Chapter 13 Creative and Dastardly
creative and dastardly
Cian
“Who’s Angel?” My sister asks, apropos of nothing.
“Long story.”
“Long story about a woman? Though I guess it could be a Hispanic man—Angel,” she says in rich Spanish. “I have time.”
She leans against the island in her kitchen, both hands wrapped around a huge coffee mug while I sit on the stool across from her.
How do I begin? “Remember Renée from college?”
Ayla’s mouth falls open and her head tilts. “Yes?”
“I saw her the other night at Queen City—”
“I knew something was going on.” She says excitedly. “Wait. I was with you on Saturday, and you didn’t say anything.”
“You weren’t snooping in my phone then.”
“You were saying…” she hurries on.
A small smile reaches my face. This is my sister. This is us. I love that we have this. “I always called her Angel. I don’t know why. And it’s good I did, because her name isn’t Renée, it’s Sariah.”
“That’s a beautiful name. Very… traditional. What happened with you two?”
I give her the sanitized version, watering down some places. “She’s back. And I want to make a second chance with her, but—” I circle a finger around my face.
“You don’t think the Hunchback would do it for her?”
I open my lips showing metal everywhere, attempting to bare my teeth.
“And kissing is certainly out.”
“Not. Helping,” I grit.
“Ci, aside from the fact that our family is a train wreck, now’s as good a time as any.”
“Our family is a circus train wreck where the elephants are running amuck, the lions have gotten loose and are eating the carnies, and the bearded lady is drunk with the zebras.”
“At least we’re not boring.”
“Ha.” That came from deep inside and would’ve been a laugh if my squishy face could’ve handled more. “She has a daughter.”
Ayla’s mug is aloft when the smile takes over her face. “Best. Day. Ever.”
“You can’t corrupt her. There’s more to the story than I know, but deep down, I know it’s not good. You two together could devastate the eastern slope.”
“I like her already.”
“I should’ve stayed silent. The wired jaw should’ve been my clue. It’s as if the universe was trying where I was failing.” My words fall on deaf ears.
“When do I get to meet them? Well, see Sariah again and meet her daughter. What’s her name?”
“Renée.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirteen.”
“What does she want to be when she grows up?”
I shrug.
“What did you want to be?”
My eyes lock with hers, suspicious. “A forest ranger or a park ranger. Both seemed like getting to hang out all day in the mountains and hike and get paid to do it. Why do you ask?”
“Because the question came through from your girl last night while I was setting up your phone. I hadn’t gotten all the settings back to what you had, so I saw it. And I realized our age gap meant I wouldn’t have known the you that had fun goals and dream jobs.”
I don’t know that I knew that kid either. I was hellbent on being what was expected. We all were.
Well, except Liam.
“We both did things as we were told. You have a damn accounting degree.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.”
“Then you’re not going to like this.”
She scrunches her nose and braces.
“I need an audit. Forensic shit… on Murphy Enterprises. We know Dad was dirty, but I need to know how dirty and when. I also need to know if I’m on the hook legally and financially for anything. Do I need to sell my house? Do I have any assets? What will be seized by the feds?”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, Fuck, I hate accounting.”
That smile returns, and I can feel the lifting of some of the heaviness off of me. “You’ll do it?”
“You’ll owe me.” She points a finger at me on the hand that holds her mug.
“Anything up to, but excluding, Eleanor.”
“Ellie is mine anyway,” she starts and lifts her chin when she sees me try to interrupt. “No. I’ll make this a good one. A really good one. Hmmm.” She taps her raised chin. “What do I want? What do I want?”
I could hire somebody I think to myself, but few would care as much as my sister. None have anything at stake like she does.
Owing a favor to someone as creative and dastardly as her is foolish.
And I’m kind of foolish.
Sariah
Cian: I told Ayla about you. The answer to your question, as I told her, is forest ranger or park ranger. No eight-year-old boy in Colorado dreams of business. We all dream about hiking and camping.
Cian: Call it Peter Pan syndrome. I’m okay with that. This adulting is for the birds.
Cian: Also, good morning, Angel. I hope today gives you all the pockets in traffic and all the green lights. Miss you.
Swoon.
Cian Murphy is the man women read about in books or watch play out in Hallmark movies.
He’s perfect. Except for his father, that is.
Then again, I couldn’t choose mine. Renée didn’t choose hers.
Cian isn’t responsible for his either. Sigh.
It would be so much easier to hold him at arm’s length if he weren’t so darn perfect.
Me: Good morning, Ci. I can see you as either of those. Even still. You’re right about adulting. Why did we wish to grow up again?
Cian: I swear it’s an MLM scheme. The upline sells us on the freedom but lies about the taxes.
Me: And dinner. Every. Single. Night.
Cian: Has anyone told you today how smart you are?
Me: Smartass.
Cian: Your ass is nice. I have to admit.
Me: You sound like you’re feeling better.
Cian: I am. My face doesn’t show it. The upcoming surgeries don’t indicate it. But in my mind, I know I am. And that’s what’s most important.
Surgeries. Plural. Damn.
Me: You going to tell me about it?
Cian: I will, Angel. But you have to promise me you won’t run.
I don’t have to promise him shit.
Cian: What did your research unearth?
I walk through the halls and down the stairs. “Be right back,” I say to no one in particular.
Me: Best I can tell, two are dead. Four are in “custody” but that’s not like jail since they have immunity, but they’re no longer in the state. The rest of their band—who knows how many—will be expected to start over out of state, not reinfuse this operation, so they’re gone. Ish.
Cian: So that promise?
I hate confrontation. I like being the girl who blends in. That Homer Simpson gif where he backs into the hedge row? That’s my life. And I’m good with it. But I also won’t have this conversation over text.
I press go on my phone icon.
“Hello?”
“Ci? How are you?” My voice is quiet but earnest.
“I’m over resting. I can’t lie in bed anymore. Doctors insist I don’t overdo it. I had coffee this morning, against protocol, and I’d do it again.” There’s exhaustion in his voice and a whistling on some of the Ss, as if there isn’t supposed to be wind in those words.
It reminds me of when Renée lost her two front teeth.
“Why no coffee?”
“Officially, increased vasodilation and the concussion.”
“And in layman’s terms?”
“It makes my blood vessels shrink so the blood pounds and that’s not great with a head injury.” His words are quick and efficient.
“And you had it anyway?” No doubt he can hear the anger in my question.
“You ever play ‘What’s this headache?’ Is it dehydration or lack of caffeine? In this case, it was both and the facial trauma.”
I stop in my tracks, my eyes falling shut, only to be jostled by the pedestrians bumping into me.
“What was that?” He sounds worried.
“Nothing.”
“You sounded like you got the wind knocked out of you.”
I so did. “Um hmm. Ci,” I whisper. “How bad is it?”
“I told you, Angel.”
“And that was everything?”
“Physically, yeah. First surgery is in a week and half, or so we think. I’ll know for sure tomorrow.
That should repair my eye. I’m tired of looking like one of the squishy toys where you squeeze one side and the other expands and bubbles out.
My right side is normal. My left is a whole other person I don’t know. ” His voice is laced with exhaustion.
“What the fuck?”
“You know, I recognized you never promised. Gotta say, Sweetheart, I’d love to have those words.”
I drop onto a bench that is vacant probably because of the snowpack and the shade. I fight my rising panic. “Regarding your dad— I, uh… How do you plan on handling that situation?”