Chapter 60 Liam
sixty
Liam
Eighteen Months Later
Eighteen months later, the whirlwind hasn’t stopped.
Fireball’s worldwide now.
We were in South America in the spring. Europe again in the summer. Australia last winter. Released another album, cut in stolen weeks between tours, recorded half in LA, half wherever we could find a studio while on tour.
This record is our masterpiece. Not louder. Not shinier. Deeper. Critics call it the kind of music people play alone at night.
Padraig’s still here. Pounding the kit. Grumbling. Showing up, which matters more than anything.
We learned a bit from Connor’s mistakes. Shorter runs. Real breaks. Home when we can be home. LTZ burned itself to ash once. I won’t let Fireball do the same.
At the same time, we’re riding a high most bands never achieve. A second wind no one saw coming, including ourselves. We have Linus to thank. Fireball’s legacy is no longer a footnote.
My family’s been loud lately. Rory turned sixty.
He’s fully sober. Still trying. Ma’s religious about her Sunday family dinners, we’re all expected to attend if we’re in town.
Connor’s a TV star now, starring in Ronni’s new sitcom.
Cillian’s blowing up his own life in creative ways.
Brennan’s disappeared into code and investors.
Seamus thinks he can save the world with a scalpel.
Everyone’s moving. Everyone’s struggling. No one gets out completely clean.
As for my own family, Linus, Avonna, the girls and I are at home in LA for a bit.
The sliding glass doors are open in the living room. Sun leaks across the floor, filtered through the olive trees, warming the wide-planked hardwood. Sloane and Quinn’s toys are scattered around like breadcrumbs leading us back to real life.
It should feel peaceful, but the air is heavy.
Avonna hasn’t gotten off the couch. She’s curled beneath a blanket, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting on her belly.
Our pregnancy was only nine weeks along, but we’d heard the heartbeat the day before.
Talked about names. Laughed about whether Sloane and Quinn would be better as big sisters or stagehands.
Then, five days ago, she started bleeding.
A nurse stood stiff in the corner of the ER room while the doctor delivered the clinical term, Unviable spontaneous abortion, with the ease of someone who’d said it too many times.
Avonna went silent. Linus gripped her hand. I couldn’t find my breath. She didn’t react until we were released the next morning.
Today, she’s in our living room, barely moving, except to accept the tea Linus keeps refilling, or to glance toward the girls when they come running in, unaware they’re not going to be big sisters. We haven’t told them anything. They’re still too young.
Linus sits on the floor beside the couch, one arm propped on the cushion near her waist, gently tracing shapes on her hip through the knit of her leggings.
His other hand holds a printout of the preliminary findings from the private investigator.
He glances up at me when I join them, his eyes shadowed with the same grief I feel.
All of us wanted this baby. Unfortunately, Avonna’s miscarriage isn’t the only tragedy we’re dealing with.
A few months ago we returned home from tour to find an unsigned letter taped to our security gate. Handwritten. Quoting Bible verses equating our family to sin. Warning Avonna to repent before she damned her children. Threatening her sisters.
Since then it’s been relentless. They knew our schedule inside and out.
Dozens of the same letters, scripted in a distinctive scroll, found their way to Avonna.
Mailed to venues. Delivered via clueless production assistants.
Left at hotels under fake names. One was slipped under her dressing room door.
Another left in a bouquet at a meet and greet.
A few days ago, a letter was mailed to the girls’ preschool.
Each one increasingly menacing and scary.
Sliding behind her on the couch, I wrap my arms around her chest, knees bracketing her hips. I tug her back against me and pull the blanket up around us both. I kiss her head. “How are you feelin’, my love?”
“Destroyed.” She shakes her head. “I’m sad about the baby and keep thinking about the letters.”
Yeah. Me too.
My stomach lurches when I remember what some of them said:
Every filthy act stains your soul. He sees them all.
Your body is a grave, not a cradle.
No child should be born into your sickness.
You will know loss until you return to the fold.
Hell does not forget. It prepares a room for you.
Avonna doesn’t know about the barrage we received the day we lost the baby. Voice messages. A package sent to Linus’s office. A delivery driver intercepted by our beefed-up security.
We know where you are. No matter how far you run, the righteous will find you.
Your sins have a scent. We are trained to track it.
You cannot hide from His justice. Or ours.
The reckoning begins soon. Prepare your daughters.
The last one chilled me to the bone.
I wanted to burn them all. Linus refused.
He’s doing everything possible to protect our family.
We’re locked down with even more security measures.
Two more bodyguards have been hired to discreetly shadow each of our girls.
There are new mail and technological protocols.
He also hired the best investigator in the state, who worked fast.
Yesterday he traced all of it back to her old sect. Same phrases. Same scripture. Same bile dressed up as righteousness. Lawyers are circling. Authorities are involved. Hopefully arrests are imminent.
“You need anythin’?” I murmur into her hair.
She turns her head slightly, looking toward the window. The light catches the curve of her cheekbone, illuminating the dark circles under her eyes.
“Do you think it’s my fault?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I squeeze her instantly. “No.”
“Of course not.” Linus leans up and caresses her cheek.
She swallows. “I keep remembering things. From when I was little. Warnings. About purity and punishment. About women who disobey.”
“Baby, no. The world doesn’t work that way. You’ve had years of therapy tellin’ you otherwise,” I remind her.
Avonna looks up at me, her eyes wet. “Of course I know it’s not my fault. Now you see how I was raised. I’m terrified for my sisters, but there’s not a thing I can do. It’s horrific.”
“Aye.” Linus kisses her ankle. “You were raised to be quiet.”
I lean closer. “But, you’re not.”
“You were taught to obey.” He kisses the arch of her foot.
“You don’t,” I add. “You question. You lead.”
She gives a small nod. Wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
”I know it’s bullshit,“ she whispers. “I have to fight the voice telling me this happened because I wanted too much.”
I pull her closer. “No. Those fuckers are trying to take your joy. Your power. We aren’t gonna let them.”
“You scare them,” Linus agrees. “You left. You’re loved fiercely by both of us. They’re pissed you didn’t crawl back. They’re trying to get under your skin with your sisters. Don’t let them.”
I kiss the top of her head. “They hate how the world embraces you. Our fans support us. We’re authentically ourselves, and nobody can touch us.”
She blinks, but is unable to stop the tears from falling. “I’m so sad.”
“We are all are.” Linus wells up. “We wanted our baby.”
Her lips tremble. “I still do.”
I rest my forehead against hers. “We’re gonna be sad for a while. Meanwhile, nothing they say matters or has any influence on the outcome. You’re not what they call you. You’re a fucking beacon.”
Linus slides his hand up her thigh to interlock with mine and hers. “You show women what’s possible.”
She breathes in, ragged. Squeezes our fingers together.
We hold her for a long time.
Avonna’s told us before, over the years, what her childhood was like. The things they preached. How she was punished. It wasn’t until reading those letters and seeing it laid bare Linus and I were able to finally understand the weight she walked away from.
It makes everything she is now much more extraordinary.
Our wife had the strength to escape. The will to rebuild. The audacity to want love on her own terms.
She didn’t break.
She became.
We’ll build the family we dream of.
No one will define what love looks like inside these walls.