by S. M. West
Why won’t they tell me what it is they’re after? One of the men called it “the goods”—what goods? Furiously I type out another response.
Me: I’m trying to cooperate. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Sixty seconds pass and nothing. No response. The wait feels like eternity but nothing comes in. I’m not giving up yet.
Me: Tell me what you want.
A jab of pain slices through my bottom lip and the taste of copper hits my tongue. My teeth withdraw, relinquishing my chewed flesh.
Biting my lip is a nasty habit I picked up in med school when most of my hours were spent worrying about studying, my grades, and ensuring I didn’t kill anyone.
I try one more time to get a response, already knowing it’s futile. They have gone silent.
Me: Hello?
Not bothering to wait, I dial Elliot’s number for the second time today and without even a ring, it goes to voicemail. Doesn’t that mean his phone is off?
“Elliot, it’s Caro. Again.” My bite will not get him to call me any sooner.
He’s the type of man who needs his ego stroked and often. He’s the perfect example of that old adage that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
I lay it on thick and sweet. “I really need your help and would really appreciate it if you called me back as soon as you get this. I don’t care what time it is, anytime day or night. Please.”
Ending the call, I drop the phone into my jacket pocket. Well, I can forget about going home.
Sleep will elude me with all the questions I have and a threat of bodily harm hanging over my head. I need answers, and the box at the clinic is my only chance of getting any tonight. This can’t wait until tomorrow.
Caro
A blast of wintry air slaps at my face as soon as I step outside. Tucking my chin into my chest to block the unforgiving wind, I hurry to my car. Every breath, thick and frigid, burns my lungs on the way in and billows from my mouth in puffs of icy smoke.
February is the worst of winter in Toronto. Months into the season, we’re fed up with temperatures well below freezing, and snow has long lost its magic. Every snowflake feels more like a prison sentence with the harsh reality that winter isn’t near done with us and the end isn’t in sight.
My pocket vibrates and I still. Did they answer my texts? I jump into my car, get the engine going, and crank the heat before fumbling with gloves and chilled fingers to get my phone.
There’s a text from Nick to call him, which I do once I’m on the road.
“Caro, you good?”
My heart rate evens out and I start to feel more levelheaded as his gravelly voice booms through the car speakers.
“I’ve been better.” I can’t lie to him and yet I don’t want to worry him. “How’s the weather?”
Nick and Maggie are at our family cottage in Quebec. He stole her away for a long weekend—Valentine’s Day of all days. The corners of my lips tip up at the thought of Nick Archer all heart eyes, overflowing with love for a woman.
The image of a cartoon character with a huge red heart thumping right out of his chest comes to mind. And he loves not just any woman. He loves Maggie. A true force of nature. She’s the perfect match for my stubborn-ass brother. God help her.
“It’s been snowing for two days straight but no complaints. We’re hunkered down by the fire, keeping ourselves busy.” His sly grin flashes through my mind as I hear it in his voice, along with the innuendo of how they’re keeping busy.
I roll my eyes, slightly uncomfortable thinking of my brother getting it on—ick—and a little saddened, not for him but for me.
Wallowing isn’t something I do, but right now I’m feeling particularly alone and a little unsettled. I don’t have a special someone to share stupid days like Valentine’s with or even to talk to about stuff like these maddening texts.
But I won’t let any of my crap take away from how happy I am for my brother. Stuck with Maggie, no matter where, is Nick’s dream come true, and snowed in at the carriage house is even better. No one and nothing to intrude on them.
I hit the blinker to signal the upcoming left turn, shaking my head wryly. “I’m sure you are.”
He chuckles, and just as quickly, his humor vanishes. “What’s got you sounding glum?”
“Ugh, I didn’t hide it very well, did I?” I pause—how do I tell him about the texts and incident at the clinic without causing him to come home early?
“No. What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s work or something like that. This sounds like something more.”
I scowl, grateful he can’t see my face right now and loathing how good he is at reading me, even through a damn phone line.
“Caro, come on.” He senses my hesitation, and like a dog with a bone, he’s going to chew on it until satisfied.
I’ve always admired, envied even, his uncanny ability to pick up on the things people don’t say or do. It’s one of the many reasons he was so good at his old job.
No, job isn’t an accurate way of describing my brother’s role in helping unsavory characters fix their problems.
But even with his skill, I wish he wouldn’t use it on me. He makes it really hard to hide things from him, especially when I was a teenager and wanting my independence.
“Caro?” He’s insistent.
Shoot. I don’t know how to say this without causing alarm. I don’t want him to cut his time away with Maggie short. He’s already given up so much for me.
“It’s been a strange day.” My exhale is long and waning, like that of a deflating balloon.
“Strange how?”
There isn’t any point in holding back. Nick always figures things out eventually, and in the meantime, he won’t give up, so I recount both the texts and the altercation at the clinic.
“And you don’t know what they’re looking for? And you haven’t heard from Elliot?”
“I really don’t know and no, I’ve tried Elliot twice and nothing so far. I guess if he’s in surgery or on duty, it would explain why I haven’t heard from him. I’m on my way to the clinic right now.”
“Why?”
“There’s a box of Elliot’s stuff, things he left behind, and I figured there might be something there. So I’m going to check things out.”
“Now? By yourself?” He doesn’t give me a beat to answer. “Like hell you are. No way.”
“Stop worrying.” Aggravation scratches at my throat. I also hate him being right in how he’s responding. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, but it isn’t a good idea. Let me call Ki—”
“No. Don’t call him.” A strange, curious little hitch lodges in my chest at just the hint of Kit, and like a razor’s edge, my words cut him off.
His best friend and my ex… ex-lover? My ex-best friend? Kit’s my ex-everything. Everything aches—head, heart, and body—at the mere thought of him. He’s the last person I want to see… No, that isn’t true.
I want to see him but know better than to crave someone I pushed away. He’s better off without me. I’ve done enough damage.
“I’d feel better if Kit went with you.”
“I’d be wasting his time, and besides, I need to find whatever it is these guys are looking for. They already tried the clinic so it isn’t like they’ll go back there.”
“You’re not helping—” His intensely anxious tone causes me to envision his molars grinding into dust with how tight he must be clenching his jaw.
“I promise to text you once I’ve checked things out.” I turn into the plaza where the clinic is located, holding my breath as I wait for him to tell me he’s backing off and not bringing Kit into this.
“Caro—”
“Nick, please enjoy your last day. When you guys get back, you’re going to wish you were away again with the investor reception that night. What time are you planning to arrive on Friday?”
“In enough time to get ready. Why? We can leave earlier.”
“No, that’s fine. I was just curious. Do you need any help with any last-minute preparations?” Maybe if I get him focused on the reception, he’ll let the Kit thing go. Nick loathes event planning, almost as much as I do.
I also don’t like attending these things, but it’s the least I can do considering I’m hands off with this end of things. Nick manages the events, or more accurately, Maggie does.
“No. We’re good.”
“Okay. Don’t worry about me and say hi to Maggie for me.”
My car swings into a spot at the front of the clinic. I usually park in the back when it’s open, but it’s night and the lighting is better in the front. The white neon sign atop the front door is bright.
I’m both anxious and optimistic to go inside and get my hands on that box. I recall finding some medical journals back when he left, but I wonder what else might be in there. Hopefully, answers.
“I will.” His tone is more agreeable and with any luck, he accepts that I can check out a box of Elliot’s belongings on my own even if he doesn’t like it. “Caro, text or call me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Night, Nick. Love you.”
“You too.” He ends the call and his worried tone nags at me.
My brother is a protector and before Maggie, safeguarding me was his lifelong purpose. At times, his hovering and cautious attitude was smothering, but it’s also why we’re so close. Nick is so much more than a brother to me.
He went to great lengths to make sure my dream of being a doctor came true, sacrificing his future for a life of crime. It was never for himself, but more for the money it afforded him. It was to give me a life I never would have had without it.
A familiar pang of guilt strikes my chest—it never goes away. No matter what I do, I can never truly repay him or Léa for what they sacrificed for me. My sister paid with her life.
And among other reasons, this is why, daily, I’m thankful for Maggie in so many ways. Since she came into his life in the wild and crazy way that she did, nearly two years ago now, he’s no longer in that life.
He’s a legitimate businessman, some might even say a philanthropist. Léa’s Home is his life, and all the thugs, guns, and violence are behind him. My relief is palpable.
A long life isn’t a sure thing for any of us. I get that. But before, it was almost guaranteed Nick would die young. Now, I’m beyond thankful. Those sleepless nights and the sickening worry are behind me. And according to Nick, the same can be said for Kit. He’s supposedly out of that life, too, and yet I severed all ties.
Kit.
My palm hits the steering wheel in frustration. Why’d Nick have to mention him? It's been months since he’s crossed my mind. Shit, why am I lying to myself? I think about him all the time. We haven’t seen each other in nearly a year even though we’ve been broken up for much longer. All of it is my choice.
Yet my reason for not being with him—the crime—is no longer a factor. Does that change things?
I shake my head, truthfully afraid to consider what Kit’s more mundane and definitely safer lifestyle might mean. No obstacles between us.
I can’t think about him. Not tonight. Not ever.
The sooner I get in there, the sooner I can get home. What is it with tonight and my exes?
Elliot and Kit are so vastly different. Kit was and still is the only man I’ve ever loved. The danger and violence are what drove me away.
And then there’s Elliot. There’s no denying he’s safe, albeit boring and overbearing, and that’s what appealed to me the most. I overlooked his inflated ego and sense of self-importance for safe. But was he safe?
If so, who are these guys after him? And what is it they’re looking for?
Engine off, I zip my jacket up to my chin, preparing for the chilly night air, and get out, locking my car. Bracing for the cold whip of the wind, I jog the short distance to the front door of the clinic.
Strangely, the door is unlocked but the alarm is set. Wary, I enter the alarm code into the keypad, and my finger hovers over the light switch. I’m not going to turn them on.
If someone is here, I don’t want to alert them to my presence. With my phone flashlight now shining into the blackness, I scan the beam around the waiting room.
Rows upon rows of plastic chairs with square tables on the ends, some cluttered with outdated and dog-eared magazines, fill the large open space. Nothing is out of place.
The more I look around the front and nothing is awry, the more my nerves settle. I then spend about twenty minutes, if not more, digging through the front closet.
It’s a mess and I come up empty, but being the Type A that I am, I can’t leave this clutter and quickly rearrange things to my liking.
Next is the bin Willow mentioned behind the reception desk. That’s worse than the closet and Elliot’s box isn’t there either.
I’ve already been here way longer than I intended and I push through the door to the exam rooms, medical supply closet, and washroom. All eight examination room doors, four on each side of the hallway, are shut.
My feet stutter, and a sharp, icy panic grips the back of my neck. The door to the medical storage room, at the end of the corridor, is open. It should be locked.
We lock the supply room at all times, and it’s off limits to anyone but staff given its contents. We may not have narcotics, but there are medical supplies, some drugs, and samples that could cause damage or death in the wrong hands.
Why did I get sidetracked up front? I spent countless minutes cleaning up the clutter and organizing things when there could be an intruder in the building?
The lights are off inside the room and, even with the beam of my phone, I can’t see much except that the glass pane insert of the door is shattered.
The thickness in the air clogs my throat, and my knees lock, keeping me firmly rooted in place. That’s how they got in there. Someone smashed the glass and reached in to flip the lock.
Jagged spikes rise like mountain peaks from the edges of the pane, and some are coated in a dark substance. Blood. Whoever did this cut themselves.
Could they still be here? Hurt. I want to call out, see if anyone is here, but I don’t know what I could be walking into. None of this makes sense.
How did someone get in here? The front door was unlocked but the alarm was set. Usually if the alarm went off, I’d have been notified by the security company.
I should call the police, but I stand there for a few more seconds, straining to detect any movement or sounds. Nothing. Only spine-chilling silence.
Quietly, I slip back into the front of the clinic, closer to the front door, eyes trained to the back of the clinic just in case someone is here. In hushed tones, I call the police and explain the situation.
Tonight must be a busy night. Given I’m not in danger, I’m told they’ll get there when they can. I push for a better sense of timing and reluctantly, I’m told it’ll be close to forty minutes or more before a cruiser can come by. And of course, if things change on my end, I’m to call them back.
The operator advises me to wait in my car and I almost do but then it hits me. The fog of fear, brought on by the day’s events, clears. The clinic has been broken into before.
Mostly, it’s the homeless seeking a place for the night when it’s freezing outside. Tonight is well below zero and expected to get colder before dawn. What if this is what has happened now? And it has nothing to do with those awful men and those texts?
Maybe Willow forgot to lock the door? It’s possible. And now I’ve unnecessarily called the police.
If someone is hurt and only looking for somewhere warm for the night, I don’t want to turn them out into the cold. I’d rather find them a shelter for the night and avoid the police hassle.
I grab a toy truck from the play area. It isn’t much of a weapon, but it might be all I need to get away if someone is here and ready to attack. While I make my way past the four sets of doors on either side of the hall, my insides churn. I should stop and check each ro
om, but for some reason, getting to the supply closet feels urgent.
I pass the cutoff to a short corridor where both the lunchroom and bathroom doors are closed. My breathing is still the only sound.
The flashlight shines brightly into the room, no shapes or movement so far, and shards of glass crack and pop under the sole of my boot. I pause, flashing my light onto the broken fragments littering the tiled floor.
The familiar smell of antiseptic, sterility, and chemicals fills my nostrils, and for a brief moment, it brings calm. This is my domain. I know every nook and cranny of this place.
But my composure is soon lost when a loud smack, like a door slamming, comes from the front of the building and grips my insides and twists.
I’m not alone. Someone’s here.
Kit
B0b Seger rasps about the days of old, and I tap my big foot to the catchy tune. His rough voice fades in and out, mingling with the whirs, bangs, and clanks of the garage. A raucous noise, that’s what it is, and one I’m all too familiar with and I can’t say I don’t like.
The Phoenix is my home, where I’m most comfortable under the hood of a car or searching for our next classic to be restored. This is Maggie’s place, but since day one, I’ve worked my ass off and tried to pull more than my weight.
She did me a solid by taking me in and giving me a job. I intend to pay her back and then some. To date, most of the business at the garage is word of mouth, and while the work is steady and she’s making a healthy profit, it could be better.
The woman and her crew are talented, among the best in the restoration business, but she doesn’t go looking for the business. I want to change that and do my share to grow the revenue and reputation of the Phoenix.
It took a bit of convincing, but she finally agreed to let me take a proactive approach to sourcing and buying cars we could restore to their original beauty. The plan is to then sell them either privately or at an auction.
That’s where Pinter comes in, and tomorrow, when I meet with him, I’ll be closer to making it a reality. To bring my master plan to life, we need our first car. I just need to close Pinter.