Chapter 37 Simon
Mud clung to Simon’s shirt, his trousers soaked clean through. Someone had hauled him out of the ice and dropped him on a pile of stone.
Why couldn’t he feel his hands? His feet?
Curse that woman. Izzy. She must’ve cracked him over the head with a hammer.
Next time, he wouldn’t wait to kill her.
Cold sliced through him, then heat. And voices—they whirled around him, all muddled up.
Had Izzy called the cops?
He couldn’t open his eyes, but she wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. Only Olivia.
Olivia and her cash.
Now he’d have to find another way.
The girl—Greta—had wanted to see her papa. He’d promised to take her there, carrying her to . . . where had he left her?
He’d find her. Soon. And then the professor would pay.
Money. The word hit him like a shot.
He’d tell the cops about Izzy—and, and, that other woman. Whatever her name was. His wife. Tell the boys she was trying to cut him out. They’d get him his cash, then he’d pay back his uncle. And move. Far, far away.
To Chicago.
Sounds sputtered in his throat, but his lips wouldn’t work.
He shouldn’t have drunk that whiskey. Once his head cleared, once he could talk, he’d splain everything.
A voice above him, thick as mud. “What are we gonna do with him, boss?”
Louie the Leech, sucking the life out of him again. He’d already given Simon a bloody shiner.
Where were the cops?
“We’re leaving him here,” another man said. “That’s what we’re doing.”
Someone dumped cold water over his head, light burning his eyes when he forced them open. Flames all bunched up like dynamite around him.
“He’s awake,” Louie said.
“Get up, Simon.” His uncle’s voice. The man who’d welcomed him into the Cleveland family.
“Can’t.” His reply was more like a cough. A gasp.
“I don’t suppose you got the money you promised to pay Louie here.”
“The girl,” he mumbled, his head pounding. A few more hours, that’s all he needed.
“Eight thousand dollars you owe.”
He knew that—more than what his father’s house was worth—but he’d pay. Every cent. The family still needed him.
His uncle sighed. “Guess it’s easier this way.”
But it didn’t seem easy to him. “Izzy—”
Louie leaned down, the broil of anchovies on his breath. “Where’s Isadore?”
“Haven,” he slurred. “Haven House.”
Fingers curled around his wrist. “You’ve been helping yourself to the family funds.”
“No—”
“I vouched for you, son, and then you stole from us.” His uncle jerked Simon’s arm. “No one makes a fool outta me.”
Then he knew. The men weren’t here to get their money. They’d come to remove him from the family.
If only he could run . . .
They grabbed his arms, his legs. Lifted him above the water.
Why wouldn’t they give him more time?
Cold water slapped his sides as they dragged him across the surface. Then rocks. A brick. Something heavy pressing against his chest as he struggled for air.
“Find Isadore.”
Those were the last words he heard before they dumped him into the lake.