’s, or government assistance for the rest of us.

Mrs. Perrine threw back her vodka tonic in one gulp. I promised Sophie if she could stay clean—and find another sperm donor—we'd help pay for a sibling for Eranda.

Addiction—especially to opioids—was a long, hard-fought battle that usually took years to overcome.

She relapsed right after Eranda turned one. Sophie and Tyler got into a fight and a week later, our housekeeper found her unconscious in an upstairs bedroom. We sent her to rehab and kicked Tyler out.

Could she be with him?

I've tried calling but I can't get hold of him. Maybe he changed his number.

OK, I said, collecting Mrs. Perrine's notes with my right hand, I'll see what I can find.

Our business complete, I expected Mrs. Perrine to leave, but she remained where she was, her unblinking gray eyes fixed on me.

Is there anything else? I asked, feeling my cheeks burn. She would ask me about my arm. They always do.

This can't find its way to the press, she said.

Wh—? I stopped at the look of fear that crossed the old woman's face. It was the first real fear I'd seen.

I mean it. No press. No cops.

I could understand the press—Mrs. Perrine's husband was a prominent businessman in the city with an eye on political office. They'd kept their daughter's problems from the press and tabloids thus far, they couldn't risk it now. But why no cops?

OK, I said. No press. No cops.

Mrs. Perrine's shoulders relaxed. Eranda is innocent in all of this.

That was a weird thing to say. "Yes.