Before she could think any more about her decision, she knocked on the door.
It took less than a minute for someone to answer, but it might as well have been a lifetime. The door creaked, and then pulled inward, revealing a woman wearing a flowered housedress with curlers in her hair. A cigarette hung loosely from her lips in direct defiance to the oxygen tank she dragged behind her.
Amy unconsciously took a step back.
“Yeah?” The woman’s voice was gruff. Amy detected an accent, but it was hard to tell what it was from the single word answer.
“Sorry, I’m looking for Aiden,” said Amy quickly, gripping her mace even harder.
“Whatcha want him for?” she asked. It was clear now she was Northern. Amy wondered if this was his mother.
“I’m...just a friend. Is he around?”
His mother made a noise of disgust. “He’s clean. He doesn’t sell that shit anymore.”
It took Amy a moment to catch on. Drug charges, Marcos had said. This woman probably thought she was here to buy.
“I’m not here for that.” She forced her chin up. “He...he left some of his things at my place last night. I just wanted to return them.”
Now she looked confused. “And he told you he lived here?”
She waffled, unable to stop herself from combing back her hair.
“He drove me by once. Did I get the house wrong?”
“No.” The woman scowled. “No, he just doesn’t typically bring his friends home.”
An image of Aiden’s friend flashed through Amy’s mind. She couldn’t help but think this woman was lucky to be left alone.
“I’m Mary, his mom. You’re his new girl then? How old are you?” She looked skeptical.
The words statutory rape ran through Amy’s head. She gritted her teeth.
“Twenty-six. Do you know where I can find him?”
“You could always wait here for him,” she suggested.
Amy frowned. “I would, I just don’t actually have much time before I have to get to work.”
“Oh.” Mary’s face fell. “Well he’s probably at that pub off 7th. The one in Ybor. I forget what it’s called.”
“O’Malley’s?” asked Amy weakly.
“That’s the one.”
Quickly, Amy turned.
“I didn’t catch your name,” called the woman as Amy jogged back across the street.
Amy didn’t give it.
***
By nine in the morning, Amy was parked outside of the front entrance of Rave salon. Or rather, in front of a tattoo parlor called Black Ink, which was on the opposite side of the salon from O’Malley’s Irish Pub. None of the businesses were open—Amy had never given much thought to either of them holding hours before lunchtime, especially on a Sunday—but now that she was really looking, she could see the lights on behind the CLOSED sign that hung in the pub’s window, and every so often, movement within.
Val’s voice whispered to her, from that day she’d appeared in the parking lot with a black eye. This isn’t the safest place for me right now. Wouldn’t it be coincidental if her husband, who hung out at the bar while Val went to her appointments, was pals with Aiden Farrell?
Wouldn’t it just be awesome if Danny was involved in their fucked-up, three-way circle jerk?
Somebody needed to knock that bar down. Maybe no one would notice if she just lit it on fire real quick.
Across the street, four shops down, a black Camaro sat alone, parked against the curb. It was exactly like the car that had screeched away from Mike’s flip house the day she had visited him.
She was positive Aiden was here. When she’d come to work, she’d never noticed this car, never thought to look for it. How many times had he seen her, coming into work early? Had he ever walked inside and watched her with a client in front of the mirror? The thought sent a chill straight to her bones.
She wouldn’t go inside. Maybe it was because she’d lost her nerve after going to Aiden’s house, but it felt like suicide. Who knew how many people were in there right now, doing bad things? This section of Ybor was dead now, anyway. The nearest movement was the coffee shop two blocks down, and if she screamed, she doubted anyone that far would hear her.
So she waited. Even if he left through the back exit, he’d have to come out the alley to walk to his car.
The minutes passed. Her brain felt each second. Tick, tick, tick.
She thought of Paisley; her little hand in Amy’s. Braiding Chloe’s hair in all those intricate braids while the little girl unknowingly deleted programs on the cell phone Amy had given her just so she’d hold still.
She thought of Mike. His soft, kind words. His gentle hands, growing urgent, squeezing her thighs. Hummingbird, he whispered in her ear. There were so many things she wanted to tell him. So many things she wanted to do with him.
So many things she wanted to do to him.
She had meant what she’d said the night they’d made love. She’d never known that it could be like that. Warm, and wet, and close, and moving. He’d changed her, filled all her empty spaces. He’d taught her to trust him, and in turn, she’d relearned how to trust herself.
And then she’d screwed it all up. She shouldn’t have been here at all now, but since she had to be, he should have been here with her. So much they had done together these last few months—caring for the girls, managing their home—and at the first whiff of danger, she’d run off to handle things on her own.
She was so used to no one having her back, she didn’t know what to do when someone did.
You were supposed to be different, she’d said. And he told her she hadn’t given him a chance to be. That’s why you’ve kept your apartment. Why your mom doesn’t even know my name.
He was different, and she was different because of him. She had to right things. She needed Mike Stroud, and Paisley did, too.
She turned on her car, intent on driving straight to Mike’s house—home—and telling him all of this, but just then the front door to O’Malley’s swung open and Aiden Farrell stepped out into the daylight.
Amy glanced down to the clock on her dashboard. It was nearly eleven.
He was alone, with no sign of his friend from the other night, and drunk. He wobbled a little when he walked. For a moment, she considered calling the cops and giving them an anonymous tip that a clearly intoxicated man was about to get into his car, but she didn’t. He seemed to grow more sober with each step, and by the time he’d reached the black Camaro he was moving fluidly.
Her phone rang, but she didn’t even look down to check the number. She watched Aiden get into the driver’s seat, a cold, hard hate in her chest. He hadn’t seemed to notice her, and as he pulled on to the curb, Amy waited five seconds, and then followed.
If he was going to her house, she was going to drive his sorry ass off the road.
He didn’t get on the freeway though, he made a left turn at the first stoplight, and then entered a busier section of town. Amy nearly lost him; he drove fast, weaving in and out of traffic. If it wasn’t for his shiny, showy car, she might not have been able to keep him in her sight.
Her phone beeped with a voicemail. A few minutes later it rang again. Another voicemail. Worry seeped in over her disgust for the man in the black car, but she drove on.
Finally, he pulled into a gas station parking lot. Skipping the pumps, he went around the backside of the building. Amy drove around the block, through a busy Dollar Store parking lot, to the loading docks at the rear of the complex. There, she pulled in beside a Dumpster, behind a vined chain link fence that separated the two properties. Amy stared at the red painted letters on the back cement wall of the station that read Smart Mart, and thought of Val Connolly, whose husband owned six of these. For a fleeting moment, she hoped her friend and her daughter were safe, wherever they were.
More time passed, and after a while Amy had to shift in her seat to keep her thighs from going numb. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since they�
��d all gone out last night, and she had a serious headache brewing from pulling an all-nighter. She checked her phone, eyes on Aiden’s now empty car, and listened to her voicemail.
“Hi Amy, it’s Carolyn,” said her therapist, not any less worried-sounding than the last time they’d spoken. “I need to speak to you as soon as possible, please. It seems there was something stolen when my office was broken into. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but a few of my files are missing, and I’m afraid yours is one of them.”
She remembered the way Aiden and his clean-cut friend had backed her up against the alley wall outside the club in Ybor. He’d known things he shouldn’t have, things she’d suspected Danny had told him—about the abuse, and Paisley hiding beneath the bed. It made sense that he’d gotten that information from her therapy files. He’d made it clear he’d been following her around.
“Fucking bastard,” said Amy aloud. She suspected theft was not parole-approved behavior.
“It’s not something I think we should worry about. There’s no identifying information on your chart besides your name. All of your billing information, social security numbers, etc. are kept in my home office, I just wanted to let you know. Please give me a call back so we can talk about this.”
Amy deleted the message.
The next came on.
“Amy, it’s your mother.” Sigh. “I’m staying at the Hyatt downtown. If I’m no longer welcome at Anna’s wedding, please let me know so I can make arrangements.”
That was all there was.
She allowed herself a short moment of relief; at least her mother was all right.
Keeping the building in her peripherals, she scanned through the missed calls from Mike. He hadn’t left any messages, but Anna had. Alec had undoubtedly told her about her visit earlier this morning. She would listen to those later. After she picked up that bulletproof vest.
Mike had sent her one text: Come home.
She ached for him. Her whole body hurt. She again considered turning around and getting him, but now that she’d seen Aiden Farrell, she found she couldn’t. What if his next stop was her house? She couldn’t be caught unaware by him again.
She started to text Mike back but deleted it. She had too much to say, and none of it would come out right unless she said it to his face.
It wasn’t long before the back door of the station opened, and two men stepped out, Aiden Farrell, and a shorter, sleazy man in a black polo shirt with hair the color of flames. He wore a cell phone on a hook around his belt. Amy hated when men did that.
They spoke for just a moment, but Amy could tell from Aiden’s slouched posture and lowered eyes that he was not the one calling the shots. The smaller man shook his head, and sliced his hands through the air as if to gesture “no.” Aiden turned away, but Sleazy grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. One sentence seemed to end their conversation, and Sleazy retreated back into the building. Aiden kicked something across the ground—a can, or a piece of trash—and then got back into his car and revved the engine.
“Shit,” said Amy, throwing the Subaru into reverse. She backed up as he did, but still had to go around the back of the building, and then the block to get back to the front of the Smart Mart.
By the time she reached the street, the Camaro was gone.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she chanted, feeling the sweat dew on her hairline. Was he already heading toward their place? She drove down the street they’d come on, but didn’t see any signs of his car. She backtracked, and drove the opposite direction. No sign of him. Every black car turned her head and left her a little more panicked.
She grabbed her phone and sent a quick text to Mike.
Take them somewhere safe.
She tried another road, but still no Aiden Farrell.
“God dammit!” She shouted, and turned around again to go back to the gas station. She had one more road to try, but by the time she’d made it back to the small parking lot, she saw the sleazy man with the red hair leaving through the glass front doors, covered with posters advertising cheap fountain drinks and cigarettes.
He wore dark glasses, and strode forward as if he was as big as a bulldozer and nothing could stop him. Beside an old icemaker was a silver Lincoln Navigator—a huge car that took up a space and a half. He got inside, looking like Amy must have in Mike’s giant truck.
She wondered who he was—obviously he and Aiden had known each other, and if that was the case, he knew what Aiden was capable of and yet wasn’t afraid. Amy wondered if this was the Fox Aiden had spoken of that night. The man Danny had borrowed $37,000 from. It was because of this thought that she pulled onto the side of the road, and when the Navigator entered the street, followed.
She kept a good distance behind. It wasn’t hard to follow a car so large, nor was the man driving particularly fast. Amy’s phone rang again from the passenger seat, but she didn’t pick it up. Something told her to follow—maybe nothing more than sleep-deprived, crazed desperation—but when it came to danger she trusted her intuition, and everything told her this man was bad news.
He drove like a model citizen, stopping fully at every stop sign, using his turn signals. Taking city streets, he made his way into the suburbs—a wealthy community surrounding a golf course—and was stopped when he entered a gated section. She waited outside the iron fence while her car idled, thinking she’d made a mistake. Inside the community, she could see beautiful grassy lawns, huge houses with three-car garages, and swing sets in the backyards. Children’s voices drifted through the air, and she saw more than one kid on a bike. This wasn’t the rundown neighborhood she’d Aiden Farrell had lived in. This place was nice.
Still, she turned off the car and got out, standing across the street in front of a well-maintained park. Something wasn’t right. She still had a bad feeling. But a morbid curiosity to find out who this man was stoked her frustration.
From down the street came a mail truck. He pulled up to the gate and typed in a code.
“I must have some kind of death wish,” muttered Amy under her breath.
With that, she jogged across the street, trying to look as innocent as possible as she waited for the gate to nearly close, and then slipped inside.
She walked for what felt like forever. There was a lot of activity outside, landscapers working on the properties, kids playing basketball. The development was larger than it had appeared from the outside, and with all the garages it was impossible to tell if she’d already passed the Sleazy man’s house.
Just when she was about to turn back, she saw his car. It was parked on a roundabout driveway that climbed up a hill toward a two-story sandstone house with large bay windows. All of them were covered by curtains, including those upstairs.
Amy wasn’t sure what she’d planned on doing once she got here. All that walking, and she’d only focused on finding the place. It wasn’t as though she’d expected a sign to be out front saying, “FOX DEN,” but still she wanted something.
She found herself at the mailbox, remembering the mail truck she had followed in. Glancing around slyly to see if anyone was watching, she pulled down the handle and grabbed the mail.
“I’m going to jail, I’m going to jail, I’m going to jail,” she whispered, frantically sorting through the junk until she reached a bill addressed to the occupants of 2119 Harbor Terrace.
Part of her had already known what it would say. Maybe she’d just been looking to have her suspicions proven wrong.
Corbett or Valerie Connolly, the letter said.
Valerie Connolly, her client. Val, who had met her at her car with a bruise on her face to ask for help.
Now it was Marcos, whispering in her ear. Fraud. Gambling circles. Illegal booking. Mortgage assistance. And that’s just the shit those we’ve caught admit to. His family belongs to the Irish crime syndicate. We’ve been trying to break into that circle for years.
She called Marcos.
“Are you just going to hang up on me again?” he
answered.
“Is Val Connolly’s husband the Fox?” she asked.
Marcos was quiet. And then: “Where are you?”
“Damn,” she said to herself. His deflection had confirmed what she’d already known.
Aiden Farrell’s boss, the man Danny had borrowed money from, was Val’s husband. The owner of six Smart Marts. A member of the Irish mob.
The Fox.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the time Amy had gotten out of the development and back to the house, her cell phone was dead. She needed to go back to Mike’s house to get the charger; she didn’t plan on seeing them when she got there. Her text had been pretty clear, and he wasn’t one to mess with safety.
She missed them. All of them. But she didn’t know where Aiden was, so there was a chance he was looking for her, and if he was following her the way she’d followed him, she wouldn’t risk leading him their direction. He wouldn’t hurt her, not if she gave him what he wanted, but that didn’t make her feel any better about the situation.
At least, she didn’t think he’d hurt her.
Her head was pounding by the time she pulled into the neighborhood. Once, several months ago, Alec had brought her somewhere to see Anna, and convinced that he could have been followed the by press, or worse, one of Maxim Stein’s men, they’d backtracked all over the city so that anyone following would lose their trail.
She did that on the way back to Mike’s, just in case. And then she parked down the street, and waited several minutes to see if anything looked out of the ordinary.
From her position shaded beneath an oak tree, she could see the house that had become her home. It was dinnertime now, but the lights were off inside. She imagined happier times with burnt suppers and laughter, counting down the minutes until the girls went to bed, but it just made her long for them more.
She made herself focus on solutions. Mr. Connolly was the Fox. Because of Val, Amy already knew he was dangerous. And because of what Amy had done to help Val escape him, she doubted he’d be willing to grant Amy any favors.
More: A Body Work Novel (The Body Work Trilogy Book 4) Page 26