Chapter 36
She was asleep when Connelly let himself back into the apartment. From the bedroom just steps above the door, she heard him ease the lock into place. He was trying to be quiet. She rolled over and eyed the illuminated display on the alarm clock. 1:47.
After she had finished reviewing the temporary restraining order papers, she’d made up the pullout bed in the living area. Around midnight, she’d gotten ready for bed. But even though she hadn’t slept in forty-three hours, sleep was a long time coming. The two glasses of wine she’d drunk didn’t quiet her mind as she’d hoped, and it had taken her an hour or so to fall asleep.
Connelly was walking up the steps to the loft. She heard the soft pat of socks on stairs.
He hesitated in the doorway.
She sat up. “Connelly?”
He whispered back. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Is everything okay? Do you need something?” She reached over and flipped on the lamp on the bedside table. She strained to make out his face in the weak light but couldn’t. She could see that he had changed into sweats and was carrying a small duffle bag.
He walked into the room and stood at the foot of the bed.
“Everything’s fine. Gregor and Anton are both in custody; they’re spilling every detail they can think of about Irwin. They gave us his address in Potomac and a team’s been mobilized to search his home.”
“Okay, good. I made up the guest bed. It’s actually not terribly uncomfortable. For a pull out.”
He cleared his throat. “Actually, I think it’s better if I sleep right here.”
Sasha was fully awake now.
“Connelly, I don’t think . . .”
“Relax. I mean right here.” Connelly unzippered his bag and took out his gun. Then he lay down on his back across the bottom of her bed, where a dog would sleep, and closed his eyes.
“Good night, Sasha.”
She watched him. His eyes didn’t open and he didn’t move. His ankles and feet dangled off the side of the bed. He also hadn’t slept in almost two days, she thought.
She sighed.
“You can sleep in the bed like a normal person, Connelly. I trust you not to do anything inappropriate. We both know I can kick your ass if you do.”
His eyes stayed closed but he let a smile play across his lips. “I’m fine here.”
“Suit yourself.”
She tossed a pillow down to the end of the bed and he crammed it under his head.
“Want a blanket?”
“Nope.”
She reached over and snapped off the light.
“Good night, then.”
Sasha closed her eyes and waited for sleep.
“Sasha?”
“What?”
“What happened to your brother?”
Sasha was silent.
“Are you awake?”
Sasha opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The street lights threw a scattered web of shadows across the left half of the room.
“Patrick was my oldest brother. He was married to a girl named Karyn. For his thirtieth birthday, he and some of his old college buddies went to Atlantic City for the weekend. The second night there, they came out of a casino at around four in the morning, looking for a place to get breakfast on the boardwalk. They ran into a group of teenagers, acting rowdy. Someone bumped someone and words were exchanged. Patrick’s friend, Cole, thought one of the kids had a gun. So, Cole pulled his gun.”
She closed her eyes again. “Cole’d been drinking—they all had—and he was waving the gun around. Patrick caught his arm, and Cole wheeled around. The gun discharged. Patrick was shot in the head. Close range. He was in a coma, he had brain swelling. My parents are devout Catholics, so he was like that for months. Not dead, not alive. He never woke up, was never responsive. One night, he just stroked out. And that was the end.”
Connelly was quiet for a long time. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
Then, from the end of the bed, he asked, so softly she had to strain to hear him, “The kid didn’t have a gun, did he?”
“It was a cell phone.”
Silent tears streamed down Sasha’s cheeks. Twelve years later, her memories of rock climbing with Patrick were beginning to fade, but the night he died was as fresh as ever. She took a series of ragged breaths.
“I’m so sorry, Sasha. Try to get some sleep. We need to be ready for tomorrow.”
“I know.”
The room was quiet. After a while, she heard Connelly’s breathing turn rhythmic.
She turned toward the window and stared out, seeing nothing. Her eyes burned with fatigue and tears. She slept fitfully until the dark sky turned gray and the first pink streaks of light filtered through the blinds.
5:45 a.m.
The smell of strong coffee filled the room. She eased herself out of the bed, careful not to wake Connelly, and went through the steps of her morning routine like a robot.
She was tying the laces on her running shoes when Connelly padded down the stairs. A red crease from the pillow crossed his check. He headed straight for the coffee.
“Morning.”
“Good morning. I’m going for a short run. I’ll be back in 20.”
Connelly frowned. “Not alone.”
“Yes, alone. I called my Krav Maga instructor. He’s going to jump me at some point along the way. I need a refresher. And, I don’t need any help.”
Connelly put his mug down.
“Sasha, you can’t . . .”
“I need to, okay, Connelly? I need to clear my head, I need to feel competent and secure before I walk into court today and I can’t do that with a bodyguard.”
She fixed her tired eyes on his, unblinking.
Connelly looked away first. He shook his head but picked up his cup of coffee and drank from it. He wouldn’t argue with her.
She held her cell phone out for him to take. “In case Naya or Mickey calls.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Just in case.”
He reached for the phone and, as he did, he clasped a hand around her wrist lightly.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked with worry in his eyes.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” He released her hand.
She headed for the door.
“Have a nice run,” he said to her back as the door closed behind her.
Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller) Page 51