Chapter 12 A Symphony of Metal
a symphony of metal
Sariah
I saw Rosie out, walked the outside of the house before the snow, did the dishes, and started a load of laundry. I want to be carefree enough to watch a mindless comedy on Netflix, but my mind, instead, is drawn over and over to my computer.
Renée tried once again to take her phone into her bedroom tonight. I get the testing boundaries thing, but I hate that they’re my boundaries.
I make sure she’s asleep before I grab my laptop and drop into my favorite chair. It’s wide and lush, and I sink in even when I’m curled up. It faces the hall and the living room so my daughter can’t sneak up on me.
I begin again with Cian’s keywords.
Little by little, I find a tale that makes me wonder about his and his father’s business dealings.
Smart research shows yesterday’s dealings were a repeat of ones in Minnesota, Oregon, and Virginia.
Same scheme, same play, same outcome. The property owners go to jail.
The presumed dealers, since nothing ever sticks, claim diplomatic immunity and are sent home with a new crew coming in to begin again.
They bounce around, going from state to state, to avoid continued scrutiny.
Each time local officials begin from scratch only to realize it’s the same playbook, with a new location, new detective, and a new victim.
Seamus fell prey to a shrewd scheme. Someone else after him will too.
I don’t know the ins and outs, but if it follows the patterns, Murphy Enterprises is done for.
Cian made some throw-away comment about wanting to leave the business when we were on the phone the other night.
How much of this did he know? How much did he participate in?
Is this Seamus’s doing or did Cian make this deal?
He’s not the type, if the victims’ profiles are anything to go by. If they’re the pattern, he doesn’t seem motivated by the same things the others were. That is, assuming I know him.
I think I do. I wish I could say I know I do.
The men in the police reports are in federal custody. Those that survived. “Random gunfire” is suspicious, but I don’t care even one little bit.
Federal custody doesn’t feel permanent enough when they claim diplomatic immunity. It’s custody, not detention. They should be free to move about until visas are revoked.
Assuming of course, that murderous drug dealers respect the rule of law. I’m not putting money on that bet.
Because Cian offered it, I looked up his sister.
Wow. Talk about a glow up. She was striking as a teenager, but she’s stunning now.
It’s almost unfair that beauty of that magnitude also has that caliber of talent.
Her passion for photography has become a business, and a successful one at that.
She has write-ups in local magazines. Her work hangs in the governor’s mansion.
How I never realized Aspen & Evergreen, which is mere blocks from my office, was hers is testament to my go-to-work-come-home eyes-down life.
I stay in the shadows and count on being unseen.
The Picstagram account for her gallery makes the sheer magnitude of her talent look unapproachable.
Her personal account, though, that’s stalker gold.
The pictures are varied and un-themed. Is that a word?
It should be in the day of cultivated accounts.
It’s un-curated to the extreme. Ayla on a gorgeous man’s arm in formal attire with flashbulbs going off.
Ayla in a beanie and a Carhart jacket with a camera to her face.
A fluffy brown dog. A macro shot of the tattoos of a man’s hands.
A fruit stand and the man selling its wares. Her laughing with Cian.
She’s with him in several. There are a few with him and that chocolate pup who looks at him like he’s her whole world.
I scroll further back to see how often he appears.
More appear earlier on. The pictures morph from family and hikes and college antics to married life with the more recent date stamps.
Cian isn’t in all. He’s not in many, but he’s in a fair few, and I get to watch the last decade as he went from young man to all man.
His features lost their boyishness after he left CSU.
The lines at his eyes—either from worrying or from smiling—grooved deeper over the last decade.
His shoulders got broader, more solid. And they weren’t small when I knew him back then.
His smile though. It went from wide and full to more reserved. He smiles in her shots, but there are a rare few where that smile meets his eyes.
When it does, he’s all I can see. When they don’t, I see more than he would ever want revealed.
But that’s just me. I knew the man who was worried about the responsibilities he felt so firmly on his shoulders. The one who wanted to keep everyone happy. The one who set aside his own dreams to be what others asked him to be.
Me: When you were eight, what did you want to be when you grew up?
I send my question into the ether as I switch searches to Seamus Murphy.
It doesn’t take long to have the ick with what I find.
There’s just something about the presence of the man that makes my skin itchy in a weird way, the way it feels when someone’s leering at me and I can’t break their fixation.
I know that feeling. I know the all-encompassing desire to stand in a scalding hot shower and scrub the abhorrent sensation, when no abrasive loofah and no amount of soap will do.
I close my laptop and do just that. Take a long shower until the hot water runs cooler, then I slather with lotion that smells like lavender and lemongrass and climb into my sheets.
I want a do-over on my day. Fortunately for me, I’ll get it. Unfortunately for me, it’ll be like this until I’m seventy-five at the rate I’m going.
Real estate, school supplies, food, teenage girl… the list goes on and on about how much money flows out of my ever-shrinking wallet.
Cian
My sleep schedule is all off. Rather, all I do is sleep.
It’s depressing as fuck.
To be fair, it’s only been twenty-four hours since I got to my sister’s place, and I got no sleep at all two nights ago, but this gentleman-in-distress gig is not my thing.
I slide out of bed, stepping over Eleanor at my feet as her head pops up. She’s used to early mornings, but usually that’s a walk or a run. “Sorry, girl. Concussion and all this”—I point around my face—“mean that’s impossible for now. I hate it too. You can come with if you want.”
Heading down the stairs to the kitchen, Eleanor peels away toward Ayla’s room, her paws quiet, but her nails clicking all the way down the hall.
I find Christian’s in his home office. The last time I barged into his work, it was literal.
The door went flying. This time I knock before letting myself in and taking the chair across from him.
“How’s your hip?”
“Being shot sucks.”
A smile breaks across my face as much as my swollen cheek will allow. “I’ll take your word on that.”
“Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“And talking doesn’t?”
“Less so now. At least that’s a reprieve.” There’s a lengthy pause, before I continue. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown.”
The silence in the air is thick before he breaks it. “Liam was there. It would’ve been… I can’t say that. I don’t know what would’ve happened. Glad we don’t have to think of that.”
My one good eye holds his as I lean forward to shake his hand.
“Liam mentioned he wants to increase security at my place.”
Christian nods. “I’m having him upgrade here and at Ayla’s gallery.
I’m good with overkill. After the last six months, there’s no such thing as safe enough, much less too safe.
I don’t see a reason not to do the same at your house.
” He looks off before returning his gaze to me, his jaw clenched. “Same goes for your parents.”
My jaw wants to clench. Thank God for the wires that don’t allow me to grind my sensitive teeth together. Instead, I growl. “He can rot.”
“And Janie?”
“Mom deserves better than him. Since she won’t recognize that, we’ll need to protect her from herself, I guess.”
“Your dad confessed to everything yesterday.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and the subsequent pain makes me wish I’d tempered my reaction. “What? When?”
He leans back in his chair and lifts a mug to his face. “First things first, you’re a Murphy. Do you need coffee? Can you have coffee?”
He loves my sister well, and I love that for her. “Yes. And I don’t care because I’m having some.”
He stands and leads the way to the kitchen and the very impressive, albeit intimidating, espresso maker that must weigh half of what I do. “What’s your drink?”
“Americano.”
Christian looks over his shoulder. “Ayla would be appalled.” He pounds, taps, twists, pulls, and otherwise conducts a symphony of metal and coffee grounds before handing me a tall mug. He repeats the dance but with the frother as he refills his own and we return to his office.
Once we’re seated, I suck the robust blend through my teeth, not quite getting the same joy as before, but this headache needs addressing and this is one of a few things that might fix it.
“That confession?” I prompt.
“We went yesterday after grabbing Ellie.”
Eleanor, I want to correct, but this isn’t the time.
“Your sister was diabolical. Can’t say I didn’t love it. Seamus confessed to the whole scheme. She has it recorded. I can safely say he has no leverage on us and, as far as I’m concerned, is dead to us. I don’t want him in our home or near my wife.”
I won’t argue any of that. “She recorded it?”
“Yep. I’ll let her tell you the rest, but I think Murphy Enterprises—especially with the news hitting the streets—is going to be on hold.”
Nodding my head, I take another sip of coffee and understand why my sister has become such a coffee snob. “What would it take to bribe her to do some forensic accounting and audits on our books?”
“Ellie?”
Eleanor. “Aside from my dog, who by the way, snuck down the hall and is with your wife right now. Ayla hates accounting.”
“She loves you more than she hates it. Ask. You and I both know she’ll pout about it but help you out. You don’t deserve to reap what Seamus sowed.”
I lift my mug in a toast to him.
“Seamus, on the other hand…” His words trail off as the clicking gets louder.
I can’t argue that. I’m not hoping for my dad’s downfall, but since he’s crashing out and using his family as a soft place to land, I don’t mind sidestepping the fall out.
“What are you two talking about?” Ayla’s groggy voice comes from the doorway as does the swish of a tail on the floor.
“Accounting,” I say the same time Christian says, “Seamus.”
She scrunches her face and flinches as if she got hit. “Not before coffee. You know better. Both of you. Rude.” With that, she turns and walks away, Eleanor prancing behind her as if she were no longer mine.
“My dog acts like I’m a spare human.”
Christian laughs before standing to follow his wife. “Not for long.”