by Kim Karr
“I couldn’t. By then Seamus had already sent a team in to package the drugs and have them delivered to his warehouse. When I received the threat from Patrick, Seamus told me he’d get me what I needed by the deadline.”
“But he only sent half the drugs to the boutique?”
“I know. He said he was worried that the DEA was watching and he wanted to make certain the delivery arrived safe. We know how that ended up.”
I shuddered. Thankful he didn’t really know.
“Things went from bad to worse after that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Elizabeth somehow escaped from Seamus and she started calling me. Threatening me. She wanted the drugs back. She even broke into the house, trying to get into the panic room.”
“The note,” I said. It slipped from my mouth, giving away the fact that I’d broken into the panic room.
He nodded, seemingly surprised. “Yes, she left you a note in the Mercedes, but I found it first. And then you found it—in my panic room.”
“Is that why your brother kidnapped me? Because I broke into your room?”
A shake of the head.
“Then why?”
Michael averted his eyes.
“Why?”
He sighed, resigned. “After his son delivered flowers to you, and saw you with Logan, Seamus was worried you were going to walk away from me. Believe me, I had no idea he’d taken you. I even went to the police.”
My breath, coming faster, blew the first word away. “But who I choose to love isn’t Seamus’s concern and I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“I know that,” Michael whispered. “But now he’s resorted to threats against Clementine to keep us together.”
“We were never together.”
“In his mind, we should be.”
“Tell him to find you someone else.”
“I’ve tried. Presented my secretary, the nanny, a few others, too. He had me run them through a few of his loyalty and faithfulness tests; none of them could pass. Since they wouldn’t say yes to my first order, the second test could never even be administered.”
The website. It made sense. Pick one. Show loyalty and obedience. I felt a little sick. “I must have failed too, then.”
He nodded. “He wasn’t testing you; to him you were the perfect match for me. He just needed to instill his family values in you.”
I threw my hands up. “Fuck him. Why does he care so much about who you end up with?”
Resolve seemed to overtake him and he spoke like he wasn’t talking to anyone. “I already told you, Seamus’s political aspirations for me were bigger than even my own. Mayor. Senator. White House. He saw his ability to rule more than Boston through me. To show my father he could be so much more than my father had thought he could be. However, if I was going to climb the political machine, he knew I needed a woman by my side and he thought, no he thinks, you are the perfect woman to fill that role. I’ve already told you this. You’re the key. Say yes and Clementine will remain safe.”
I stood open mouthed. Was Michael playing me? “I’m not going to say yes, Michael. But you have to be able to stop him from doing anything to Clementine. She isn’t a part of this. You have to talk him out of it.”
He was shaking his head.
“Talk to him!” I screamed.
“I have.”
“Then go to the police.”
“I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
He shook his head violently as if he wasn’t going to tell me.
“Michael!” I was hysterical now. “Why can’t you? She’s your daughter, it’s your job to protect her!” I screamed even louder.
As he spoke, his shoulders began to shake. “I know. I know. But my choices have been stripped away from me, Elle. You don’t understand.”
Everything I saw was red. “No, Michael, your choice is to keep her safe, no matter what you have to do. Go to the police. Tell them everything.”
Kill him, I thought.
“I can’t.”
“Then I will.”
He shook his head. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll know I told you and then he will go after Clementine.”
“He almost killed me.”
“Elle, he’s obsessed with having connections. He thinks that’s how he is going to grow his empire. Nothing is going to stop him.”
“You have to turn him in,” I begged.
His laugh was dry. “Like I said, you don’t understand.”
My fists balled at my sides. “Then tell me.”
His eyes closed again and minutes passed before he spoke. “That Saturday morning that your car was at the mechanic’s and I went there, that was when I found the note Elizabeth had left for you folded on the visor in the Mercedes. That night I didn’t go out of town like I told you, but I went to the address on the slip of paper.”
My stare was one of complete anger.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. She was threatening me. Blackmailing me—the drugs for Clementine. Was she kidding me? She couldn’t take care of Clementine. She had no idea what that even meant. But yet, she kept taunting me, threatening to steal her away, and I lost control. All I was doing was trying to shake some sense into her. To calm her down. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Clementine needed stability and she couldn’t provide that. She insisted she could. She kept threatening me. She was hysterical.”
My stomach lurched.
“She didn’t like what I was saying about her relationship with Clementine and she started clawing at my coat. Clementine’s rattle fell out of my pocket and she picked it up like it meant something to her. Like she really was her mother. Biologically she might have been, but that’s as far as it went. I tried to make her see that, but then she went wild, denying what I’d said like it wasn’t fact, she started hitting me, punching me, screaming at me. I had to defend myself so I shoved her back. That’s when she fell and hit her head. She was dead instantly and there wasn’t anything I could do. If I called the police, I’d go to jail, I knew that, so I called Seamus to help me get rid of her body, and now he owns me. You see, there’s nothing I can do. He owns me.”
My entire being was shaking. Inside and out. Tremors rocked me. Anger tore through me. I shoved him. “Killer.”
He looked at me then with resolve and regret in his eyes. “I know. But listen to me, Elle, I can make this right.”
I slapped him. “You killed my sister.”
Tears streamed down his face. “I never wanted any of this to happen. Just know that you’re the right person to take care of Clementine, to be her mother. I’ve spent the day arranging it all. Promise me you’ll take her and leave Boston. It’s the safest thing for her, and when you do, and she grows up happy, never tell her about her mother or me. Tell her she had parents who died loving her but nothing else.”
“What are you talking about?” I screamed.
He grabbed my arms. “Promise me,” he cried.
I stared at him blankly.
“Promise me you’ll take care of her,” he cried again.
I shrugged out of his hold. “I promise. I love her. You know I’d do anything for her.”
My assumption was that he was going to turn himself in.
Just then, I heard the door open and Logan yelled, “Elle!”
That’s when Michael pulled a gun from his suit jacket.
Terror shot through me.
I didn’t know what to do.
Michael pointed the gun.
“No!” I screamed.
“Elle,” Logan called for me again frantically.
I turned my head for only a fraction of a second. “No, Logan, go. Get out of here.”
Ignoring me, the look on his face was determined. He looked fearless, dauntless, as his long, lean body rushed toward me.
I screamed again, “Logan, leave the room!”
He wasn’t doing it.
“Stay clear of
the gun!” I cried.
My head was bouncing.
From Logan.
Toward Michael.
And back.
I didn’t see the gun go off, but I heard it.
An icy chill slivered down my spine.
The gunshot shattered the atmosphere.
The sound was deafening.
My ears were ringing.
I’d never realized just how loud a gunshot could be.
Blood splattered all over me. Warm, yet so chilling. It covered me from head to toe.
I was screaming, but nothing was coming out.
Pure terror was all I felt.
My entire body shook and I couldn’t move.
Whose blood was covering me?
Mine?
Logan’s?
Michael’s?
I turned back and that was when I saw Michael on the ground. He’d killed himself. Strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me backwards, trying to turn me around. There were voices, screams, sounds, but I couldn’t make out the words. All I knew was that I was pressed against a hard body.
Logan’s body.
Everything was white noise. The walls, the blinds, and the window were splattered in red and the floor looked like it was bleeding.
My stomach revolted.
My feet were off the ground.
What happened next . . . I don’t remember.
Slowly, so slowly, the walls closed in around me and then finally, I was lost between them.
DAY 36
LOGAN
Prince Charming I wasn’t.
He was supposed to walk into the room where his sleeping beauty lay and kiss her. Or at least that was how Declan thought the story went. My plan was to do that and then slip my grandmother’s ring on her finger.
That’s not what happened.
Rather, the ring sat in the silver box waiting for the right time and instead of being with Elle, who needed me right now, I was sitting in a room with Blanchet, Miles, and a team of DEA agents who love drawing on a fucking whiteboard all day.
There had been some wrong assumptions made, Mickey O’Shea being the Priest one of the biggest. But I was confident now that we had all the dots. It was connecting them to compose the right picture that was slow in coming together.
My old man had gone to see Patrick and surprisingly, Patrick told him everything. That Seamus wanted vengeance on Patrick. For his mother’s death. For being sent away to Ireland. For his whole fucked-up life. That Seamus had kept his identity a secret so that when he was ready, he would come out guns blazing and annihilate the Blue Hill Gang. Tommy’s fuck-up with the drug fiasco had only served to accelerate his plan and only made it sweeter.
A voice pulled me out of my thoughts. “This is the only photo we have of Seamus O’Shea, otherwise known as the Priest,” Blanchet said, pointing to a copy of the picture from Erin’s house that Elle told her about when Blanchet went to see her in the hospital this morning. “Immigration is sending us over a more recent one but it hasn’t arrived. Details surrounding this man are sketchy at best, but it seems he was a miracle child, born seventeen months after Mickey O’Shea,” she pointed to a picture of an old man taken walking into his flower shop, “went to prison.”
O’Reilly, the poor sucker who was appointed her subordinate, coughed out, “It’s called conjugals.”
She narrowed her stare at him. “Prison records show Rose visited her husband every Sunday for the three years he did time but during family visitation hours only.”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, go on.”
Another guy raised his hand and then glanced down at the report in front of him. “It says here Mickey was sentenced to five years.”
She shook her head and flipped the page of the report she held. “Early parole for good behavior.”
The red marker scratched against the smooth surface. “Juvie records show the young Seamus caused a lot of trouble. Didn’t go to school. Break-ins. Fights. Public disturbances. Then Rose O’Shea is gunned down in a bar and subsequently the bad seed is shipped off to Ireland to some seminary school, supposedly never to be heard from again.”
“So what happened?” an agent called out.
The she-devil herself was in full form and ready with every answer. “Immigration records show him reentering the United States about three years ago, with a wife and kid in tow.”
“Should we assume he didn’t go to seminary school if he was married?” O’Reilly asked.
“You don’t assume anything because if you do, you’ll be wrong. He went to seminary school in Dublin and just before he was to be ordained, he disappeared. No one knows what he did between the year of his disappearance and his reappearance in the U.S., but sources say he has strong ties to the Continuity Irish Republic Army, which is more than likely his pipeline for the drugs.”
“And you said he’s known on the street as the Priest?”
She nodded in confirmation but her eyes said, “No shit.”
I almost laughed out loud.
“How could the DEA have been unaware until recently?” one of the agents shouted out.
“You tell me,” she sneered.
“And we’ve never had eyes on him?” another guy asked.
She shook her head. “As far as I can tell by flipping through old reports, he was a myth. No one ever laid eyes on the Priest, so the DEA assumed he wasn’t real. Something conjured up to take our attention off what it should be on. Happens all the time. We have so many leads that go nowhere and so many hyped-up heads of drug rings that never existed. According to these reports, any investigation into the Priest led to a dead end.”
“Makes no sense,” someone mumbled.
Irritated, Blanchet slammed her fist down. “All I can say is either he was really good at staying underground or all of you are really stupid.”
O’Reilly stood. He had some balls. He strode over to the whiteboard and started writing. “Seamus O’Shea is still at large. We believe him to be traveling with his wife and son. No known direction.”
“We have this composite of his kid,” Blanchet added, pointing to a taped-up photo Elle helped a sketch artist render.
“Looks like another sick fuck,” one of the guys muttered.
That earned him a look from Blanchet. “Let’s stick to the facts. Text messages and voicemails from Seamus O’Shea on the day of Michael O’Shea’s suicide clearly show threats made toward his sister-in-law, Elle Sterling, and his daughter.” She pointed to screen shots taken from his phone.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Are they still in danger?” someone interrupted.
“Not that we have reason to believe. As far as we can ascertain, the reasons for the threats had to do with Michael O’Shea’s political career and well, since there won’t be one, I would surmise they should be out of danger.”
Miles was leaning against a window with his arms crossed. “What do you say we concentrate on finding Seamus O’Shea?”
Blanchet’s head snapped in his direction.
The room quieted.
And then she gave him the slightest smile of agreement.
Another agent raised his hand like we were in class.
Blanchet nodded.
He pointed to the board. “What does Seamus O’Shea have to do with Tommy Flannigan’s murder?”
“A life for a life,” I muttered.
Blanchet looked at me.
“It’s an old mob saying.”
“Whose life?” he asked.
The last thing I was going to do was get Frank involved, so I shrugged and said, “I have no idea.” I did, of course. Mickey must have told Seamus what happened years ago, how when he went to shoot at Patrick, Rose got in the way, and then once Seamus was holding the cards, he ordered Patrick to have his own son killed to avenge his mother.
A life for a life.
I’m sure Patrick had a choice, just as my father had years ago. His life or his son’s life.
&nb
sp; There’s always a choice.
Blanchet started writing on the board again.
Hands went up.
Miles took the lead and answered most of the questions. In time, he would share Mickey and Rose O’Shea’s tragic story with the DEA. Just not yet. We needed some time to let things settle for all of us first. For Clementine’s sake, Elle wanted the O’Shea name out of the press as much as possible. I understood that.
I watched Miles in action.
Where Blanchet was good, Miles was better. But since she officially worked for the DEA and he didn’t, he had to follow her command. I had a feeling that it was just a matter of time and soon he’d be on her team or possibly managing her. Either way, combined, they both had enough of the facts, and I was certain together they would bring Seamus O’Shea to justice.
With Seamus O’Shea on the lam, and no political hopeful in his pocket anymore, we all really did believe Elle and Clementine were no longer in danger. I had to give it to Michael O’Shea: in the end, he took care of his family the only way he could.
He had made the right choice.
Completely over all of this, I rose to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t think I can be of any more help.”
She nodded. “Thanks, McPherson. You’re free to go.”
The way she said it, I knew what she meant.
My father was free. I was free. Elle was free.
Finally, Elle and I could be together without outside forces pulling us apart.
And if that didn’t sound like a happily ever after, I didn’t know what did.
DAY 85
ELLE
I had never been much of a romantic.
I’d never even thought about it. My time was spent searching the world for treasures. It was odd, but it wasn’t until Logan entered my life that I thought about the person I was before him as being a nomad. A gypsy. Traveling around in search of nothing yet never stopping.
Sure, there were times I’d watch romantic comedies and get that little high that comes with happy endings, read chick lit for the sheer pleasure of smiling, and once I think I might have thought the idea of ice-skating in Central Park while holding someone’s hand could be fun, but in all honesty that was as far as my romantic thoughts had ever gone.