Chapter 17 #2
I’ll bet my collection of embroidery hoops, it was tuna.
The words tumble from her, like she just can’t hold onto it any longer. “An earbud! Isn’t that wild?!”
My head begins to tingle. It feels cold, as if all the blood rushed from my face.
“K, bye!” Mairead turns and frolics down the hall, and her red waves bounce out of sight.
“Your friend is… weird,” Andrea says, as I close our apartment door.
I don’t feel much like going to work this evening.
I try to relax, but instead I just feel ill.
I’ve felt this way sense Mairead’s visit.
Not sure if it was the diet of soup and candy over the weekend, or the news she casually dropped on her way out, but there is no point in trying to nap.
Painkillers didn’t even help diminishing this splitting headache and I rarely take anything, even ibuprofen.
I replay Mairead’s visit, trying to sort out if I too, was in immediate danger.
It was obviously my music stalker who murdered Creepy Craig.
Oh crap, what if I had the matching earbud in my possession?
Was I considered an accessory to murder?
Could I be charged or even arrested!? I wasn’t even in town!
I was hours away in the Catskills. He must have killed my ex-manager then came out to the woods to mess with me.
Is that why Eamon wouldn’t respond to me?
Could he be behind all of this? Is my boss a murderer?
Geeze, this sounded closer to the premise of a B-grade slasher movie that would play at the discount theatre. Focus! I tell myself.
Ugh. I am so drained. The last thing I need is for Jada or Brittany to be just as spicy as they were the last time I worked.
How am I going to get through this shift?
Oh right… I'm a manager. My mind jumps to Cassie.
The sassy, yet wise woman, who was wonderfully predictable to work beside.
I never had a proper moment to grieve the fact that I will never hear her clipped, sarcastic voice again. Why do my managers keep dying?
I reapply my under-eye coverage twice, because my dark, puffy eyes keep exposing how truly exhausted I am. Andrea left at some point when I was in the bathroom, so I guess I’ll have to wait to give her the soap and dressing from my parents.
While walking to The Black Sheep, I go over the questions I would like Eamon to answer when I see him next.
I also opt for leaving the earbud at the bottom of my purse, instead of actually putting it in my ear.
It’s been a whole day since I last heard from my stalker or should I say Eamon. Speak of the devil!
I enter the bar to find Eamon comfortably nestled at a back table with the same two men that always seem to be by his side. Garron and Dax, I believe? They’re always around. Were they like bodyguards or something? Why would the owner of a bar and club need protection?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I march right up to the group of men and address Eamon. “Can I talk to you… alone?!”
The men both look to Eamon. The one with the toothpick smirks like he’s delighted to see his buddy in trouble, while the quiet one just scowl, as per usual. Eamon lifts his hand to indicate for the other men to leave the table.
My first question rolls off my tongue, even before we’re out of earshot. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?!”
He reaches forward and crushes the cigarette he was currently smoking, into the ashtray in the middle of the table. Blowing out slowly, his eyes skate over my face. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and shift my weight to one side.
“That’s not a good enough answer. Do you want me to go to dinner with you or not?
” Holy smokes, I can’t believe I said that out loud.
To my boss no less. Overwhelmed and slightly grumpy Cindel, clearly isn’t sticking to what she planned to say during the multi hour drive back to Boston.
The corner of his mouth curves up slightly.
Is he… pleased with me? “Yes.” His voice is gravelly and deep.
“I do want to take you to dinner.” He begins collecting the cards on the table that appear to have been dealt for a game that I interrupted.
“You're right. It’s not good enough. I was worried you wouldn’t take the job if you knew. ”
I unfold my arms and step closer to the table. “Know what?” I urge.
“That Cassie was sick. She had cancer. It was her wish to keep it secret. She wanted to save face with the people around her. Didn’t want their pity, she said.”
Oh god! She was sick! I had no idea. “It still doesn’t explain why you kept her passing from me,” I declare.
His jaw ticks and he nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have been up front.”
“I’m not fragile, you know! I’ve faced enough loss in this life. I have a right to know.”
He looks down to the table speaking so softly, “I know, kid.”