A Secret to Kill For, page 2
part #1 of Secret & Lies Series
“Fuck,” I say tossing the phone to the couch. Feeling defeated, I do the only thing I can do, drink. I have one more call to make, but the odds are not in my favor. He will either have nothing or bad news. Downing some more liquid courage, I pick my phone up and call Bane’s editor.
“Editor,” a scratchy male voice barks out.
“This is Erin Murphy,” I reply.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Murphy?”
“I would like you to retract the story Bane wrote. It’s a lie, and I have two notes from him stating such.”
“Really? Because I have a signed affidavit from you saying you provided truthful information of your own free will. So, no, I won’t retract the story,” he tells me, ending the call.
“Goddamn it, Bane! Why the hell did you do this to me?” I yell, throwing my cell across the room. Marching into the kitchen, I pull a second bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and plant myself on the couch and do the only thing I can; get drunk and watch the Game Show Network. Just before midnight, my cell rings with an incoming text;
Unknown Number: Remember to lock your doors love; you never know who will wander in.
Me: Who the hell is this?
No response.
***
I wake up the next morning with my head pounding and my cell ringing from across the room. Rolling off the couch, I crawl to it, answering without checking the caller ID:
“Hello?”
“I hope you rot in hell bitch for what you did,” the voice on the other end says.
“What? Who the hell is this?”
“My daughter was one of the victims of the D.C. Carver. Because of what you did, when they finally catch him, he’ll go free. I hope you’re happy with yourself,” he tells me ending the call.
How the hell did he find my cell number? I stumble back to the couch as my phone rings, probably with another angry person wanting to tell me I’m going to hell, ignoring the call. I then check my social media accounts where I find more hateful notes and death threats:
You should be drug out into the streets and shot for what you did.
I hope they charge you for helping that murderous madman.
This is all your fault; my sister’s killer will never be brought to justice.
If I see you in a dark alley, I’d be more than willing to take care of the problem.
Without a second thought, I close all my social media accounts. Closing my accounts and turning off my phone won’t stop them; they know where I live. I need to get out of here. Turning my cell back on, I call my mom. She answers with a brisk, “Erin.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What do you want Erin?”
“I was calling to see if I could stay with you until this situation blows over.”
“No Erin, you cannot stay here. I don’t want your drama to land on my doorstep. Thank God your father is dead because this would kill him. How could you do this?”
“Not that you care, but I didn’t do it. Bane lied, and now I’m trying to get my name cleared.”
“Doesn’t matter, public opinion is all that matters now. They think you did this.”
“Thanks for your love and support. I’ll call Cian. Maybe he’ll want to spend time with me.”
“No, you will not take your drama to him. You made this mess, and you will need to deal with the consequences,” she tells me before ending the call.
I need a drink after dealing with my mother. Raiding the kitchen, I pull a twelve pack of beer from the fridge, then settle on the couch for another long night of the Game Show Network. Two beers in, my phone rings with an incoming text from the unknown number:
Unknown Number: Don’t worry my love; I will stop the nasty things they are saying about you. I just need some time.
Me: Who is this?
When there is no response, I turn my phone off, settling in for a long night of booze and TV.
Chapter Three
“Erin!” Fi-Fi yells from the entryway of my apartment. Fi-Fi, or Ophelia Shaw, is my best friend and partner; I guess my ex-partner now. We met five years ago on our first day at Quantico. Being the only two female recruits in the class; we were paired together and became fast friends. I jump, startled by her unexpected announcement, and fall off the couch onto the floor. Fi-Fi enters the living room towering over me; she looks a lot taller than five-foot-six from this angle. She reminds me of a nineteen fifties pin-up girl with her curvy hourglass figure, long legs, pouty lips and perfect brunette hair. “Why the hell are you on the floor?” Fi-Fi asks offering her hand to help me off the floor.
Taking her hand and standing, I answer, “I was sleeping on the couch before you barged in here, scaring the hell out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I’ve been your friend and partner for years. I’m here to find out what the hell happened and to make sure you’re okay. I would have come sooner, but the bureau had us on lockdown for the last two days. “
“Really? For two days?”
“Yeah, after you left the building one of the higher-ups came to see Paul; he was let go for not having better control over his people. Then they made us go through everything on the D.C. Carver case; when they found no other leaks, they let us go,” Fi-Fi says talking so fast it’s difficult for me to understand what she’s saying. She sucks a deep breath before starting again. “After I stopped at my place for a quick shower, I came here to check on you. What the hell happened?” Fi-Fi asks, sitting next to me on the couch.
“Bane wrote that damn article, falsely citing me as the source of information. After I was escorted from the Hoover building, I went to Bane’s apartment to confront him, but he has packed all his shit and moved away, like the coward he is. Bane was kind enough to leave me a note, saying he made everything up and that he is very sorry for everything. After a small breakdown, I came home. I intended to get drunk and rummage through Bane’s stuff, but it was gone. He packed his shit but was nice enough to leave me another note and an engagement ring.”
Shock crosses Fi-Fi’s face, “A what?”
“An engagement ring. Hold on, let me get the notes and the ring so you can see what he wrote.” I jog into the bedroom, grab the notes and ring box from my nightstand, then jog back into the living room handing them to Fi-Fi. I try to read the expressions on Fi-Fi’s face, but she is not giving much away.
“What a piece of shit. I can’t believe Bane did this to you,” Fi-Fi blurts out.
“You believe me?” I ask, shocked since no one else believes me.
“Of course, I believe you. Erin. The FBI is your entire life. Why would that change now? I know you loved Bane, but you would never jeopardize your career for a man. And to be honest, I never thought Bane was the kind to ask.”
“Thank you,” I tell her my, eyes moistening with unshed tears.
“Can I have a copy of these notes? Maybe we can clear your name and get your job back.”
I take the notes from Fi-Fi, run into my home office and make a copy, then run back to Fi-Fi handing her the copies. “Thank you so much for this Fi-Fi. You have no idea what this means to me,” I say hugging her tight. “I’m your best friend, Erin. I’m not going drop you because bad shit happens,” she says, returning my hug. We spend the rest of the day vegging out on the couch, eating junk food, watching bad TV, and try to forget about the outside world.
***
Two weeks have passed since Fi-Fi came to check on me. She’s called a couple of times to make sure I was still alive and didn’t need anything. But she says nothing about the notes or my name being cleared. The news stations have moved on to other stories, but the protesters continue to camp out in front of my building. Yesterday, some of the protesters broke into the apartment building and vandalized the lobby; they write “murder” and “sell out” on the walls in red spray paint. When they found my door, they wrote “Murdering Whore” across it.
“Today the property manager handed me an eviction notice. The notice stated I was causing a disturbance to the other tenants. And the building owners are claiming the damage in the lobby was caused because of me. Now I have two weeks to move out.” I tell Fi-Fi between my sobs, “I can’t take any more shit, Fi-Fi. I’m done.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m done with work in two hours, how about I come over with dinner and we talk.”
“Thank you Fi-Fi. You are a good friend.”
“You would do the same thing for me.”
After work, Fi-Fi comes over with food from our favorite Italian place. She listens to me bitch and moan about my problems while we eat. After we eat and clean-up, Fi-Fi adds the final nail in my coffin. “I wanted to wait to tell you, but I think you need to know now, so you can move on with your life. I showed the higher ups the notes you gave me. They said even though Bane said he lied, the damage is already done. And even if they wanted to bring you back, they couldn’t.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I gave the FBI six years of my life. My father and grandfather both gave their lives to the FBI, and this is all I get,” I shout at Fi-Fi.
“I’m sorry, honey. But you need to move on with your life. You need to find another job. Maybe move out of the city,” Fi-Fi replies.
“Are you serious right now? I have wanted to be an FBI agent since I was a little girl, and you want me to give up my dream? Fuck that, no way.”
“I’m sorry, but you don’t have a choice, Erin. The FBI is not going to take you back. You need to move on before you lose everything.”
“I already have,” I scream. “I think it’s time you leave, Fi-Fi.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Erin. But you need to face the facts and move on,” Fi-Fi snaps before storming out of my apartment.
“Taking my job and boyfriend wasn’t enough! I have to lose my best friend too? What did I do to deserve this? I’m a good person! Hell, I hunt the bad guys and put them in jail,” I yell at the empty room. Getting no answers from the furniture, I drag my butt off the couch and stumble into the kitchen, taking a bottle of whiskey from the freezer. Maybe there will be answers at the bottom of the bottle.
Chapter Four
May
Washington D.C.
I pout for a week before I work up the courage to call my mom to beg for a place to live. Now that the media has stopped, I hope she will be more willing to let me stay with her until I can get back on my feet. Locating her contact information, I call her, then hold my breath until she answers with a brisk “Erin.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What do you want, Erin?” Mom asks in her I’m already bored with this conversation voice.
“I’m being kicked out of my apartment, and I need a place to stay for a little while.”
“And you want to say with me?”
“Yes, please.”
Mom huffs an “Okay,” into the phone which means she is not doing this out of the goodness of her heart. She will make me pay for this favor. ‘Everything must be earned’ is what she used to tell Cian and me as kids. “Fine you can stay with me, but I need help at the bakery. If you help me, I’ll help you,” Mom offers.
“Sure, it’s been awhile since I’ve worked in the bakery, but I should be able to pick it up quickly.”
“You have to stay in the back; I don’t want your drama affecting my bakery.”
I answer with a short, “Fine mom, whatever you want.”
“And don’t bring all of your crap to my apartment, only what you need. I don’t want your stuff cluttering my apartment.”
“Fine mom. I’ll be there Friday.”
“See you then.”
I spend the rest of the week going through my things, packing what I need, throwing away junk, and boxing items up for storage. I sold my car hoping the money I save on parking will help me get on my feet faster. By Thursday I have everything packed and ready. The moving company I hired will be here in the morning to take my furniture and knick-knacks to storage; until I find my own place again. I pray it’s only for a few months because my mother is not the easiest person to live with.
Friday afternoon I pile three oversize duffel bags into the back of a taxi. Thirty years old and I’m moving back in with my mother again. Boy isn’t life grand. After my dad passed away from a heart attack three years ago, Mom sold our childhood home to buy a two-bedroom apartment in George Town, closer to her precious shop, O’ Sullivan Bakery. It was built by my great-great-grandfather after he and his family emigrated from Ireland during the potato famine in the mid-eighteen hundreds. They sell traditional American and Irish baked goods; bread, cookies, and other pastries including wedding cakes. With both her kids grown and out of the house and Dad passing, the bakery has become Mom’s number one priority; I think it’s what keeps her going.
The cab pulls up in front of Mom’s building. I pay the driver, then fight to remove my three duffels from the trunk. As the taxi drives away, the doorman finally makes an appearance, helping me move my bags into the elevator and rides with me to my mom’s sixth-floor apartment. The doorman leaves me when I knock on Mom’s door. She opens the door, takes one of my bags, then leads me into the guest room. “You remember the house rules?” Mom asks setting my bag on the bed. Riona Murphy may not look it, at only five-foot one-inch, gray hair she dyes red, and blazing green eyes, but she is a pit bull. Don’t let her looks fool you, she will go toe to toe with anyone. I think Dad married her because he was scared of her.
“Yes Mom, I remember the house rules. Don’t worry I’ll stay out of your hair for as long as I’m here,” I say as I begin to unpack.
“Just make sure you clean up after yourself and don’t stay up too late; we have to leave for work at four in the morning.”
“I’ll unpack, eat, then go to bed.”
“Good night, Erin,” Mom says leaving the room.
***
My alarm goes off at three in the morning. I take a quick shower, then pull on a pair of old jeans and a beat up old t-shirt as Mom shouts down the hall, “Hurry up if you want to eat before we have to leave.” I rush into the kitchen, tossing a bagel in the toaster while I fill a travel mug with coffee.
We meet Ruarc, the head baker, and one of my parents’ oldest friends, at the bakery. He is just how I remember him, with salt and pepper hair, joy-filled blue eyes, a big smile, and round belly. “Erin, I can’t believe you are here. Your mother told me you were going to help out, but I didn’t believe her,” Ruarc gushes pulling me in for a big hug. Pulling back, he gives me the once over, “You have become quite the young woman.”
“Thanks, Ruarc. I’ve missed you too.” Though I think I’m passed the young woman stage of life, it is nice to hear.
I follow him into the bakery. As he hands me an apron, he says, “Okay, kiddo. It’s been a long time since you’ve helped. So, today you are just going to watch and learn.” From a nearby filing cabinet he pulls out a binder, “These are our recipes. While I get the ovens warming up, study them,” he tells me walking away to start his day.
I study the different bread, cookie, and pastry recipes for the first part of the morning. Once Ruarc has the necessary baked goods for the morning rush, he gives me a tour of the kitchen. Ruarc is patient with me, showing me where everything is from measuring spoons to the ovens. He even takes the time to teach me how to use the equipment. I spent the day studying recipes and shadowing Ruarc; overall it was a great first day. The feeling of accomplishment only lasted until the car ride home. As soon as I close the car door, Mom is on me, “I hope you pick up the pace tomorrow. You slowed Ruarc down this morning.”
“I’m sorry, mom. I’ll try better tomorrow,” I say, looking out the window. Thirty years old and she still makes me feel like an errant child. Once in the fourth grade, I received a C on a spelling test. Mom made me spell out each word six times, that way I could spell them correctly in the future. Because nothing less than a B was acceptable in the Murphy house. Dad told me she only did it because she loved me and wanted the best for her children. I think it was because it reflected poorly on her as a parent. As soon as we get to the apartment, I make myself a sandwich, then retreat to my room to binge watch Outlander on Stars.
***
By the end of the week, Ruarc tells me I am ready to bake on my own. I need to show my mother I can do this; that I’m not as screwed up as she thinks I am. I take my time, following the recipes exactly. But when I put the bread in the oven, I notice Ruarc never uses a timer. He has been baking so long he knows when it’s been enough time. I put the soda bread in the oven, look at my watch, then turn back to my station to make shortbread cookies. When I have the cookie dough done, smoke fills the room. I turn around to see smoke spewing out of the oven that I put the soda bread in. Rushing to it, I throw the oven door open and pull out two racks of charcoal briquettes.
Mom races into the kitchen, “Erin, what are you doing? The whole bakery smells like smoke.” She turns her attention to Ruarc who is walking out of the storeroom, “You are supposed to be watching her. What happened?”
“I’m sorry Mom, it’s my fault. I’ll do better.”
She nods, storming out. When she’s out of earshot, I turn to face Ruarc, “I’m so sorry Ruarc. I promise I’ll pay better attention from now on.”
“It’s okay sweetheart; I’ll pick up a couple of timers tomorrow. Why don’t you make the dough and I’ll take over the baking?”
Over the next week, I get the recipes and the timing down. I still set a timer for everything when I put it in the oven, just in case. I think my progress is spectacular considering I haven’t worked in the bakery since high school, and even then I was only allowed to box items for the customers. My mother doesn’t see it that way; she sees that I spent the last week wasting money. I need to talk to Fi-Fi and have a beer.
***
After a shower to wash off the sickeningly sweet smell of the bakery, I find my cell phone and get ready to eat crow.
“I was wondering when you would call,” Fi-Fi answers.
“I’m sorry I was a bitch to you. I know you were only trying to be a good friend. Do you forgive me?” I ask in my most pitiful voice, hoping she will take pity on me.
