by Zoey Parker
When she finally arrived, blue circles under her eyes and a tall thermos of coffee in her hands, she insisted Heather Rourke was no longer in the hospital.
“That’s not possible. I brought her in last night. She is definitely here.”
She took a loud slurp of her coffee and turned her head to one side like a dog who doesn’t understand a command. “And I can assure you, sir, that she definitely is not. It says so right here.”
She pointed to the screen but covered it with her hand when I leaned forward to try and read it.
“Is there someone else I can talk to?” I asked, trying to keep my cool, but wanting nothing more than to knock the woman’s coffee from her hands and shake her into understanding.
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling up at me, “there are many other people here you could talk to, but they are going to come to this computer, read the same information I am, and tell you the same thing. She checked herself out last night.”
I grunted out my understanding and walked towards the doors to the parking lot, but then stopped. Where was I going? If Heather wasn’t here, where was she? She didn’t have a car, but I’d had the forethought to grab her purse on the way to the ER, thinking that they may need her driver’s license or other forms of ID. I’d been proud of myself the night before, feeling as if I’d thought of everything, but now I cursed myself. Clearly, she’d called someone and gotten a ride somewhere or paid for a taxi or…Went home? Could she have gone back to the compound?
I tried to push the thought away immediately, but it kept coming up like my brain were a Ferris Wheel, cycling through the same process repeatedly, always ending up back at the beginning.
She went back to the compound. I made her doubt me, and she was sick and didn’t have anywhere else to go, and she went home.
Fear clutched at my heart, making my hands tremble. I couldn’t protect her at the compound, and I knew her family wouldn’t. Every fiber of my body wanted to run to her; drive through the gates, crash through Kevin Rourke’s door, and carry her away with me. But I had to be smart. I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady my heart rate and clear my head.
The automatic doors opened, and I was walking through the parking lot before I had even realized I’d made the decision. By the time I got to my car, my phone was pressed to my ear.
“Killian?”
I was surprised to hear my dad’s voice on the other end of the line before I remembered I’d called him.
“Hello?” he said, his voice sounding unsure as if he thought it might be a prank call or a butt dial.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I need to talk to you.”
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with ice. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“Then why did you answer my call?” I asked.
I’d caught him. He’d answered my call. Certainly, he hadn’t deleted my number from his phone, and even if he had, he’d memorized my number years ago. He knew it was me and he picked up the phone anyway. For the first time in a long time, hope sprouted in my chest. Maybe I could fix everything after all.
“What do you need to say, Killian?”
“We need to meet,” I said. “It has to be face-to-face. I need you to see me and know I’m not lying.”
Dad always knew when Niall or I were lying. He had the parental instinct that basically made him a human lie detector test. If I could tell him what Heather and I had found out while looking in his eyes, he’d have to believe me.
“That’s not a good idea.”
“What do you think I’m going to do?” I asked, before realizing I already knew the answer.
“You know what I think you’re going to do,” he shouted into the phone, the line cracking around his anger.
“I’d never hurt you,” I said. “I’d never hurt Niall, either. Please, meet me.”
He sighed, and I could hear the resignation in it, the inevitability.
“It has to be at the compound.”
“Will I be allowed in?”
“I’ll take care of everything,” he said. “Be here tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Thirty minutes,” I countered, checking the clock on the dash and estimating how long it would take me to drive there. “I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Tomorrow at nine,” he repeated, refusing to budge.
The line went dead, and I closed my phone. I opened it again and dialed Heather’s cell number, but it went straight to voicemail. Then I called the burner phone. Same thing. Either she’d turned her phones off, or they were both dead. Either way, I hoped it had been her decision. And I hoped she’d be safe until I could get into the compound. It was going to be a long day.
Chapter Ten
Heather
The closest motel was less than three miles away and was called Southwest Villas. The motel was not in the southwest corner of the city, let alone in the actual southwest, and the small room containing one full-size bed and a toilet could hardly be called a villa, but it wasn’t bad.
The room smelled of cigarette smoke and air freshener, and the bedding felt rough with constant bleaching, but it looked clean. I rinsed my face in the sink, splashing water under my tired eyes and trying to wash the gray tinge out of my cheeks, but it didn’t seem to help. Sleep was what I needed. Sleep was what the baby needed. I crawled between the covers and ran my hand across my stomach.
I wished I could know what the future held. For the baby and me. Would they continue to grow and be healthy? Would I be a good mom? Would I be a mom at all? The next thirty weeks had the power to change my life in any number of directions. At the end of them, would I still want a baby or would I choose adoption? I couldn’t imagine choosing adoption right now, handing my baby over to the state or another woman, but I’d never imagined being a single mother, either. I’d come to understand over the last month that my imagination played no part in reality.
When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t even remember closing them. But I knew I had, and I knew it had been a long time ago because sunshine was peeking through the thick plastic curtains, cutting a trail of light across the bed. My stomach growled, and I suddenly realized how long it had been since I’d eaten.
With a sense of guilt for potentially starving the baby, I grabbed a fiver from my purse and walked down the covered sidewalk in the direction of what I hoped would be a vending machine. Shoved in an alcove between the two buildings, which in the daylight were painted dusty shades of yellow and orange, were two vending machines.
One held sandwiches, wrapped in paper and plastic, and small cups of soup. I didn’t want to think about how long they’d been sitting there in the machine, waiting for someone to buy them, or how many different ways they could make me ill, so I shifted to the other.
The second machine had less healthy, but more trustworthy snacks; packages of processed junk that could sit in the machine for years and never go bad. Chips, cookies, granola bars, mixed nuts, candy, toaster pastries. I opted for strawberry Pop-Tarts and a bag of mixed nuts, hoping the healthy fats and protein from the mixed nuts would counteract the abundance of sugar I was about to consume and shuffled back to my room.
I placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and crawled back in bed. In many ways, it felt like the ultimate lazy day—lounging in bed, eating junk, the TV tuned to some late morning talk show I only ever watched in waiting rooms. However, the day felt tinged with too much sadness and anxiety to be fully enjoyable.
I ate the snacks in bed, stuck my mouth under the bathroom faucet to wash it all down, and fell back asleep, crumbs and litter spread out on the comforter around me.
The next time I woke up, it was still light outside, but I could tell it was early morning. The light felt sharp and unfiltered, cutting through the haze of the city and the morning fog. The alarm on the bedside table said it was just before 8:00 am. I’d slept for over twenty-four hours, waking up only to eat processed food and use the restroom, and I
couldn’t believe how much better I felt.
The ache I’d felt in the center of my forehead for the last week had subsided, and the tension I’d been carrying on my shoulders had disappeared. I didn’t know whether to thank the uninterrupted day of rest or the firm mattress or both, but I stretched and luxuriated in what felt like an entirely new body.
The burner phone Killian had given me was on the nightstand next to the bed, but it was dead. I dug around in my purse until I found the charger and plugged it in. Immediately, the screen came to life and missed calls and messages began popping up. Only one person knew the number to this phone, so I knew who they were from. Killian.
K: Where are you? I went to the hospital and you weren’t there.
K: Please call or text. Just let me know you’re okay.
K: I’m sorry about what I said at the hospital.
K: Please don’t be angry. Let me know you’re okay.
The texts kept going, but I couldn’t read them all at once. I decided to take a shower and clean the hospital smell off me. Then, when I felt more like a human, I’d decide what to do about Killian.
The water was hot, and steam filled the small bathroom immediately. I breathed it in, allowing it to clean me from the inside, as well. The complimentary soaps left a tacky residue on my skin, but it smelled like cucumber melon, so I kept slathering it on. My hair was stiff and oil-slicked at the roots. I massaged the soap into my scalp for a long time and then did the same with the tiny bottle of conditioner.
When I stepped out of the shower and cleared the steam from the mirror, I noticed the purple outline of a bruise growing on my cheek where my dad had hit me. I pressed my finger to it and winced. It was going to get much worse before it got better.
I put on the same large T-shirt and boxer shorts, wishing more than anything I had another change of clothes, and scraped my fingers through my tangled hair. The clock next to the bed read 8:45. I’d been in the shower for nearly an hour.
A new message flashed across my screen, and I knew it would be Killian. I almost read it but decided I’d rather have the conversation with him in person. I called the same cab company from the night before and went to the front desk to check out of the motel.
When the cab pulled up, I was relieved to see it wasn’t the same driver as two nights before. He’d ignored my appearance the first time, but I didn’t want to see his face when he saw me in the same state of disarray almost thirty hours later.
I gave the new driver—a young kid with thick-rimmed glasses and a pimply chin—the address, and we took off. My phone buzzed in my bag, but I ignored it, knowing I’d be seeing Killian soon enough.
###
Killian
I texted Heather several times throughout the night and morning, though I knew she wouldn’t respond. I wanted her to know I still cared, that I hadn’t given up on her. If… When she turned her phone on again, she’d see that I was still there for her. The last text I sent her was just before 8:45 am.
K: I’m meeting my dad at the compound. I’m going to explain everything to him.
K: I’m going to fix this.
I hoped more than anything that those words were true; that I could fix everything that had been broken by Niall’s death. That I could fix things between Heather and me—if there were something between us left to be fixed.
Heather hadn’t responded to any of my messages or calls, and I kept repeating to myself that she was fine. She just needed some time to cool down. She’d call back eventually. Though, worse thoughts threatened to drown out my positive mantra. Again, I tried to fight them back, convince myself that Niall’s death had simply made me paranoid. This was true, I was definitely more paranoid, but it was a justified paranoia. Niall had been murdered. And he’d been murdered by Heather’s brother. What else was Caleb capable of?
Grabbing my keys and heading out the door, I tried to clear my head. I needed to stay focused on the task at hand. If I could convince my father of my innocence, I would once again have free reign of the compound. I’d be able to find Heather and ensure she was okay.
Then we could be together. Like, actually be together. More than sneaking around in hopes her dad and murderous brother didn’t find out we were hooking up in my apartment. I wanted to take her on a real date. To dinner or dancing or some other romantic thing I’d only ever seen in movies. I wanted to give her the kind of love she deserved.
I was on the road to the compound before I realized I’d made the conscious decision, my body slipping into autopilot, directing me home. Home. The compound was home. For as long as I’d wished I could move away, get out from under my family, from the constant hustle and bustle of our line of work, I’d missed it the last few weeks.
Losing Niall had been unbearable, but losing my entire family, all of my friends, and my home in the same moment… it was almost too much. My entire life had been altered, flipped upside down because of Caleb Rourke and his hatred.
I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white until I thought the skin covering them would break open, reveal the bone beneath. I hated him—for what he did to Niall, for what he was doing to Heather, and for what he’d done to me. He’d changed the direction of so many lives without so much as a second thought, and so far, he had faced zero consequences. Well, that was all about to change.
Or was it? What if I couldn’t convince my dad of my innocence? The thought felt like poison, but I knew I had to entertain it. What if I couldn’t fix things? What if the rift between my dad and me couldn’t be fixed? What if Caleb got away with killing Niall?
Heather would have to leave her family, the compound, everything she’d ever known to be with me. Maybe she wouldn’t mind, but maybe she would. Family is family, after all. Being Irish and mafia, I learned that lesson from a young age. Nothing comes before family. Not even your heart.
Then there was the question of whether or not I was walking into a trap. I didn’t want to think my father capable of setting me up, but it was a real possibility. He’d almost barred me from Niall’s funeral, and it had been radio silence since. Then, all of a sudden, he is accepting my phone calls?
At the time, I’d wanted to believe it was because he missed me, because somewhere deep down he knew I was innocent, but that pesky paranoia was rearing its ugly head. It also could have been that he saw his opportunity. He saw his chance to avenge Niall’s death. If there is anything we Irishmen value more than family, it’s good old-fashioned revenge.
The gates to the compound came into view, and the first hint of nerves rattled through my chest. How had I found myself here? I asked the question, but the answer was obvious. Heather. I’d been away from the compound for weeks, and though I didn’t know who had killed Niall for most of that time, I could have attempted to reach out to my dad. I could have tried to convince him that I didn’t kill Niall.
Instead, I’d sat in my dingy apartment, eating frozen food, and staring at the empty hole in the entertainment center where a television should have been. It wasn’t until Heather that I found a purpose in my exile. Even more than that, it wasn’t until I thought Heather could be in danger that I found the motivation to call my dad and set up a meeting. Without her, I would still be aimless.
The gates parted automatically as my car pulled up, so I knew Dad must have told the guards to be expecting me. I waved my hand out the window in thanks, even though I couldn’t see anyone.
The “compound” was more of a gated community. Houses, all similar to one another, dotted the curvy, narrow streets, and wives walked their teacup-sized dogs along the manicured sidewalks.
As I drove slowly towards my dad’s house, my childhood home, I thought about what it would be like to one day be in charge of the compound. To live in the large stone house that sat on the raised hill, slightly above the other houses to denote its importance. To have the power and the money to give Heather and the baby whatever they wanted. To provide a lifestyle for them where they would never want for anything and w
ould always be taken care of.
The thought made the conversation with my father that much more important. If I failed, it would all disappear in front of me like a puff of smoke, as if it had never existed. The dream my father had spoken to me about since I was a child, his hope that I would take over after him and run the family business, would be dead.
As I pulled up to the house, the tires rumbling over the uneven brick driveway, I saw Niall’s car still in the driveway. It was parked in his spot underneath the red oak tree. He complained endlessly about the birds that would sit in its branches and poop on his windshield, but even when the rest of the driveway was clear and available, he would always park under that damn tree.