Chapter 23
JULES
Because he’s a tech idiot who doesn’t know how to turn off the speakerphone once he’s inadvertently turned it on, I overhear my father in the kitchen on a call this morning, arranging a shipment for Friday. A man with a thick accent I can’t place informs him that a boat will arrive at the wharf at 2 a.m. I’m not sure how much or what kind of product he’s moving, but it means two things: His holdings are going to be significantly depleted and a lot of people are approaching their demise. Rowan has to accelerate her timeline. It’s a literal matter of life and death.
I have to wait for my mom—and Henry, Dad’s goon who’s been reassigned to accompany her everywhere, save the bathroom—to get home from the grocery store so I can use her phone. The more sneaking around I have to do to contact Rowan, the more annoyed I become with my father. It’s harder than it was in the beginning, when nobody knew about or even suspected us. Now I’m under constant surveillance if I leave the confines of my bedroom. When my dad’s out, it’s Teague who has his broken nose all up in my grill. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“Hey.” He hobbles into the living room, reaches for something on a high shelf in the tall, recessed bookcase opposite the entertainment center. It’s a monumental effort for him. He fails, groans, and rubs at his ribs. I hear him mumble “fuck” and am tempted to help him retrieve whatever it is he’s going for. But I’m also getting a sadistic sort of pleasure from watching him writhe. It’s like those Japanese game shows where people are pelted with balls as they’re trying to accomplish near-impossible tasks. He tries again. Fails again. Fails worse.
For crying out loud. “Yo, Frankenstein, what are you looking for?”
“Uno.”
“What?”
“Remember when we were kids? It was our favorite game. Aunt M told me the other day that there’s a deck up here somewhere.”
“You want to play Uno?”
He signals at my book. “It’s not like you got other plans.”
Typical. He doesn’t ask, he assumes. He’s been that way as long as I can remember. I’ve spent countless hours with him, and I can’t recall a single time he’s asked me what I wanted to do or see or eat, where I wanted go, how I felt about anything. Is that a guy thing, or is it specific to Calloway men? I’ve kept quiet, let them discount me. I refuse to do that anymore.
“No, I don’t have other plans, but I’m not interested. I’d rather chew on broken glass than hang out with you.”
He scowls. “I fucked up, little cousin. I know it. I really fucked up.”
Every once and again as I was growing up, I would wish I were a boy. Because then my father would’ve taught me all the things he didn’t want a daughter to know. He valued me, but not the way he does Teague. I’m a possession. Teague is his protégé. Seeing the way Teague turned out, I’m thankful I’m not a boy. I’d be just like him, lowkey misogynistic and myopic.
“Have you ever stopped to wonder about why you hate Rowan so much? Before the accident with Gino—and that is what it was—you hated her. She never did anything to you though, did she? I mean, you’ve both stayed out of each other’s way your whole lives, haven’t you? So, what is it? Her name. That’s all. You’ve been made to hate her because of her name. It’s pathetic that you’re incapable of thinking for yourself, making your own judgments. You’re a sheep. A sheep masquerading as a wolf.” I go over to the bookcase and grab a deck of playing cards. “Here. Entertain yourself with a few rounds of solitaire.”
Mic drop. I don’t look back to confirm it, but I know he’s standing there with his mouth hanging open. It’s dawning on him that he doesn’t have to be dead to be dead to me.
I’m hiding in the bathroom with my mom’s phone and the shower turned on so I can talk to Rowan in earnest. It’s too much information to send via text, and it’s too sensitive for it to exist in written words, anyway. I wish I could see her face, but FaceTiming about a coup while we’re both in our fathers’ homes is unwise.
“Friday. This Friday? That doesn’t leave me much time to prepare,” she says.
“No.”
“Okay. It’ll have to be done tomorrow night. It’s a rush job, but I’m sure Callum won’t hesitate, being the greedy bastard that he is. I’ll text you when we’re on our way there. You know what to do.”
“What do you mean ‘we’re’? You’re not going to be there, are you?” Oh God, I’m going to throw up.
“I have to be. I’m back in his good graces since I was able to smooth things over with the Rossis. That doesn’t mean he trusts me one hundred percent. He won’t think anything of it, as long as I’m putting my own ass on the line right beside his. That’s how it works with him.”
“I hate this.”
“I’ll be out of there long before anything happens, I promise. I gotta run, though. I have a call to make.”
“You found the right number?”
“Yeah. The ATF has an anonymous tip line.”
The ATF is comprised almost exclusively of ignoramuses. Federal agencies take longer to get anything done than it did Moses to lead his people out of the desert to the Promised Land.
“That’s—”
“I know what you’re thinking. They’ve been after Callum Monaghan for a long time. All I have to do is drop his name and it’ll light a fire under their collective ass.”
“That was fast. We’ve reached the point in our relationship where we can read each other’s minds.”
Rowan laughs a big, braying laugh. I can picture her, head thrown back, directing the sound of pure joy at the sky. It’s the most beautiful sound. “I didn’t know that was a real thing. It’s a first for me.”
“To be your first anything is a pleasant surprise.”
“You’re my first love. That counts more than any other first.”
It takes my breath away how she manages to say the perfect things, regardless of how steeped in sarcasm my words may be. “Oh, I’ve turned you into a puddle. Do I get a medal or something?”
She clicks her tongue. “I’m hanging up, Juliet.”
“Goodbye my darling. Light of my life, moon in my sky.”
The line goes dead and I laugh. I take off my shirt, splash some water in my hair—have to make it look convincing—towel it off, and then go find my mom in the second of only two havens she has in this house: The back garden, in which she planted a plethora of high pollen flowers so that my father, with his allergies, would avoid it. She’s too deep into this with us not to be included on every minute detail, but so adept at duplicity I know she’ll be fine. She’s been playing the long game, hiding behind the fa?ade of dutiful wife and mother for decades. Whatever relief I’ll feel when this is over will be peanuts in comparison to hers.
She sips her iced tea and listens intently as I deliver the change of plans.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Mom begins, “but it’s good that Rowan will be there. She might be able to limit the violence. Callum’s killer instinct is toned down when she’s around, and the grunts have to take whatever order she gives them. The poor night guards may live to see sunrise.”
“Right. That doesn’t do much to abate the nightmarish visions of my girlfriend being pumped full of lead.” It comes out of my mouth sounding acerbic, but in truth that’s all I’ve seen lately, whether I’m awake or dreaming—Rowan and my mom and me, riddled with bullets, the lifeblood leaking out of us until all that remains is expired meat.
My mom is sporting that knowing air that only mothers have. The worry extends from her face into her eyes. “After this is finished, we’re going to find you a therapist that specializes in trauma and PTSD. As much as your father and I have tried to keep you away from the ugliness of our business, it was inevitable that some would seep through the cracks.”
We’re Calloways. We don’t do therapy. We don’t even step foot into the confessionals at church. Nobody carries our burdens for us or hears the slightest breath of our sins; they’re ours and ours alone. No doctor or God can offer us immunity from real-world repercussions. I’d be better adjusted if I had been allowed to talk about any of the batshit crazy things I’ve experienced in my life. I probably wouldn’t be so prone to or comfortable with lying or manipulating or keeping every goddamn normal human emotion locked away inside me. And in the last week, between Gino and Teague and the cemetery, I’ve seen more carnage than I have in twenty-two years of living.
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”
I move to hand her back her phone. She shakes her head. “It’s yours for now. Keep it hidden from the insufferable men in the house.”
“They are barely tolerable, aren’t they? Not in the good Elizabeth Bennet kind of way.”
“Correct. You’re flustered; have a sip of this.” She thrusts her glass at me.
The instruction confuses me. I’m not a fan of tea, iced or hot, and she’s well aware of that fact. “Mom, I?—”
She smirks at the pitcher atop the copper bistro table between us. “It’s from Long Island, dear.”
“Should’ve led with that.” I help myself to more than a sip.