Chapter 65 Chicago, 1927—Rick #2
“Mama was the most loving and giving woman I ever knew,” Skye said, her voice trembling at the edges.
“She didn’t always give me everything I wanted, but she always gave me what I needed.
” Skye reached into her pocket and drew out a delicate lace handkerchief, dabbing at the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes.
Rick’s chest tightened. He wanted to comfort her, to pull her into his arms, but she was too vulnerable, delicate. And he was afraid that a physical embrace, even with good intentions, might feel overwhelming or intrusive.
Skye drew a steadying breath. “Mama loved me,” she said softly.
“She listened to me and modeled strength when she felt her weakest. Even on her bad days, she was humble and dependable. I always felt safe.” Her gaze drifted toward the chessboard again, at the fallen king, the queen still standing in defiance.
“Before she died, she told me that one day a friend would come who would change my life.” She hesitated, lips parting just enough to wet them with the tip of her tongue.
“Is that you, Rick? Have you come to change my life?”
Rick opened his mouth—but a voice from the next room cut through the silence, harsh and venomous.
“You’ll give me what I want!”
The shout shattered the fragile calm. Skye flinched, her drink sloshing in the glass. The sound of anger—Bowes’s anger—vibrated through the walls like iron wheels grinding somewhere out of sight.
“I’m done with you and your friends!” Alistair shouted, hoarse with fury. “Don’t ever come back here!”
“That’s not how this works, Mr. Robertson. You’re a dead man.”
The office door slammed shut, ending the conversation. A moment later, the heavy front door crashed shut with a thunderous bang that rattled the windowpanes.
Rick’s hand went instinctively to the pistol beneath his jacket—but reason returned as quickly as it fled. He forced his hand down. The last thing this grieving household needed was more violence.
Across from him, Skye covered her face. “This is horrible,” she whispered through her fingers. “Those awful men come here and demand that Papa help them. He can’t turn them down.”
Rick leaned forward, keeping his voice calm, careful. “Do you know why?”
She lowered her hands slowly, fingers trembling as she tangled them in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter now.”
“If getting Bowes out of your life matters, maybe I can help,” he said, continuing in the same tone, when all he wanted to do was strangle Bowes and cut him up into little pieces to use as fish bait.
She looked at him skeptically. “How?”
“I have connections,” he said. “People who want to clean up Chicago—really clean it up. If you know anything, if you’ve seen anything that could help bring down those men, I’ll see that it gets to the right hands.”
Skye didn’t answer. She lifted her glass instead, took a slow sip, and stared at the chessboard again. The silence stretched between them, long and deliberate.
Rick had used this technique a hundred times in interrogation rooms. Silence was a tool—an empty space that begged to be filled.
People hated it. They’d start talking just to make it stop.
He told himself this was no different, that he was working the case.
But beneath that logic, he felt a prick of guilt.
She wasn’t a suspect. She was a daughter in mourning.
She took another sip and then said, “Mama told me that early in their marriage, they needed financial help. A handful of powerful men offered it to them. My parents didn’t realize that accepting the help would come with horrible consequences.
The men told Papa to approve unsecured loans at the bank, or else they’d destroy him.
Mr. Bowes comes here frequently. He disliked Mama because she stood up to him.
She could be as fierce as she could be gentle. ”
Rick let the silence stretch again, the air heavy with the scent of whisky and lilies.
Skye went on, her voice trembling now. “Papa is more diplomatic. But people can push him only so far before he pushes back. Mr. Bowes just found that out.”
Rick let the thick cushion absorb the shock of what he’d heard.
He sank back, silent, trying to sort through the swirl of emotion pressing behind his ribs.
He wanted to detach—to process it all clinically, as he might a witness statement—but he couldn’t.
His mind kept circling back to Remy and Skye.
Whatever unfolded tonight would shape both of their futures, maybe forever.
The door opened.
Alistair entered slowly, his movements heavy and uneven, like a man walking through water. “I apologize for that outburst,” he said, voice low but steady. Then, he held out an envelope. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Rick took it and slid his thumb under the flap, glancing briefly at the thick wad of cash inside. He didn’t bother counting it. “Is this from Bowes?”
“Half,” Alistair said quietly. “The rest I added from funds already in my possession.”
He moved to the decanter, poured a drink, and drained it in one motion. Then he began to roll the empty glass between his palms—back and forth, a small, constant motion, the gesture a man makes when his thoughts are too heavy to be spoken aloud.
Rick reached toward his own glass but stopped short of picking it up.
“Is the whisky not to your liking, Mr. O’Grady? Are you used to a smoother blend? Or perhaps you don’t drink alcohol?”
Rick offered a polite smile. “I prefer a more nuanced whisky with a balanced flavor that reveals itself over time, rather than one or two bold, overpowering notes.”
Alistair nodded, as though the answer mattered deeply—then turned away, still turning the glass in his hands. “I noticed when you first spoke to Mr. Bowes,” he said, “you had utter disregard for him. Why is that?”
“It’s his family’s stigma. I’ve projected the reputation of one onto the rest regardless of their own actions,” Rick said.
Before Alistair could respond, a soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” Alistair said.
The butler stepped inside and bowed slightly. “The guests have taken their leave, sir—except…” He flicked his eyes toward Rick.
“Mr. O’Grady will remain awhile,” Alistair said. “Tell Anita the staff may begin cleanup and prepare the rooms for tomorrow’s visitors.”
The butler nodded and withdrew. The latch clicked softly behind him.
Alistair poured another drink. For a minute—two, maybe three—he said nothing, but the clock on the mantel kept ticking, a reminder that time went on even when those in pain didn’t want it to.
Then, at last, Alistair spoke, his voice raw. “You’ve come here to take us home. Haven’t you?”
Rick blinked, blindsided. What the hell does he mean? The question landed like a blow. “I don’t understand what you’re asking,” Rick said slowly, measuring each word.
Alistair stared straight at him, eyes glossy but unflinching. “You’re too late,” he said. “You can’t undo what’s been done.”
“Papa, what do you mean?” Skye’s voice cracked, her hand clutched tight around the stem of her glass.
Alistair didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed pinned to Rick. “Do you want to tell her, Mr. O’Grady?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “or shall I?”
“It should come from you, sir.” The cushion beneath Rick might as well have been filled with pins.
The sting that ran through him wasn’t physical—it was emotional, something deeper than nerves, pressing against his ribs like a buried ache.
This conversation would be difficult for all three of them.
He had to remember his one goal. To protect Remy.
Alistair reached for Skye’s hand and squeezed it. “What I’m going to tell you will sound like fiction.” He paused, letting the silence settle before adding, almost to himself, “But it’s true.”
He released her hand, crossed the room, and stopped before the portrait of Sheena.
The painting caught the lamplight, making her eyes gleam faintly, as if she were listening.
Alistair raised his glass, took a slow sip, and stood there for several moments, his shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight.
“It started two months after our wedding,” he said finally. “A special delivery arrived at the house. We assumed it was a late wedding present. In hindsight… maybe it was.”
“What was the gift, Papa?”
“A piece of antique jewelry. I called it a jasper brooch. Your mother called the stone a chalcedony. There was no return address, no note, and no name.”
Rick felt the words catch in his throat. Something cold and electric fluttered in his chest. “Wait,” he said, raising a hand. “Stop there. Tell me who you think I am.”
Alistair turned, meeting Rick’s gaze with unnerving certainty. “The person who sent the brooch.”
Rick blinked. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s the way you look, the way you hold yourself, and the way you talked to Skye earlier today. I watched you from the window. Men don’t express vulnerability or emotions to strangers. It’s obvious to me you’re not from here.”
Alistair’s thought process seemed rational, even though he was wrong.
Skye turned toward Rick, eyes widening in a mixture of fear and fascination. “Then where are you from?”
“I’m originally from New York City. Now I live in Napa, California.” He nodded toward Alistair. “Please continue, and we’ll work through what you believe and what’s true.” Then, Rick reached into his pocket for his phone and turned on the audio recorder. He didn’t want to miss any of the details.
“What is that?” Alistair asked.
“A mobile telephone.”
Alistair’s eyebrows arched, and his eyes opened wider.
Rick managed a small, steady smile. “Please continue,” he said. “I’ll explain afterward.”
Alistair’s face moved through a brief storm of astonishment before settling back into weary confusion. He rubbed his forehead. “Where was I?”
“You received a gift, Papa. A piece of antique jewelry.”