Chapter 46
KATE
Ifeel like I’m watching a film about a woman named Kate Lynch.
She’s supposed to ignite like petrol fumes—waves of rage and heat rolling up and out and over, smothering everything she touches. She’s supposed to catch fire like a leaky gas stove, like bone-dry prairie grass struck by lightning.
But I can’t do that. I can’t give in. Because if I let myself be Kate, I’ll dissolve into betrayal and anger and hate and the fire will never burn out. I won’t come out the far side. I’ll be lost forever.
Besides, I know something Wolf doesn’t know.
I know he left the keys to his Toyota Camry in the pocket of his Armani jacket—the jacket I’m currently wearing. And I know the Camry has the appropriate credentials to clear the mansion’s iron gate.
I’m not sure how long I have before he remembers—maybe only seconds—but crisp, cool logic settles over my brain as I climb the stairs.
Wolf’s a computer genius, just like I am. He can hack into any system I can break into. He can put up a security wall as strong as any I can build.
But I’m a princess of the Irish mob. I’ve grown up around men who don’t hesitate to break the law if they see any chance of personal advantage. I’ve watched my father kill for what he wants, and I’ve seen my mother help him.
I’m a Lynch from County Donegal.
Wolf won’t win. Not in the long run. Not once I’m somewhere safe, somewhere I can bring Granny, somewhere I can forget I ever let a man put a ring on my finger, put cuffs on my wrists and ankles, put the handle of a cat o’ nine tails up my—
Wolf won’t win.
By the time I reach our bedroom, the stitches on my thigh throb like I’ve doused them in kerosene. I suck a deep breath past gritted teeth and exhale so long and low and slow I expect to see fog on the bedroom air.
I dig in my dresser for the plainest knickers Nilsson brought me. I find my one pair of jeans. A cashmere sweater. I retrieve my Doc Martens from the closet.
The world becomes a very simple place when you’re frozen. You don’t have to think of things to say. You don’t have to figure out whether to curse in English or in Irish. You don’t have to do anything but act.
I don’t bother collecting my laptop because I know Wolf can track me on it. I settle for grabbing my mobile instead. It’ll be useful until I replace it with an untraceable burner. I snatch my leather case, too, the one with my scalpels, and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans.
I take the keys out of Wolf’s pocket and leave the jacket, folded neatly, on top of the clothes I wore to the Andersons. Was that only last night? Drinking champagne out of juice glasses seems a million years ago. Pot roast and chocolate cobbler are lightyears away.
I don’t bother creeping down the stairs. It’s Monday morning, and Nilsson is somewhere in the house. I need to move fast, get to the garage before Wolf realizes I can escape.
From the foyer, I hear his voice. “This isn’t a good time, Nut. I’ll call you back. I can use this number?”
I’m out the front door before he’s negotiated a return call to his sister.
Everything works with the crystal precision of a metronome. The garage door opens. I slip behind the wheel. The engine turns over. The car rolls across the brick drive. Electronics speak to electronics, and the gate opens.
I come to a complete stop at the first intersection, obeying the bright red sign. I use my turn indicators. I navigate through Georgetown to a park on the edge of the Potomac River.
Pulling the Camry into a narrow parking space, I take out my mobile and call Da’s private number. “Can’t talk, Kaitlín,” he says, sounding rushed. “Your Mam and I are counting the milk run.”
Good. They’ve got their hands on the cash they bleed off every business in the Canton Crew territory. “I need your help, Da.”
“What kind of help?” He sounds wary.
“I need some dosh.”
“You’re a married woman. Ask Himself for pin money.”
“Not pin money, Da. I’m leaving Wolf.”
“You’re not leaving Wolf.” He sounds annoyed. Then his voice comes from a distance as he transfers the phone: “Orla. Tell your oldest daughter she’ll not walk out on her man.”
Mam’s voice is harsh in my ear. “Katie? Drop this foolishness this instant.”
I sigh. “I’m not being foolish, Mam. For the first time in weeks, I’m thinking straight.”
“Your father paid good money to get that ring on your finger. Your sister is finally meeting the type of men she deserves. If you think you can ruin her chances just by—”
“Mam,” I say, loud enough to cut through her tirade. “He hurt me.”
Even as I speak, I picture the scar snaking above my mother’s lip.
I know what she’ll say before the words are out of my mouth, but they feel like a slap, all the same.
“A Lynch woman offers up her pain to the clan.” That’s my mother’s motto.
But this time she goes further: “You refused to learn that as a child. Well, better late than never, a stór.”
I know Wolf’s Camry is perfectly clean, but the air inside the car is suddenly tainted with the stench of spoiling meat. I close my eyes against the memory, against the thought of everything the Bad Men did. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
And after I swallow, I’m ready to do battle. “I gave the Canton Crew all my money, Mam, every cent I earned with the Red Cap Raiders. Now I’m asking to be treated like any other member of the clan. I need my captain’s help.”
“You need to make things right with your husband. On your knees, if that’s what it takes. Be a Lynch.”
She ends the call before I can scream my frustration. Tossing my mobile onto the passenger seat, I realize I’ve wasted too much time here at the waterfront park. I need to escape before Wolf tracks me down.
Forcing my way through a million spinning thoughts and the worst of DC traffic, I build the barest framework of a plan.
I head to National Airport and stash the car in a garage.
Finding an ATM inside the terminal, I withdraw as much cash as the machine will allow, using the credit card Wolf gave me before our wedding.
I pull up an airline app on my mobile and buy a ticket for New York, then a ticket to Dublin, charging the same card.
Each tap of the screen adds another block of ice to the wall inside my brain. Each decision focuses me a little more.
I get a text from the credit card company, identifying the airfare as a suspicious charge. I suspect Wolf gets the same warning. Before he can shut me down, I say I recognize the transaction, and I authorize the sale.
Once the tickets arrive in my email, I duck into a bathroom.
It takes three rounds of washing my hands, but a woman finally leaves her tote bag on the counter, open enough for me to drop in my mobile while she’s distracted with a balky soap dispenser.
I hope she’s traveling to some distant destination.
I’ll pick up a burner when I can, a phone Wolf can’t trace. My need isn’t urgent. I won’t be able to ring anyone I know—not Granny, not Breagha, certainly not my feckin’ parents. Wolf will be tracking any calls they receive.
Using some of my cash, I buy an overpriced baseball cap in a souvenir shop—dark blue with the letters FBI in white.
I pull the bill low over my face and follow the signs for the subway station on airport grounds.
I catch the first train that comes in, change lines, then change lines again.
Coming above ground, I wander the streets until I find a nice hotel, just a few blocks from the White House.
“I’m waiting for my husband,” I say to the bored-looking concierge. “Is there a computer I can use until he gets here with our bags?”
She waves me over to a machine on the edge of the lobby.
I run a couple of quick searches, tracking down a shabby motel that’s walking distance from a subway stop. I delete my search history out of habit.
When I get to the motel, they require a credit card, which I’m not willing to give. I demand to speak to a manager, who ultimately agrees to take cash if I leave a massive deposit—and grease his palm with five crisp twenties. My room is on the second floor, overlooking the car park.
I feel naked without a phone or computer, but there’s no way for Wolf to find me. Tomorrow, I’ll start to rebuild my life, replacing the tech I’ve lost. I’ll figure out some way to reach the Raiders, far away from Winter Reckoning.
Lying on the lumpy motel bed, I’m so restless it feels like ants are crawling over my arms and legs.
I get up to pace from one end of the room to the other, but that does nothing to quench my twitchiness.
I drop to the threadbare carpet and knock out one hundred crunches, but they don’t change a thing.
I flip over and try pushups until my arms give out.
Nothing.
I want to cut. I need to cut. But the dark spiders of Dr. Patel’s stitches frighten me. I’ve never done that before, misjudging the scalpel’s depth. I’m terrified I’ll make the same mistake again, and now I’m alone. Now there’s no one to save me if I start to bleed out.
I need order. I need control. I need the knife-sharp discipline of Wolf’s dungeon.
That’s the one release I’ll never be allowed again.
I shove my hand down the front of my jeans. Half an hour later, I have an aching wrist, a chafed clit, and the certainty that I’m the most broken woman in the history of the world.
Fumbling for the television remote with my clean hand, I start flipping through channels, trying to numb my brain into forgetting everything I want, everything I’ve never had, everything I’ve lost forever.