Mangled Memory, page 28
“Or should we consider that it wasn’t an attempt on you at all, but on me? And with you at the hospital, they came back for me since were you out of the way.” Her voice is quiet and somber.
I pull over to the curb on a side street in our neighborhood. She’s never let up on the story of the masked men the night I was shot. “I always assumed they were targeting me. If I—” The words nearly choke me. I refuse to finish the thought. If I brought this down on her.
“We’re safe. I know it. Though I’m going to ask you not to be outside alone until we can get to the bottom of this. I know we’re walled, but the hot tub, the deck, all of that is too open for my comfort right now.” She opens her mouth, but I squeeze her hand in warning. “Please don’t argue.”
Her eyes flare. “I was going to agree. But it goes both ways. You have to be smart when you’re around town.” She mimics my voice as she adds, “Please don’t argue. We should probably get some blankets for the safe room, and something besides powdered milk. Also, maybe a fully-charged kindle and—”
My laughter has her slicing her eyes to mine.
“What?” That one word snaps from her lips.
“Princess, I don’t plan on making a habit of being in there, but if you need some luxuries, far be it from me to withhold them.”
Before we can make it to our driveway, both of our phones vibrate in unison. The sigh that leaves me is met with a gasp from my wife, whose face glows by the light of her phone.
“It’s a group text from Liam. Mom is in the hospital at Anschutz.”
“Do you want to change or go like this?”
“Change. But fast.”
She’s out the car and through the back door before I can get the garage door down. I do that now, reflexively, all the while watching my surroundings. Two attempts… Correction—at least two attempts and being a sitting duck waiting for number three is causing a spiral. I’ve stopped leaving the house without a pistol. Not that it would’ve helped the night I was shot.
And was that bullet meant for me? Or was it meant for my wife?
Ayla
Where is he? We need to go.
Christian enters the closet, thumbs flying over his phone. I don’t even know where mine is. Probably still in the car, if I had to guess.
My silk romper is on the floor, stepped on and tossed aside for jeans and a sweater. “Hurry!” It’s all I can say as I jump into shoes that should’ve been unlaced and don’t want to allow my feet to slide in fast enough. Finally ripped open, I shove my feet in before I grab a beanie and a scarf on the way out.
“Sixty seconds behind you.”
How is that possible? And why is it always a thing that it takes me so much longer to get ready?
I’m in the passenger seat of the car, tying my second shoe when Christian slides into the driver’s seat, phone to his ear, and begins navigating us out of the garage. Lights sweep the driveway, and an eerie sense of déjà vu rises, but I refuse to think on it as we take off into the night.
“Is that you following us?” Christian pulls the phone from his face, presses a button for Bluetooth, and toggles to another app.
“Yes, sir.” Fitz’s voice reverberates through the SUV.
“We’re heading to Anschutz. I need you to lead.”
“Yes, sir.” The line disconnects as Christian holds the phone out to me. “Find Smithson Dohltree’s number for me please.”
I do and hit the phone icon as ringing fills the void.
“Barone?”
“Smithson. Sorry for the late call. I need some help.”
“What can I do for you?”
“My mother-in-law, Janie Murphy, was admitted this evening. I need security around her room, and I need the best of the best when it comes to Neuro attending to her.”
“Of course. I’ll make the calls now.”
“Appreciate it, Smithson.”
“Anytime, Barone. Hope she’s okay.”
I turn to my husband. “Who is Smithson Dohltree?” I stare at the name in his contacts to make sure I have it right.
“The Chairman of the board at CU-Anschutz.”
“You know the head of the board?”
He turns and looks at me for longer than I expect. “I sit on the board there, baby. Have for years. We”— he emphasizes the word—“are also donors.” Quietly, he adds, “I wonder if that’s why Janie was brought here instead of some place closer to the house.”
Somehow those words don’t feel like they were meant to be uttered, more as if they were musings that came out without intent.
Then, still focused on me, a smile breaks across his face. “Ayla, what are you wearing?”
I look down and am horrified but allow a laugh to bubble up through the tension in the car. I have on jeans and a sweater, all right, but it’s one I no doubt bought as a tacky Christmas sweater, complete with pom poms on it. I’m wearing lace up rubber boots, and my scarf is cashmere. “Maybe I should’ve spent another minute in the selection process.”
“Your mom will be pleased we put her first, although if you keep showing up dressed like you are, she’s going to assume you need a personal stylist.”
“Apparently, I do.” I lift my arms out from my sides as the hospital comes into view.
We pull into the garage and circle several times until we come to reserved parking spaces near the side doors. Fitz, who let us lead from the time we entered the garage, slides into a space near us and exits, his hand inside his jacket, clearing the garage as if we are in a training exercise.
The three of us will turn heads, I’m sure of it. To my right is the former Army Ranger with his bulk and height in head-to-toe black, who must have thighs thicker than tree trunks, with a military buzz cut and an eat-shit look. On my left is my gorgeous husband, suit coat abandoned and tie gone, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is disheveled as if he ran his fingers through it one too many times in his quest to get here. I’m bringing up the center with my very questionable outfit and evening-out, drama makeup. My boots squeak on the floor with every step. I’m the oozy filling in a hot guy sandwich.
I apologize when I snicker. Both men turn to look at me, but I wave them off.
“Janie Murphy?”
The receptionist types something into the computer before looking between us all. “And you are?” How she has the guts to ask is beyond me. She must have a will of steel.
“I’m Ayla Murphy Barone.” My voice carries an authority I will never get used to.
“Mrs. Barone, your mother is in room 3112. Through these double doors, go to the end of the hall and turn right. Go to the end of that hall and there’s an elevator bank that will take you to the third-floor breezeway. Take that to the end and they’ll buzz you in there.”
I repeat it in my head. End of the hall, turn right. End of that hall, elevators, breezeway to the end. Okay.
We move for the double doors and the clack of an electric lock unbolts and we begin the trek.
“Any idea what we should expect?” I ask and reach for my phone that won’t stop buzzing.
The group chat is popping off.
Cian: En route. Any news yet?
Liam: Not that I’ve heard. I just arrived.
Me: We’re downstairs. Where are you?
Liam: Stuck at security. What the fuck.
“Where’s security?” I pause my steps and the men flanking me do the same.
Christian peers over my head and silently communicates with Fitz in a language I don’t speak. He turns and walks back to where we came from, grabbing his phone. “Liam,” he starts as the Army Ranger to my right, grabs my elbow and turns me forward.
“Mrs. Barone.”
We make our way to the elevators after making the right.
“Do you ever sleep, Fitz?”
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out.
Christian: Cian, room 3112. Show ID at security and you’ll be let in.
Cian: Thanks
Me: Stop texting and driving.
We step inside the elevator, and I stare at the bars on my phone. I’ve lost signal.
“I’m assuming that was a rhetorical question.”
“Sort of.”
“You get used to it.”
“That’s not something I want to get used to.”
We exit onto the breezeway and find another set of double doors, my phone beginning its buzzing again. I press the security button and a disembodied voice comes after the squawking of the system. “May I help you?”
“Ayla Murphy Barone here for Janie Murphy.”
The line clicks and there’s a metal clank telling me the magnet has been disengaged. The doors part, one in and one out as we enter the overly circular area bustling with movement.
“Janie Murphy? 3112?” I ask tapping the desk with my fingers.
The nurse nods toward the corner. “She’s in testing but Mr. Murphy is in there.” I hurry that way, Fitz on my heels, his long strides eating up the distance.
I knock and enter without waiting for a reply. Dad sits alone, overflowing the pleather chair, scrolling his phone. He looks up and his face hardens when Fitz steps in behind me. He rises from his chair, extending a meaty finger our way.
“You can wait outside.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Rambo.”
“Dad!” I whirl to Fitz. “I’m so sorry for my father. That was uncalled for.”
“Don’t apologize for me. I have nothing to be sorry for. Parading your goon in here is uncalled for, especially when your mom is… fragile.”
“PLS creates fragility. That’s not my fault. You can—”
“You remember?” My dad interjects.
Remember? What the hell? No, I have no memory of any of it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t bluff. “Of course, I remember!”
There’s a whoosh of air just as Dad shouts, “Then why haven’t you been helping me like you were before?”
What.
The.
Fuck.
My barely audible “What?” is echoed by Liam’s much louder one…
… and Christian’s lethal one.
36
hide and seek shelter
Christian
If ever the rug could’ve been pulled out from under me, it would be this.
“What?” I repeat with what little breath is in my lungs. The question wrenches from me as my mind spins and my gut bottoms out.
There’s glee in Seamus’ face. There’s no other word for it, it was fucking glee. He knew what he was doing spewing that fucked-up shit.
Shock is written all over Fitz.
But Ayla. The panic in her features—the guilt, the dread, the betrayal. My wife who sucks at lying is… exposed.
With every breath, my shock turns into something far more lethal, far more aggressive—wrath.
I’m irate.
Helping him. She was helping Seamus. But helping him do what exactly. And what did he mean by “before”?
More so, though, it was Ayla yelling “Of course, I remember” that rocketed me from livid to violent. She remembers. She remembers and she’s been playing me, using me for her own gain or for Seamus Murphy’s.
“What the fuck.” I seethe in a voice that can only be described as dangerous.
The meaty palm that hits my chest knocks the air from my lungs. I look into the ominous eyes of Liam Murphy. “Let’s go.”
“The fuck?”
“Let’s go.” His tone is as menacing as my own. “Now.”
“Take your hands off me.”
“Outside.”
As if I answer to this prick. I look down at his hand before deciding I’m done with this charade. My “wife,” or so I thought, can— I don’t finish that thought. I can’t.
I stalk from the room.
My brother-in-law stares me down. How that’s possible with his shorter stature is only due to his overwhelming presence. “Calm down.”
I know he didn’t just try to pull that shit with me. “Don’t. Ayla—”
“No. Shut the fuck up and listen, Barone. We both know Dad is a snake. We both know we walked in on something that could be… who the fuck knows what when it comes to him. Go home. I’ll stay with my sister.”
“I don’t give a—”
“Stop.” He cuts me off with his words and a slice of his palm through the air, his tattooed fingers leaving a trail in their wake. “That’s my sister.” He pokes his chest as if to emphasize his ownership. “One, I’ll keep her safe. Two, I won’t listen to a bad word about her. Not even from you. Three, she’ll have me at her back no matter what she’s done.”
“And if she’s been in league with your dad and lying to all of us?”
“You know and I know Ayla can’t lie for shit.”
“And if he’s setting her up?” I’m running out of steam, anger melting into something far more destructive.
“I’ll pull the flesh off of any fucker who hurts her. I don’t have those pesky principles most people do regarding revenge or retribution, especially when it comes to her. That applies to my sperm donor the same way it applies to everyone.” He pauses. “Including you. You hurt her…” His words hang there. His threat isn’t implied. It’s explicit.
I sigh, looking at the man I trust. Or trusted. Who the fuck knows anymore?
“Right.” There’s nothing more to offer, so I turn and leave, passing Cian as he exits the elevator.
“Hey,” he calls. “What’s wrong?”
My only response is to lift a hand in acknowledgment. If I had to guess, my face says not now as I move past him, pushing the button to head to the garage.
Me: Meet me at the house in thirty.
I don’t bother to check for a response. Ren will be there. The list of people I can trust is less than one right now. My liar of a half-brother is the only person with nothing to gain from Ayla’s betrayal. At least I think so.
The drive home is a blur.
How do I come to terms with this farce of a marriage? She made a mockery of our vows. My “wife” has reduced my promises to mere words, casting aside her own hollow declarations.
What—if any of it—was real? Was the whole thing a set-up? And how far back does it go?
Was it just the fall? Was it an elaborate scheme that she elected to participate in? If so, why? Her supposed amnesia was convenient. What does it take to fake that?
I’ve always said she’s a shit liar. Perhaps she’s the greatest actress I’ve ever known, showing tells at the right times, not knowing things she always should have, convenient vulnerability around inconvenient truths.
I’ve spent six months dealing with this bullshit. I’ve worried about her mental health, finding the best doctors, fighting for her care, understanding when she doesn’t want to talk about that or her therapy sessions with her secret therapist.
Everything around this joke of a relationship is a riddle with no answer.
I’ve stressed over her physical safety, her jaunts through the woods, her standing too close to the edge. I’ve had a man on her and security tightened around our home for the unknowable enemy she’s convinced me is coming for us.
This woman has accused me of control, of subjugation, of fucking cheating. Hell, she’s assumed I tried to kill her. Who else has she told that to? Is she playing others with the idea that I failed at my “murder attempt”?
The man who’s stopped at nothing to bring her back to us, to be everything she needs, and she’s been fucking me over the whole time.
I’ve been hustled by a professional of epic proportions.
If she and Seamus are in on it—if they’re working in tandem—why did the conservatorship piece fall through on his end? Why did it need to be me? Or was I just an inconvenience in the whole thing, accidently participating where I had no business being?
What would she—or her bastard of a father—get from that?
I hold the papers. If this whole thing is a charade, I can control every outcome—financial, physical, relational. I could own my business and hers, have complete fucking domination.
Until death.
I’m mulling over all the questions that assault me when the door to the sitting room opens and Ren stalks my way. My desk is littered with paperwork and an open bottle of bourbon that’s too expensive to guzzle as fast as I am.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon after leaving.”
“I didn’t expect to need to call.” I lift the bottle of liquor in invitation.
He waves it off. His face registers curiosity. “Not tonight. Thanks.” He looks to the seat, and it dawns on me he’s waiting for me.
“Please have a seat.” I give myself a healthy pour and lean back in my chair.
“I know you’re investigating me. I need you to also investigate my—” I start to say my wife but can’t get the words out. “I need to you to dig into Ayla. Start two years before we met.” I provide him with the date of our “chance” meeting at Rondelé.
“Liam is working on Seamus’ background, as you know.” Hell, it was only this afternoon when the three of us met to discuss CAB, LLC and the Murphys’ involvement with the Laotian investors. “But where you see overlap with CAB or C-Bar or any entity that weaves a layer with me or Ayla or that man, please dig deeper.”
“Liam has more connections in this area.”
“Liam is otherwise engaged.” I stare at my half-brother, sizing him up. I loathe being vulnerable in front of anyone. To be vulnerable with an employee is a death knell. Especially one with a connection to me personally. One that could be exploited.
I choose instead to hedge, offering a little, while withholding the majority. “Seamus made accusations tonight that have me wondering about how married”—I try not to choke on the word—“our businesses might be.”
“If I may speak freely,” Ren begins to gauge my reaction.
