Mangled Memory, page 30
Ren Gallo: They tampered with it immediately. They disabled the motion sensors in real time. Which means they knew our system better than we did. Better than Liam did. That’s scary.
Me: I’m wondering if it was an inside job.
Ren Gallo: I’m not saying that. Even Fitz, who disappeared and reappeared that night, or Liam… Neither of them would jeopardize you. Who in your crew would? Who could have access?
Me: I’ll think on that. But keep this between us. No reason to tip off Young if he’s dirty
Ren Gallo: He’s not dirty. I’d bet my life on it. But I won’t say a thing to him. The fewer people who know, the easier it will be to find the leak.
Flipping back to Liam, I ask what I should know but don’t.
Me: I want a list of everyone who could have access to the system, when they got it, what permissions they have, etc.
Liam Murphy: On it.
So, Ayla wasn’t lying about the masked men. This being in the dark is bullshit.
I toggle to the phone app, select one of five contacts in my favorites and press go.
Two rings later, she answers. “Hello?”
“Hey.”
Silence.
Man, things weren’t this awkward when we started dating.
“You were right,” I start.
“Of course I was. But about what this time?”
“The men skulking around the house the night I was shot. Your brother discovered the video was altered.”
“And you believe him?” Her emphasis on the last word tells me all I need to know.
Right… “I wanted you to know that the threats are greater than we knew.”
“Greater than you knew, you mean. Since you didn’t believe me.”
Apparently, this isn’t the time for this.
“Stick near Fitz.”
“Since you’re never here, that would be the obvious choice.”
She’s pissed. I’m emotionally exhausted, and our conversation is going nowhere.
“Bye, Princess.” I disconnect before we can say more.
That’s it. I’m going home. I can’t do this anymore.
Before tossing my phone down, I flip to the cameras in the house and watch Ayla. She paces before stopping, twisting her head, and looking at the camera to give me the bird.
Well, at least I know this Ayla.
The question is how well does she truly know me.
When I arrive home forty-five minutes later, there’s another sticky note on the counter, this time on a manila file folder.
Christian,
I’m sorry.
I was bluffing when I told Dad I remembered. I was so shocked by his question I wanted to see what he would reveal.
I guess my bluff worked, because you—a man who says he knows me like no one else on the planet—believed it as much as he did.
There’s nothing I can say to convince you what I feel for you is real. This is the only thing I can think to show you I meant it when I told you I love you.
Yours,
Ayla
I open the folder to find legal ownership to Aspen & Evergreen signed over to me.
No. No. No.
This isn’t what I want. I want her dreams to come true for her. I want everything for her not for myself.
I tuck the documents away in my desk for safekeeping. I have no intention of taking her business. This back and forth has to stop. I dial her and follow the song to find her phone on the mudroom floor near the hall tree.
Opening the garage, I see all our vehicles are there.
What’s going on?
I flip the security app on my phone as I yell her name throughout the house. Silence is the only thing that greets me. I run to our bedroom, all the while calling her name. By the time the app opens and I see she’s gone, I’m dialing Fitz.
“Young. Leave a message.”
Fuck!
I stop, flip my phone onto speaker, and call Ren. I get the computer voice for generic voicemail.
I think I’m going to lose my shit when my phone rings. “Yeah?”
“Barone.”
“Liam, she’s—”
“I’m sending a pin. Three men walked in your back door and kidnapped Ayla and Young. Black suburban, newer model year. License plate six alpha tango one two one whiskey.”
“Where is she? Where is my wife?”
“I’m following the SUV now. We’re in Lakewood, heading to— Fuck.”
“Liam? Liam!”
“Check your text. It’s one of Dad’s properties. Bring backup.” He disconnects before I can tell him he’s my only backup.
I can barely think as I fly through intersections, red lights be damned, winding my way to Lakewood. The map app is constantly talking and the voice grates on my nerves. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life, and that’s including the days at Ayla’s bedside when we didn’t know if she’d wake up.
I knew I’d be by her side in thick and thin. If I sat there waiting for her to wake, there was hope. Knowing someone took her from our home and they could take her from me permanently, there is no surviving that.
The drive is a race against the clock, though I have no idea what happens when the clock hits zero. Liam never calls or messages again, and my repeated calls to Ren go unanswered and I receive no responses.
I skid to a stop in front of the building, the brakes screeching and the smell of burning rubber pungent as I exit the SUV. If I was supposed to come in stealth, I never got that memo. Then again, never in my life have I been stealthy.
I check my phone one last time, hoping for some indication from Liam of the situation I’m walking into. There’s nothing there and nothing to prepare me for what I see walking in the door.
38
high-dollar hooker
Christian
Fitz is prone on the concrete floor. Blood oozes from his side and one leg is at an angle that doesn’t exist on a human skeleton without being manipulated into that position. I dial nine-one-one while checking his vitals. He’s breathing but the pants come in shallow bursts.
“Jefferson County emergency services. How may I help you?”
I give the address and the basics of the situation.
When the operator asks me to remain on the line, I decline. It’s an invitation I cannot accept.
Sharp, indecipherable words are being barked from another room, if you can call it a room. Metal studs run from ceiling to floor. In places, sheetrock has been installed. In other places there’s nothing but ductwork and wire hanging from where the ceiling tiles should be.
I have no clue whether those cop dramas or movies are accurate, but I assume an actor has done more research than I have in this kind of situation, so I flatten my back to the wall and slide along, peering around corners as if bullets can’t slice through the pressed paper.
Everything changes when I hear a scream that can only be my wife’s and her angry tearful words. “No. Don’t hurt him.”
I run. I run as fast and as hard as I can, giving no fucks about alerting anyone to my presence or any consequences that go along with that. That’s my Princess. She’s mine. And no one hurts her.
Skidding around the corner, my blood freezes and my mind stutters to a halt.
Cian is strapped to a chair. The side of his face is pulpy and purple, and one eye is so swollen he can’t see out of it. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. A gun is held to his head by a man wearing a black mask eerily similar to the ones used by the men who cased my house the night I was shot.
The rest of the firearms in the room—five or so—are trained on me. All but one. And that one is aimed on Seamus Murphy…
… And it’s held by my wife.
Her hands tremble, and the anguish in her face is enough to bring me to my knees.
“Princess?”
She shakes her head. Her red hair spins out around her as tears stream down her face and her nose releases what it can no longer hold inside.
“Princess?”
“No.” The word is torn from her like it was ripped from her very soul. I have no idea what or who she’s saying no to.
“Do it,” the apparent leader of the group says. “Last time we ask, Princess.” The word drips with sarcasm, and I want to shove it back into his mouth for the tone he’s taking with her. “Pull the trigger or your brother will know what it’s like to have copper and lead slice through his brain.”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
No way. She either kills her dad or they kill Cian.
“Don’t do it, sis.” Cian grits through clenched teeth just in time to have two of those teeth fly from his mouth with the force of a punch.
The sound of her mournful wails is more than I can take. How do I save her from this?
Sirens scream in the distance and the handful of masked men stare from face to face in the group. It was barely controlled chaos before. Now it resembles cockroaches scurrying from the light and not knowing how to avoid getting squashed.
Everything happens at once. The goon who was threatening Cian drops to the ground. Brain bits and blood ooze from his skull.
The lead goon turns on Ayla, lifts his weapon, and squeezes.
I do the only thing I can—I dive.
Ayla
“Noooo!” My throat burns with the fire of my scream.
Shots ring out. They ricochet off the concrete and zip near the men I love. Dad topples backward, knocking me over like a pin in a bowling alley.
I don’t have a moment to see if he’s hit. The moment I’m down, hands lift me. This has happened before. Like hell, I’ll let it happen again. I thrash and fight, biting down where I’m able at the rough hands that manhandle me. “Let me go.”
“Ayla-girl, settle.” Those are the only words I could hear right now that would zap the fight right out of me. I sag into my brother, sobbing and mumbling words that have no meaning, but are everything.
“I love you. I love Ci. I’d never—”
“Hush. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Christian—” I start.
“Later. You first.”
The man who could shoot someone without a second thought holds me tightly to his chest and runs with me to safety. He deposits me in Christian’s SUV parked right out front, checks me over clinically, rubbing hands over me looking for bruises or cuts, and then slams the door and runs back into the fray.
I have news for him. It’s not my body that’s the problem. The abrasions on my mind will be worse. The brutal memory of holding a gun to Dad’s head and seeing him question whether I would do it to save Cian. The anger and resignation in his face when he realized I would. We both know that if I’d had to, I would have.
And that was why… at least one reason. Because of his anger. No man worth his salt would allow his son to be killed in his place. No father would allow a child to be sacrificed for his comfort. And knowing that Dad not just wanted it—but expected it—was the moment I knew.
I knew he’d always be Seamus first and Seamus second, and everyone else somewhere down the list.
Cian telling me to allow his death so I didn’t have to live with the guilt of Dad’s murder on my hands was icing on the cake. The difference in the two men couldn’t be more stark. One day when Cian has kids, he’ll know that his kind heart, not his choices, will be the thing that allowed them to exist. His bravery made a maniacal choice easy.
Though, I’m so glad I didn’t have to see it through to its logical end.
Ambulances and police cruisers screech to a halt in front of the building. Cops in full riot gear with guns drawn approach the building slowly and methodically. Fire trucks bring up the rear moments later. The sweep of different lights swirling over and over bathes the car, bounces off the mirrors, and nauseates me. It’s a red and white rave that I never want to attend again. Hell, I didn’t want to attend in the first place.
If I hadn’t refused Fitz when he insisted on that damn safe room, I could’ve skipped this fucked-up party. I didn’t see him after they shot him and dragged me away. I hope he’s alive and the EMTs can save him. I don’t know how I’ll live with myself with any other outcome.
A figure runs from the shadows, crouched low to avoid being seen, and yanks on the locked door handle. Are they stupid? I’m not letting them in.
“Ayla.” My name is a whisper shout from the driver’s side.
Liam?
I unlock the doors, and he dives into the car, starting it and tearing away from the scene.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Everyone not in need of medical attention is being arrested. I’m trying to avoid any questions as to why I was there.”
“But Christian—”
“Christian isn’t being arrested.”
Fuck. No. No. No. I drop my head back to the seat.
I can’t take anymore. “Take me back, Li. If my husband needs an ambulance I need to be there!” There’s no authority in my voice, no argument I can make to dissuade him.
He says nothing but doesn’t turn around. He drives us to his place. It’s a new townhome development just inside the limits of Ken Caryl, nestled right in the foothill. My brusque, tatted brother with both of his ears pierced lives in an end-unit townhome in Ken Caryl. My snicker turns into an out-and-out laugh.
“Something you want to share?”
I shake my head and wave my hand at the same time, but don’t add to the conversation.
He parks out front and escorts me into his home. If I’ve been here before, I don’t know it. I don’t make a fuss about that and neither does he, but he points out the half bath downstairs which I avail myself of immediately.
I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My cruel day and the ruthless choices I was forced to make are written all over my face. The red splotches, the puffy eyes, the swollen red nose—all are evidence of heart wrenching moments served up one after another.
At least I’m not callous enough that I’m unaffected. Small victories.
When I exit the powder room, Liam is on the phone. “Got it. Thanks” He looks up at me as he drops the phone from his face. “They’re at Porter.”
“If I never have to visit a hospital again, it will be too soon.”
“Right there with you. Except for babies. That shit is not happening at home. Though, at this rate, Christian may never let you out of the house.”
I stare dumbfounded at my brother. My brows cinch together as if them touching each other will have this all make sense.
“What? The baby talk makes you mute?”
“No. I’ve just never heard you say that many words in a row. Ever.” I pause and shake my head as if I can clear it. Then mostly to myself, I add, “And you were talking about babies.”
“Yours. Not babies in general.”
“My brother, the sentimental fool.”
His bark of laughter is the lightest thing I’ve heard all day. And it’s a good thing, because when we hit the hospital, we discover the fallout of Dad’s “business partners” not getting their way.
Mom is already in the waiting area. Cian is in the emergency room. Fitz is in surgery. There has been no update on Christian.
My oldest brother has a broken eye socket. Miraculously, he doesn’t have a shattered jaw though he does have a referral for a plastic surgeon and a maxillofacial specialist. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. I think I’d skip the whole business and choose a coma for a week.
The bone around the eye had a clean break with no fragmenting. Best case scenario or so they say. I’d argue that not having a break that close to your eye and therefore no risk to your vision would be better, but science people don’t listen to “people in the arts” with the respect they should.
Or hysterical sisters either, it seems.
When the time is right, I’ll give him shit for needing a plastic surgeon, but it won’t be right for a long, long while.
Liam slides his phone from his pocket, thumbs the screen, and walks away without another word.
I hope he’s getting an update on my husband. Why haven’t we heard anything?
I fall asleep before he returns, unable to keep my eyes open anymore. Long day, adrenaline, and stress form a nauseating cocktail that I’m helpless to overcome.
I awaken several hours later, wishing I’d rethought the decision to contort myself into the shape of a square hospital chair when I passed out.
It’s well over eight hours later when Cian wanders out to the waiting room where Liam, Mom, and I are fighting to stay calm. He looks ready to faceplant in exhaustion.
I rush him, wrapping him up in my arms, needing for one moment to have him all to myself. “You came for me.” The words seem to come from nowhere. Just like the tears that roll down my face.
Cian squeezes me and looks over my head to our brother. Something passes between them that I’m too emotional to figure out and too exhausted to care about. He pulls back to look at me, really look at me, and boops my nose. That causes the tears to stream.
My brother is safe.
He isn’t dead.
And I’m not the reason he knows the feel of copper and lead in his body.
Our moment is over too quickly and we’re surrounded by Liam and Mom. She runs her fingertips delicately down the side of his face, all the while the color drains from hers. “Cian,” she starts on a choke. “Oh, my love. I can’t believe this happened to you.”
His one good eye slices to her. His lips remain closed. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. To speak, to breathe. God forbid he wants to clench his teeth or do anything to express dissatisfaction.
He wraps me under his arm, pulling my front to his side. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. His hand is too tight, but it’s like he needs me for his own strength.
“Do you want to come sit?” Mom asks.
“You’re coming to my house.” I say. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m no Florence Nightingale, but we have great espresso and Corinne can make any soup you want.” And it’s safe. “Please. Just for a few days. For me.”
Me: I’m wondering if it was an inside job.
Ren Gallo: I’m not saying that. Even Fitz, who disappeared and reappeared that night, or Liam… Neither of them would jeopardize you. Who in your crew would? Who could have access?
Me: I’ll think on that. But keep this between us. No reason to tip off Young if he’s dirty
Ren Gallo: He’s not dirty. I’d bet my life on it. But I won’t say a thing to him. The fewer people who know, the easier it will be to find the leak.
Flipping back to Liam, I ask what I should know but don’t.
Me: I want a list of everyone who could have access to the system, when they got it, what permissions they have, etc.
Liam Murphy: On it.
So, Ayla wasn’t lying about the masked men. This being in the dark is bullshit.
I toggle to the phone app, select one of five contacts in my favorites and press go.
Two rings later, she answers. “Hello?”
“Hey.”
Silence.
Man, things weren’t this awkward when we started dating.
“You were right,” I start.
“Of course I was. But about what this time?”
“The men skulking around the house the night I was shot. Your brother discovered the video was altered.”
“And you believe him?” Her emphasis on the last word tells me all I need to know.
Right… “I wanted you to know that the threats are greater than we knew.”
“Greater than you knew, you mean. Since you didn’t believe me.”
Apparently, this isn’t the time for this.
“Stick near Fitz.”
“Since you’re never here, that would be the obvious choice.”
She’s pissed. I’m emotionally exhausted, and our conversation is going nowhere.
“Bye, Princess.” I disconnect before we can say more.
That’s it. I’m going home. I can’t do this anymore.
Before tossing my phone down, I flip to the cameras in the house and watch Ayla. She paces before stopping, twisting her head, and looking at the camera to give me the bird.
Well, at least I know this Ayla.
The question is how well does she truly know me.
When I arrive home forty-five minutes later, there’s another sticky note on the counter, this time on a manila file folder.
Christian,
I’m sorry.
I was bluffing when I told Dad I remembered. I was so shocked by his question I wanted to see what he would reveal.
I guess my bluff worked, because you—a man who says he knows me like no one else on the planet—believed it as much as he did.
There’s nothing I can say to convince you what I feel for you is real. This is the only thing I can think to show you I meant it when I told you I love you.
Yours,
Ayla
I open the folder to find legal ownership to Aspen & Evergreen signed over to me.
No. No. No.
This isn’t what I want. I want her dreams to come true for her. I want everything for her not for myself.
I tuck the documents away in my desk for safekeeping. I have no intention of taking her business. This back and forth has to stop. I dial her and follow the song to find her phone on the mudroom floor near the hall tree.
Opening the garage, I see all our vehicles are there.
What’s going on?
I flip the security app on my phone as I yell her name throughout the house. Silence is the only thing that greets me. I run to our bedroom, all the while calling her name. By the time the app opens and I see she’s gone, I’m dialing Fitz.
“Young. Leave a message.”
Fuck!
I stop, flip my phone onto speaker, and call Ren. I get the computer voice for generic voicemail.
I think I’m going to lose my shit when my phone rings. “Yeah?”
“Barone.”
“Liam, she’s—”
“I’m sending a pin. Three men walked in your back door and kidnapped Ayla and Young. Black suburban, newer model year. License plate six alpha tango one two one whiskey.”
“Where is she? Where is my wife?”
“I’m following the SUV now. We’re in Lakewood, heading to— Fuck.”
“Liam? Liam!”
“Check your text. It’s one of Dad’s properties. Bring backup.” He disconnects before I can tell him he’s my only backup.
I can barely think as I fly through intersections, red lights be damned, winding my way to Lakewood. The map app is constantly talking and the voice grates on my nerves. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life, and that’s including the days at Ayla’s bedside when we didn’t know if she’d wake up.
I knew I’d be by her side in thick and thin. If I sat there waiting for her to wake, there was hope. Knowing someone took her from our home and they could take her from me permanently, there is no surviving that.
The drive is a race against the clock, though I have no idea what happens when the clock hits zero. Liam never calls or messages again, and my repeated calls to Ren go unanswered and I receive no responses.
I skid to a stop in front of the building, the brakes screeching and the smell of burning rubber pungent as I exit the SUV. If I was supposed to come in stealth, I never got that memo. Then again, never in my life have I been stealthy.
I check my phone one last time, hoping for some indication from Liam of the situation I’m walking into. There’s nothing there and nothing to prepare me for what I see walking in the door.
38
high-dollar hooker
Christian
Fitz is prone on the concrete floor. Blood oozes from his side and one leg is at an angle that doesn’t exist on a human skeleton without being manipulated into that position. I dial nine-one-one while checking his vitals. He’s breathing but the pants come in shallow bursts.
“Jefferson County emergency services. How may I help you?”
I give the address and the basics of the situation.
When the operator asks me to remain on the line, I decline. It’s an invitation I cannot accept.
Sharp, indecipherable words are being barked from another room, if you can call it a room. Metal studs run from ceiling to floor. In places, sheetrock has been installed. In other places there’s nothing but ductwork and wire hanging from where the ceiling tiles should be.
I have no clue whether those cop dramas or movies are accurate, but I assume an actor has done more research than I have in this kind of situation, so I flatten my back to the wall and slide along, peering around corners as if bullets can’t slice through the pressed paper.
Everything changes when I hear a scream that can only be my wife’s and her angry tearful words. “No. Don’t hurt him.”
I run. I run as fast and as hard as I can, giving no fucks about alerting anyone to my presence or any consequences that go along with that. That’s my Princess. She’s mine. And no one hurts her.
Skidding around the corner, my blood freezes and my mind stutters to a halt.
Cian is strapped to a chair. The side of his face is pulpy and purple, and one eye is so swollen he can’t see out of it. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. A gun is held to his head by a man wearing a black mask eerily similar to the ones used by the men who cased my house the night I was shot.
The rest of the firearms in the room—five or so—are trained on me. All but one. And that one is aimed on Seamus Murphy…
… And it’s held by my wife.
Her hands tremble, and the anguish in her face is enough to bring me to my knees.
“Princess?”
She shakes her head. Her red hair spins out around her as tears stream down her face and her nose releases what it can no longer hold inside.
“Princess?”
“No.” The word is torn from her like it was ripped from her very soul. I have no idea what or who she’s saying no to.
“Do it,” the apparent leader of the group says. “Last time we ask, Princess.” The word drips with sarcasm, and I want to shove it back into his mouth for the tone he’s taking with her. “Pull the trigger or your brother will know what it’s like to have copper and lead slice through his brain.”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
No way. She either kills her dad or they kill Cian.
“Don’t do it, sis.” Cian grits through clenched teeth just in time to have two of those teeth fly from his mouth with the force of a punch.
The sound of her mournful wails is more than I can take. How do I save her from this?
Sirens scream in the distance and the handful of masked men stare from face to face in the group. It was barely controlled chaos before. Now it resembles cockroaches scurrying from the light and not knowing how to avoid getting squashed.
Everything happens at once. The goon who was threatening Cian drops to the ground. Brain bits and blood ooze from his skull.
The lead goon turns on Ayla, lifts his weapon, and squeezes.
I do the only thing I can—I dive.
Ayla
“Noooo!” My throat burns with the fire of my scream.
Shots ring out. They ricochet off the concrete and zip near the men I love. Dad topples backward, knocking me over like a pin in a bowling alley.
I don’t have a moment to see if he’s hit. The moment I’m down, hands lift me. This has happened before. Like hell, I’ll let it happen again. I thrash and fight, biting down where I’m able at the rough hands that manhandle me. “Let me go.”
“Ayla-girl, settle.” Those are the only words I could hear right now that would zap the fight right out of me. I sag into my brother, sobbing and mumbling words that have no meaning, but are everything.
“I love you. I love Ci. I’d never—”
“Hush. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Christian—” I start.
“Later. You first.”
The man who could shoot someone without a second thought holds me tightly to his chest and runs with me to safety. He deposits me in Christian’s SUV parked right out front, checks me over clinically, rubbing hands over me looking for bruises or cuts, and then slams the door and runs back into the fray.
I have news for him. It’s not my body that’s the problem. The abrasions on my mind will be worse. The brutal memory of holding a gun to Dad’s head and seeing him question whether I would do it to save Cian. The anger and resignation in his face when he realized I would. We both know that if I’d had to, I would have.
And that was why… at least one reason. Because of his anger. No man worth his salt would allow his son to be killed in his place. No father would allow a child to be sacrificed for his comfort. And knowing that Dad not just wanted it—but expected it—was the moment I knew.
I knew he’d always be Seamus first and Seamus second, and everyone else somewhere down the list.
Cian telling me to allow his death so I didn’t have to live with the guilt of Dad’s murder on my hands was icing on the cake. The difference in the two men couldn’t be more stark. One day when Cian has kids, he’ll know that his kind heart, not his choices, will be the thing that allowed them to exist. His bravery made a maniacal choice easy.
Though, I’m so glad I didn’t have to see it through to its logical end.
Ambulances and police cruisers screech to a halt in front of the building. Cops in full riot gear with guns drawn approach the building slowly and methodically. Fire trucks bring up the rear moments later. The sweep of different lights swirling over and over bathes the car, bounces off the mirrors, and nauseates me. It’s a red and white rave that I never want to attend again. Hell, I didn’t want to attend in the first place.
If I hadn’t refused Fitz when he insisted on that damn safe room, I could’ve skipped this fucked-up party. I didn’t see him after they shot him and dragged me away. I hope he’s alive and the EMTs can save him. I don’t know how I’ll live with myself with any other outcome.
A figure runs from the shadows, crouched low to avoid being seen, and yanks on the locked door handle. Are they stupid? I’m not letting them in.
“Ayla.” My name is a whisper shout from the driver’s side.
Liam?
I unlock the doors, and he dives into the car, starting it and tearing away from the scene.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Everyone not in need of medical attention is being arrested. I’m trying to avoid any questions as to why I was there.”
“But Christian—”
“Christian isn’t being arrested.”
Fuck. No. No. No. I drop my head back to the seat.
I can’t take anymore. “Take me back, Li. If my husband needs an ambulance I need to be there!” There’s no authority in my voice, no argument I can make to dissuade him.
He says nothing but doesn’t turn around. He drives us to his place. It’s a new townhome development just inside the limits of Ken Caryl, nestled right in the foothill. My brusque, tatted brother with both of his ears pierced lives in an end-unit townhome in Ken Caryl. My snicker turns into an out-and-out laugh.
“Something you want to share?”
I shake my head and wave my hand at the same time, but don’t add to the conversation.
He parks out front and escorts me into his home. If I’ve been here before, I don’t know it. I don’t make a fuss about that and neither does he, but he points out the half bath downstairs which I avail myself of immediately.
I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My cruel day and the ruthless choices I was forced to make are written all over my face. The red splotches, the puffy eyes, the swollen red nose—all are evidence of heart wrenching moments served up one after another.
At least I’m not callous enough that I’m unaffected. Small victories.
When I exit the powder room, Liam is on the phone. “Got it. Thanks” He looks up at me as he drops the phone from his face. “They’re at Porter.”
“If I never have to visit a hospital again, it will be too soon.”
“Right there with you. Except for babies. That shit is not happening at home. Though, at this rate, Christian may never let you out of the house.”
I stare dumbfounded at my brother. My brows cinch together as if them touching each other will have this all make sense.
“What? The baby talk makes you mute?”
“No. I’ve just never heard you say that many words in a row. Ever.” I pause and shake my head as if I can clear it. Then mostly to myself, I add, “And you were talking about babies.”
“Yours. Not babies in general.”
“My brother, the sentimental fool.”
His bark of laughter is the lightest thing I’ve heard all day. And it’s a good thing, because when we hit the hospital, we discover the fallout of Dad’s “business partners” not getting their way.
Mom is already in the waiting area. Cian is in the emergency room. Fitz is in surgery. There has been no update on Christian.
My oldest brother has a broken eye socket. Miraculously, he doesn’t have a shattered jaw though he does have a referral for a plastic surgeon and a maxillofacial specialist. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. I think I’d skip the whole business and choose a coma for a week.
The bone around the eye had a clean break with no fragmenting. Best case scenario or so they say. I’d argue that not having a break that close to your eye and therefore no risk to your vision would be better, but science people don’t listen to “people in the arts” with the respect they should.
Or hysterical sisters either, it seems.
When the time is right, I’ll give him shit for needing a plastic surgeon, but it won’t be right for a long, long while.
Liam slides his phone from his pocket, thumbs the screen, and walks away without another word.
I hope he’s getting an update on my husband. Why haven’t we heard anything?
I fall asleep before he returns, unable to keep my eyes open anymore. Long day, adrenaline, and stress form a nauseating cocktail that I’m helpless to overcome.
I awaken several hours later, wishing I’d rethought the decision to contort myself into the shape of a square hospital chair when I passed out.
It’s well over eight hours later when Cian wanders out to the waiting room where Liam, Mom, and I are fighting to stay calm. He looks ready to faceplant in exhaustion.
I rush him, wrapping him up in my arms, needing for one moment to have him all to myself. “You came for me.” The words seem to come from nowhere. Just like the tears that roll down my face.
Cian squeezes me and looks over my head to our brother. Something passes between them that I’m too emotional to figure out and too exhausted to care about. He pulls back to look at me, really look at me, and boops my nose. That causes the tears to stream.
My brother is safe.
He isn’t dead.
And I’m not the reason he knows the feel of copper and lead in his body.
Our moment is over too quickly and we’re surrounded by Liam and Mom. She runs her fingertips delicately down the side of his face, all the while the color drains from hers. “Cian,” she starts on a choke. “Oh, my love. I can’t believe this happened to you.”
His one good eye slices to her. His lips remain closed. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. To speak, to breathe. God forbid he wants to clench his teeth or do anything to express dissatisfaction.
He wraps me under his arm, pulling my front to his side. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. His hand is too tight, but it’s like he needs me for his own strength.
“Do you want to come sit?” Mom asks.
“You’re coming to my house.” I say. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m no Florence Nightingale, but we have great espresso and Corinne can make any soup you want.” And it’s safe. “Please. Just for a few days. For me.”
