Chapter 5
Sean
While the orange light bleeding below the horizon grows brighter, Lillian strides across the ER's nearly empty parking lot. She returns driving a black, bulletproof SUV. Stopping in front of me, she lowers the passenger window. “Looking for a good time, sailor?”
“Hop out. I’ll drive.” When I limp around the hood and tap on the glass, she scowls at my thigh.
“Nice try. Not happening.”
Fine. Shotgun it is. If last night wasn't a random accident, I'll be ready. Hobbling back, I grit my teeth as I lower myself into the seat.
Ouch. Fucking stitches.
“You alright?” When her brows crease, I reach over the cupholder to squeeze her leg.
“Yup. Never better,” I lie.
“No one's awake at this hour.” She attempts to hide yet another yawn behind her fist, then finishes off her gawd-awful hospital coffee. “We should be back in Queens soon.”
The silence thickens, giving me much-needed time to evaluate last night's screw-up. For one thing, I shouldn’t have let Lillian anywhere near that truck.
After a while, she blows out a breath. “Sean? For God's sake, stop stewing and talk to me.”
Not yet ready to discuss my thoughts, I move to a safer topic. “When you spoke to Dante, did he give you grief about the Ferrari Flambé?”
Her eyes brighten. “Nope. Said he was going to pass the cost on to his clients.”
“Parkhaven?” Picturing some billionaire’s face when he reads the bill, I grin—even more so when she giggles.
“Dante will claim the incident was related to our investigation. Some clause in the fine print makes them responsible.”
“The man is pure genius.” I swivel in my seat.
Fuck. A searing pain shoots from my injury, so I shift to a better position before double-checking the road behind us. A businessman follows us in a Ford Escort. Behind him, a family of four under a roof carrier, the back so overloaded the driver can't see out the window.
No trucks stuffed with fertilizer as far as the eye can see.
As the tension in my shoulders releases, I face forward. “Babe. I’ve been thinking…”
“Do tell.” She glances away from the highway.
“You should quit. Find a safe CPA job.” I’m joking, of course, but she takes the bait.
“And leave you to track down my father? Alone? No fucking way.” Her tone says she’s not amused.
While she scowls, a new thought crosses my mind. “Why is he only obsessed with you? Why not Rebecca?”
Scowling, her fingers tighten around the wheel. “He wasn’t her sperm donor. Same with my older sister. I’m his only biological child.”
My tired brain sparks to life. “You never mentioned another sibling.”
“Never came up.” She shrugs. “And before you ask, we don’t talk. She’s six years older. My mother already had her when she married my father.”
“And Becks?” A kind of apology, I rest my hand on her knee.
Blinker on, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, she slips into the fast lane. “The result of an affair.”
Whoa, now. That’s news. “I’m surprised Liam didn’t kill her in the womb.”
“He murdered our mother but kept my little sister as leverage. What better way to keep me in line?” Jaw set, her right hand drops from the wheel to cover mine. “I'm going to find him and end him.”
“We will,” I promise. “Speaking of your father, Parkhaven Investments has nothing to do with him. Why not ask our boss to reassign you to another case?”
She snickers. “Is this about Jeff Pearson? Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”
“No.” My words clip. “It's about keeping you alive. I don't want things going sideways like in Mexico.”
I know I hit a nerve when the muscles in her neck pulse and her voice drops to a whisper. “You always underestimate me. I'm a black belt in three martial arts.”
Leg aching, I reach low, pull the armrest lever, then shift in my seat. “What if your father drugs you? Catches you off guard?”
“I'll escape. I always do.” Her cockiness, if it weren't so damn dangerous, would make me laugh.
While brilliant shades of pinkish orange paint the Eastern sky, we drive onto the Outerbridge Crossing. Below us, tiny tugboats shove massive cargo barges through the Arthur Kill.
“Welcome to New York.” She scrunches her nose as the rotten egg aroma from the salt marsh slips through the vents.
Stuck in a line of eighteen-wheelers, holding my tongue as well as my breath.
This discussion is not over.