“I gather that didn’t go the way you hoped?” Flynn said.
“No. Not at all. Frankie never signed up to that festival – or at least Jason had signed her up in June but changed everything a few weeks ago after speaking to Frankie about her new career.” Flynn raised his eyebrow. “I’ll tell you that later. Anyway, he, Jason, never emailed Frankie to ask her to attend and he’s been in New York since just after our party. Someone else wrote that email to get Frankie to Clifden.”
Dev looked at Flynn, knowing real fear was evident in his eyes. “We’re back to the stalker, aren’t we?” He got up and paced the room as Flynn tapped away on his phone. “And I can’t even blame you and Frankie for the press coverage fiasco, as this was obviously planned well in advance before the papers hit yesterday.” He gripped the back of his neck, the tension knotted there, steady and pulsing. “Shit, I forgot . . . Here . . .” He reached for the now discarded paper he’d been trying to show Flynn when he’d arrived.
He opened the rolled-up piece and spread it on the counter. Flynn came to stand next to him to see the photo Dev was jabbing his finger towards. It was a shot of Frankie from last night’s opening in Clifden – she looked amazing in her glittery dress and heels, and hanging on her arm, clutching her arm, was a woman they both thought they recognised.
“Isn’t that Mary Louanne?” Dev asked. “But she looks different. I swear I’ve seen this woman somewhere, but I’d never met Mary Louanne before this summer. Obviously her hair is different, but there’s something about her . . .”
Flynn and Dev studied the photo closely.
They looked and looked.
Dev’s eyes kept going to Frankie’s beautiful face and switching back to her companion’s.
Several seconds passed.
The penny dropped and they looked at each other in horror.
“Holy shit!” Dev’s comment came out at the exact same time as Flynn reached for his phone.
Mary Louanne hunkered down before a now distraught Frankie, the blade making swirly patterns on Frankie’s legs. They weren’t deep cuts, just enough to wound and graze, and yeah, sting like shit, with the odd trickle of blood here and there. Mary Louanne had a sinister smile on her face. Frankie’s dress was in tatters. Cuts and rips all over it, it was held together by patches of sequins and not much else. Her bra was partially visible and the hiked-up fabric from her cramped sitting position showed most of her scratched and bleeding thighs. Her feet were tied to the each of the front legs of the high-backed chair. Her knees ached from being stuck in one position and her shoulders screamed in agony.
Mary Louanne had come and gone from the circular room at intervals for what seemed like hours, but all sense of time was gone. Frankie was hungry, her stomach making growling noises, and she was thirsty – so damn thirsty. Mary Louanne had given her a sip of water every so often but wouldn’t engage in conversation – she seemed to be getting ready for something or someone. All Frankie knew for sure was that this woman was out of control and was dangerously close to the edge.
Suddenly, with dagger in hand, she reared up and hacked some more hair from Frankie’s head, almost growling as she did so. Frankie couldn’t help the tears that pooled in her eyes – the yanking on her hair really hurt and as the blade sawed through it pulled on her head painfully. The minky brown locks fell to the floor around them and the sight seemed to make the madwoman happy.
“There, now you look so much better. He wouldn’t love you now, would he? The fool, always following your every move, watching every film, saving every photograph from those slutty magazines. You are one ugly bitch now and not even he would spare you a glance.”
“Who?” Frankie pleaded. “Who are you talking about? Dev?”
“Dev? That piece of whiny shit?” she spat out of the side of her mouth. “He’s a sleazy bastard, only eager to get in your pants. He doesn’t care about you, you idiot! Why would he? He’d toss you aside if he saw you now. No, you stupid whore, not Devlin Fitzgerald.”
“Then who?” Frankie was confused. “Do you know about the stalker?”
Mary Louanne let out a guffaw and sneered into Frankie’s face. “Which one?” she asked.
Frankie blinked, uncertain where this was going. “There’s more than one?” she stammered.
Mary Louanne started pacing the room, quoting verbatim from the horrible emails that Frankie had received over the last year. She swung back round to grin wildly in Frankie’s astounded face.
“You? But why? Why? Tell me. What have I ever done to you?”
“Ah! let me count the ways . . .” The pacing stopped and with each measured step that brought her closer to her seated victim, she spoke. “You took him from me. Day. After. Day. Year. After. Fucking. Year. Nothing I did was good enough. Nothing!” As she shouted that last nothing, she slapped Frankie hard across the face.
Her head whipped to one side with the force of the blow, tears again filling her eyes. Frankie bit her lip, willing them not to fall.
“My name is Mary Frances, you know,” Mary Louanne added almost conversationally, “after my daddy.” She cut some more of Frankie’s hair, right down to the skull, tossing the glitter clip across the room in anger. “Who are you named for?” She cut some more.
“Named for? No one.” Frankie winced. “My mother just liked the name Francesca.”
“Your mother was a two-bit whore – just like you, really, so no surprises there. A whore who ruined my daddy’s life. Do you hear me? That whore ruined his life!” she screamed.
As the former Mary Louanne, now Mary Frances, started pacing the room again, a horrible ugly truth began to sink into Frankie’s tired brain.
“Did your father follow my mother’s career? Was he in love with her?”
“You stupid dumb-ass bitch! Your mother seduced my daddy and then left him. Left him with a broken heart that my mother, his silly, willing, waiting fiancée, could never heal. Never. It was always ‘Carolina this’ and ‘Carolina that’, and when he realised she’d a daughter, you – yeah, you, sister dearest,” she snarled into Frankie’s face, “all he could talk about was how precious you were. How adorable, how smart, how talented, how blah-blah-fuckety-blah.” She whirled round to face Frankie from the front again. “Oh, he loved me, at first, when I was only little, but I have no real memory of that.
“I was two when he realised he had a perfect four-year-old daughter out there and suddenly,” she snapped her fingers, “I was just . . . Not. Good. Enough.”
Each word was accompanied by a hard slap across her face. Frankie’s head flipped back and forth with each strike of the hand, her cheeks sore and hot, her neck aching from the sudden sharp movements. Tears tracked down her bruised and bloody face.
“We’re sisters?” she whispered.
And suddenly the reason why Mary Louanne had looked so familiar was so very bloody obvious. Without the blonde hair, her eyes returned to almost the same grey as Frankie’s own.
As she watched in shock, Mary Frances tugged at her hair and the dark bob of a brown wig fell to the ground. She reached up and pulled at some pins, and down fell a swathe of dark hair the exact same colour as Frankie’s.
“We have his hair and we have his eyes, but only you had his attention.” She walked backwards, slapping the blade against her thigh. “Now, why would that be fair, hmm?”
She made an arc with the blade and Frankie shrank back in her chair.
“It’s not fair. It’s never been fair and it never will be fair. So I . . .” Mary Frances bowed theatrically. “I intend to even the equation by taking you, you spoilt, selfish rich bitch, out of the running, however late it may be.”
“Wait!” Frankie yelped and twisted sideways as the knife slashed towards her, whizzing through the air next to her head. “Wait, please, Mary Frances. Please explain it to me. I thought you and your dad had a good relationship. You told me so yourself. I was even jealous of you, for Christ’s sake.”
“I lied,” she said flatly. Cold
ly. “Didn’t you ever have a fantasy about your daddy, bitch?”
Oh, God. Frankie closed her eyes briefly, the pain in Mary Frances’ voice cutting her as clearly as the knife itself. This was a hundred ways fucked up. She had to get this woman on her side.
“Tell me about your dad.” Frankie swallowed painfully, hurting so much. “About our dad.”
As Flynn spoke to several people in his office, Dev paced outside. He knew he had to let his brother sort this but Christ! it was hard. They’d gone directly to HQ when the reality of what they saw in the paper hit them – those women were related. How? Who the fuck knew, but there was a definite familial connection. The task now was to find out what they could about Mary Louanne’s background, then get the Gardaí in Clifden searching her digs there and checking her paperwork, all the while trying to find Frankie. Flynn got one of the sergeants in Clifden up to the Abbeyglen to find out the timeline of events from when Frankie first arrived last night to when she left, and to ask for witnesses to any and all interactions.
This was news. Big news.
Francesca Jones was now officially missing and presumed to be in danger.
Gardaí around the country were being alerted and roadblocks were set up. Dev had wanted to jump straight into his car and drive directly to Clifden, but Flynn had forestalled him. There was a police helicopter waiting at Baldonnel, ready to fly at a moment’s notice, and Flynn was just waiting to speak with police in New York before they got airborne.
He strode out of the office and grabbed Dev by the arm. “Come on, we’re heading to Clifden now – I have a team on standby there and a few from Galway are joining in the search.” He paused, turned and faced Dev, his countenance deadly serious. “You do understand it is a search-and-rescue mission at the moment, but that could change.” His voice was grave.
“Yeah. I get it. Stop talking. Let’s go.” Dev moved forwards at a fast pace, eager to get into the waiting squad car.
They sped off, lights and sirens blaring. A tiny part of Dev’s brain knew he should be enjoying all this high-speed shenanigans, but the fear in his chest was so tight he could barely breathe. His emotions had ground to a halt and all he was focused on was the next step. What to do next. How to get to Frankie. How soon he’d see her.
The trip to the airport was quick and they strapped themselves into the chopper as Flynn continually tapped away on his phone. About twenty minutes into the flight he leaned over and handed his screen to Dev.
“Read this,” he mouthed over the noise, and Dev angled it so he could scan the report.
So, Mary Louanne wasn’t Mary Louanne and she certainly wasn’t from the southern States. She was born Mary Frances Donovan twenty-eight years ago and was from Hoboken, New Jersey. Mother deceased, an only child. Her father, Francis Donovan, still resided at the same address. Mary Frances attended community college and studied beauty therapy – she’d also taken voice and acting classes. Dev looked up at Flynn, who was watching him read.
“Francis?” he queried.
“I have some uniforms checking the address now. It’s complicated, since the order is coming from here. I’ll involve Interpol if necessary, but these guys owe me.”
“I’ve never been so glad that so many people owe you so much as I am now,” Dev said. He realised, as soon as he said it, how mixed up it sounded, but Flynn just tightened his lips and gave him a quick nod.
“Daddy dearest loved watching you on-screen. He loved reading about you. He loved saving clippings from every fucking newspaper and magazine that ran articles on you. He loved that you visited Ireland, since that was where his granddaddy came from. Yeah,” she eyed Frankie over her shoulder as she paced, “I know I told you it was my mother’s family who came from here but, oops, naughty me. I lied again.
“He loved that you were rich and famous. He loved that you won awards. And you know what? My mom and me, we were Sick. To. Death of his fucking infatuation with you from the second he realised you were of his blood.” Mary Frances dragged a chair over and sat directly in front of Frankie. She played with the knife in her hands, sliding it back and forth, the silver flashing over her palm. “He contacted your whore of a mother and you know what she did? She paid him off.” Frankie gasped. “Yeah, that’s right, your bitch mother didn’t want him coming near her precious baby, so she gave him a butt-load of cash.
“And do you think he shared it with us? His real family? Hell, no! That bastard saved it and then spent it all on trips to watch your shows, see you graduate, attend your openings – from a distance, mind. So,” she glared at Frankie, “you think I’m your only so-called stalker? Ha! Your beloved daddy was stalking you from the day you were four.” She leaned back in her chair. “He didn’t come to my graduation, he didn’t take me or mom on trips. It was just you and him in his own little world. Sick bastard!”
Frankie could feel the hatred, the twisted love, the resentment, the bitterness rising from Mary Frances like a tangible thing. She was filled with rage and with anger and it was all somehow directed at the one person who had, unbeknown to her, screwed up her life. And Frankie knew that the resentment was so strong she likely wasn’t going to get out of this alive.
A cold terror seeped into her bones, but she drew in a deep breath and reminded herself of two words: brave and calm. She repeated them like a mantra for a few seconds and knew she had to call on every acting lesson she’d ever had so as not to fall apart.
But God, she was bloody terrified.
“Mary Frances,” she began in a low voice, “I totally get that you hate me – shit, if I were you, I’d hate me – but listen for a second, who are you really mad at? Sounds to me like our father was a bit of a loser, and he did wrong by you and your poor mother. I’m so sorry for that. You didn’t deserve any of this. You deserved to be loved by your daddy like any little girl does.” Even as Frankie was measuring out the words her own heart was breaking. She’d deserved a dad, too – not one who worshipped from afar, hurting all around him, but one to tuck her in at night and do dad stuff with her. But Mary Frances was so deep in her own agony that she wasn’t going to see that Frankie was in no way responsible for this.
“Mary Frances, did you try to kill me, to shoot me at that opening in New York?”
“Hell, no. Jeez, what kind of shot do you think I am? I was aiming for the slimy bastard who was with you!”
“But I ducked.” Frankie was confused, the moment etched in her brain. Her earring had fallen as she bent down. The shot rang out. “Surely you meant to kill me?”
“If I’d wanted to kill you – before now, that is – you’d be dead. I’m an excellent shot. Of course I killed him, you idiot. You had everything and there was no way I was letting you sucker some poor schmuck into your fairyland existence. So he had to go, you had to suffer. Easy-peasy.” The pride in her voice left Frankie in no doubt of that truth.
Oh, God. Poor Stephen. All the guilt that Frankie had carried, blaming herself for Stephen’s death, should have just gone now – it wasn’t her ducking down that had killed him, after all. But, damn it, in the end she was still to blame. Obviously not actually to blame, but this whole bloody fiasco of a mess was because of her.
As Frankie sat there, bloody and sore, cold, hungry, thirsty like she’d never been before, and now, embarrassingly – like it even mattered – damp because Mary Frances wouldn’t untie her to use a toilet, she felt an odd calm descend upon her. It would all be over soon and the people she cared about would be safe.
Mary Frances had prattled on about how she’d planned the break-in at Jo’s, to worry them and keep everyone busy and on edge. She’d been going to hire some local thug to do it but found the pleasure from messing with their minds was too good an opportunity to miss. She made Frankie’s blood run cold as she laughingly mentioned personal items of Jo’s and the wrecking of Patrick’s study.
Toby, on the other hand, she’d had to delegate there. Pity, she would have liked to get her hands on that little prince brat, sh
e said, but she’d had to get to Clifden to organise her shit here. She’d paid handsomely to have Toby snatched – she’d wanted him hospitalised with some pretty decent blows, but the stupid hired hand had been too soft and only whacked the kid on the head once before tossing him out.
“Is Toby okay?” Frankie asked.
“Don’t know, don’t give a shit. But I do know that his loving family were frantic and panicked and ergo, my work was done.”
Frankie tested the ties on her hands again, continually trying to loosen them, but nothing moved. They were like cable ties and she could feel the stinging cuts every time she tried to wriggle from them. If there was any chance that she could survive this, Frankie knew she had to keep Mary Frances engaged in dialogue. Keep her focused on her issues and her trauma so she would talk and talk. Anything to gain time – it was Frankie’s only hope.
The worry was that if Toby was still missing, the family would be centred on that, not her. And rightly so, which was just what bloody Mary Frances wanted. But, if Toby was found, they’d know she was missing – they’d have discovered that. Oh God, poor Jo and Patrick – they didn’t need this worry, too.
Frankie glanced at her evening bag, tossed on a table close by. It had stopped vibrating hours ago as the phone battery had finally died.
Mary Frances nodded at her. “Yeah. You guessed it. Your location services were on and that means they can track your phone to here.” She smiled.
The relief that Frankie felt was short-lived as she saw that smile. That eerie, evil smile.
No, no, no, no . . . The Fitzgerald brothers would arrive here. Soon. And in order to cause Frankie even more pain . . .
She swung her head up to meet Mary Frances’ eyes. That cold, calculating bitch. Frankie felt anger surge through her but forced her voice to nonchalance. “It won’t work, you know. That Flynn is pretty smart and he won’t come alone, he’ll have sharp shooters with him. And as you said earlier, Dev doesn’t care about me – I was just an easy lay – so hurting him won’t affect me at all. Just do it now. Kill me. I don’t care. If I’ve your blood running in my veins, it would cost way too much for the therapy to get me over that fact. Use that knife on me. Or can you actually stab your own flesh and blood?” Did that sound like bravado or like a line from a movie?
Family Affairs Page 27