Chapter 23
23
SAMANTHA
I wake before sunrise, tangled in bedclothes and fighting a nightmare. The images are hazy the way so many dreams are—I was in a courtroom, but it was also the zoo. I was pleading for my law license, but I was also explaining why I failed to feed the lions and giraffes. I was standing over three graves, but I was also locked in a concrete cage with steel bars as thick as my waist while Detective Tarrant read out loud from a Bible.
My pulse still pounds in double-time as I stagger into the bathroom and splash cold water over my face. My nose is sunburned; I spent too much time walking around the zoo yesterday with Braiden and Aiofe. My feet are sore, and I have blisters from my shoes.
By the time I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair, I’m beginning to feel more human. I didn’t eat dinner last night; I couldn’t face a bite of food after an afternoon of hot dogs and popcorn and cotton candy .
In fact, when we got back from the zoo, Aiofe was sound asleep, slumped against her seatbelt in the back of the Bentley. Braiden carried her into the house. With a rueful smile, I headed to the pool house, too full and too tired, too sunburned and footsore to consider heading after him for a session wearing my collar.
I’m still not hungry, but I’m bound by house rules. And honestly, I’m looking forward to the first breakfast in ages without Fiona Ingram sitting at the table.
It’s Monday, and I have a full day of online meetings, so I dress in one of my favorite outfits: Double-breasted Prada blazer, matching charcoal trousers, white shell, and low black pumps, in deference to my tender feet. I head over to the main house with a smile on my face.
“Good morning,” I say to Braiden.
He eyes my clothes with an approving leer before he moves to the sideboard. Pouring me a cup of coffee, he asks, “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well,” I lie. “I was exhausted after all that walking.”
“I can think of better ways to get tired out.”
His arm brushes mine and I blush. He chuckles as he takes his place at the head of the table. I haven’t seen him this relaxed…ever.
“Tired out,” Birte chants from her seat across from me. “Without a doubt. Out, out, out.”
Fairfax has provided his usual spread—eggs, sausage, potatoes, and the rest. I help myself to a bowl of thick, tangy yogurt, smothering it in heaps of fresh berries to convince Braiden it’s a meal.
Birte continues humming to herself, serene behind a full array of food as she sips a scalding cup of tea. Beside her, Aiofe eyes an empty plate. I push the platter of blood sausage—one of her favorites—closer so she can serve herself. Her face goes the color of skim milk .
Braiden says with a barely suppressed smile. “ Someone woke up during the night and ate all the sweets in her Easter eggs.”
I smother my own grin behind my cup of coffee. I half-expect Braiden to force her to eat, just to make his point. But it’s not fair to make anyone clean up the mess that will surely result.
“Try to drink some tea,” I tell Aiofe. “That might settle your tummy.”
She takes a courageous sip of the beige drink Braiden’s given her—mostly milk, with just a splash of tea. Birte loads her own fork with potatoes as if she’s trying to set a good example. “Drink some tea. Eat like me. Tea. Tea. Tea.”
Braiden rests one hand on his stack of newspapers as he says to me, “I’ll have Fairfax move your things back to the house this morning.”
My spoon clatters into my bowl. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I’ve sent Fiona back to Boston. She’s gone.”
“She’s gone,” Birte echoes. “No more pawn. Gone. Gone. Gone.”
I toss a meaningful glance toward Birte. “ Fiona was not the issue.”
“Not the issue,” chants Birte. “Rip like tissue. Is-sue. Is-sue. Is-sue.” She tears the word into parts, rocking with the force of her chant.
Aiofe folds her napkin by her plate before she touches Braiden’s sleeve with one fragile hand. The poor thing truly does look miserable. I don’t think she’ll repeat her midnight-candy mistake again.
“Go on, lass,” Braiden says. “I’ve already texted John Bell. One day’s mitching won’t ruin you. Try a quick kip. You’ll feel better when you wake.”
Birte taps the table. “Quick kip. Make trip. Kip, kip, kip!”
Aiofe hangs her head and makes for the stairs.
Birte calls after her: “When you wake. Don’t you fake. Wake. Wake. Wake.” Then she folds her fingers into a fist and starts pounding the table, continuing to chant, “Wake! ”
I have no idea what’s set her off. Maybe it’s Fiona’s empty seat at the table. Maybe it’s Aiofe leaving early, breaking our routine. Maybe it’s the broken circuits in her brain, the damage done when she watched her brother and nephew bleed out on church steps three thousand miles away.
Birte changes her chant: “Break! Break! Break!” The dishes jump on the table every time her fist lands.
“Grace!” Braiden calls, raising his voice enough to be heard in the kitchen. When the door swings open, he says, “Birte’s finished with breakfast. Please help her upstairs.”
Grace gives her usual scowl, but she comes to Birte’s side. As they head toward the third floor, Grace coos about some new hymn Birte is learning to play.
I wait until they’re out of earshot before I say, “This is getting worse.”
“Don’t start,” he warns. “Not today.”
But I ignore him. “She’s chanting more, and she looks exhausted every morning. I don’t think she’s sleeping well. Do you think she heard anyone talking about an annulment?”
He makes an exasperated sound. “She wouldn’t understand, even if she did.”
“She’s not a child. She understands a lot more than you think she does. She needs help, Braiden.”
He bristles. “I got the priest you asked for.”
“Father Regis hasn’t been here in weeks.”
“He was busy with Lent.”
“Even if—” I cut myself off. “She needs a doctor.”
“We are not having this conversation again.”
“We never have conversations. You just make rules, and we all scramble to obey.” I throw my napkin on the table and push back my chair.
“Samantha,” he warns.
“I have work to do.”
“Jaysus!” His accent’s gone thick. “Can I have one feckin’ meal not ruined by squabbling women? ”
That doesn’t deserve a reply. I turn on my heel and head upstairs to my office.
I expect to hear his chair scrape across the floor. I wait for his footsteps on the stairs behind me. I brace for his hand on my arm, for him to force me down the hall, past the nursery where Aiofe’s taking her nap and into the bedroom.
But he doesn’t.
I should be grateful he’s not putting me in my collar and pretending there’s nothing wrong in the world. If he ordered me to my knees, I might obey out of habit, and at the moment I’m not inclined to follow any of his commands.
The front door slams. I don’t know if he’s walking the grounds or if he’s heading to the garage, but I don’t care.
I storm down the hall to my office and slam my own door. Too late, I remember that Aiofe’s trying to nap, but she’s a child. If we wake her, she’ll just roll over and go back to sleep.
I pace from my door to the windows, steps tight, fists clenched. Braiden is leaving the garage, pulling out in his jet-black Aston Martin. He guns the engine as he makes the turn in front of the house, sending up a spray of gravel before he speeds to the gate.
I whirl from the window to my desk. I have plenty of work to keep me busy while he sulks like a goddamn schoolboy. I have to sign off on a new brochure Trap’s using to promote the freeport. And Alix has sent me a draft of her policies and procedures for in-house auctions. I need to review the new employment contracts for the catering staff Trap’s brought on; some of them are members of local unions, which is a new angle for freeport staff.
And that’s before I get to my own stack of papers. Sonja has sent draft replies for the ethics board, and Teddy wants to go over the testimony I gave Detective Tarrant last Friday. The second episode of Mousetrap waits on my phone.
No wonder I have nightmares.
But I never get to the freeport documents. I never pull up the latest communication from my somewhat exasperated lawyers. I never even open my laptop.
Because a sheet of paper rests in the very center of my desk.
It’s an ordinary piece of plain white printer paper. It’s perfectly flat, not even a hint of a curled corner. It’s filled with angry black letters, all in capitals. They seem to be scrawled with a felt-tip pen, angled so far to the right they look like they’re flying off the page.
There once was a whore, wore a collar,
Fucked anyone worth half a dollar.
She spied for a wop,
Gave away the whole shop,
Shoot her now, before she can holler.
The last word is covered with a scarlet lip-print, a blood-red kiss that gleams in the light from the window.
Fiona’s going-away present. A limerick like the one I couldn’t deliver at the party in the ballroom.
She has no right.
No fucking right.
And just like that, I know I need to get out of this madhouse.
I grab the paper from my desk, shove it into my briefcase, and fly down the stairs. Braiden isn’t the only person with a fast little sports car. Four months ago, when I fled my condo in Dover, he had one of his men drive my Mercedes up here. It’s sat in the garage ever since. I only know it’s been tended to because I’ve seen it on the driveway once a week, washed and waxed and polished till it gleams.
The keys hang on a hook inside the garage door. I grab them and open the driver-side door as Liam appears from the office at the back. “Need a ride, Sam?” He’s already heading toward the Bentley.
“I’m going for a drive. ”
He looks unsure. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m one hundred percent certain it is.”
He looks at me across the roof of my car. “Fine,” he says evenly. “I’ll ride shotgun.”
There once was a whore, wore a collar…
I don’t want anyone riding shotgun. I don’t want anyone managing me. Controlling me. For five fucking minutes, I want to do whatever I want to do, whenever and wherever I want to do it.
I slide behind the wheel of the Mercedes and punch the ignition button. The engine purrs to life, perfectly maintained, because everything is flawlessly managed in Braiden Kelly’s domain. That’s what he’s purchased with his billions.
Fucked anyone worth half a dollar…
Stabbing at the screen for the radio, I crank a classic rock station so loud my ears bleed. Liam’s standing by the passenger door, saying something I can’t hear. He reaches for the handle, but I peel out of the garage before he has a chance to open the door.
Approaching the gate, I blare the horn. Liam hasn’t thought to call down to the guards yet. I’ve always been such a good little prisoner. Always done exactly what I’ve been ordered to do.
She spied for a wop…
The gate grinds open. The instant I can clear the iron bars, I gun the car through.
The paparazzi are taken by surprise; they barely jump out of the way in time to avoid being hit. The protesters scramble too. A few shake their signs, but most of them are still fighting to display their hateful words as I roar past.
I take turns faster than I should, getting to the main road. For one quick moment, I consider driving down to Dover. It’s a work day. The freeport needs me.
The hell with work days. The hell with Dover. The hell with anyone and anything telling me what I’m supposed to do.
I skid onto the on-ramp for the freeway, heading north because that traffic light is green, and I don’t want to stop. Maneuvering into the fast lane, I rely on my mirrors to know the coast is clear.
My tires thunder over dividers in the road, falling into a rhythm that matches the doggerel in my head.
Gave away the whole shop…
Gave away the whole shop…
Gave away the whole shop…
As I near Trenton, a bright green sign announces that New York City is 61 miles away. Blue signs point me toward rest areas. The traffic is moving fast—ten miles over the speed limit, fifteen, twenty.
Shoot her now, before she can holler.
I press down on the gas pedal, trying to outpace the limerick in my head. I never make a conscious decision. I never tell myself the truth. But in my heart of hearts, I know I’m driving all the way to Boston.