Chapter 45
A little earlier…
“Erel Thyssen, what did you do to my best friend?” I burst out in French as the call connected.
I’d dialed his number the instant my bedroom door closed, leaving my husband and best friend to tentatively get to know each other without me forcing the issue. Hopefully, that went well.
Erel groaned groggily across the line. “It’s too early for this. I’m sleeping.”
From the walk-in closet, I pulled out a dolman-sleeve top and a long, loose skirt to go with it, then laid them out on the bed.
“Then explain why Maeve just showed up at my place three hours early.”
“Three hours early for what?” His yawn drew out into a rumble.
“What do you mean for what?” In the bathroom, I set the phone down on speaker and began my skin care routine. “I planned a double date lunch with Maeve at my place. Didn’t you hear me in the car yesterday? Didn’t she talk to you about it?”
Another long groan dragged out of him. “What are you talking about?”
I frowned. “She didn’t tell you?”
“No. I’m going back to sleep now.”
“Well, aren’t you coming?”
He moan-sobbed in growly puffs. “For what?”
“For the double date. She’s already here. Get your ass here too.”
He growled with a thump against a pillow, and I rolled my eyes at his theatrics. “Just leave me out of it.”
“So something did happen between you two. What’d you do?”
“I…Why blame me? Putain, forget I asked. Of course you’re on her side.”
“Her side for what, Erel? Stop being cagey and spit it out.”
Maeve had seemed a little tense earlier, and maybe this was exactly the cause.
“I don’t know,” he shot out. “I. Don’t. Know. She’s been…distant, like she’s pulling away. I have no idea what I’ve done, and she refuses to talk about it. She says she’s fine.”
“She’s not fine.”
“I know that,” he grumbled. “But I can’t read her mind.”
“Maybe these are basic couple hiccups. You’ve never spent this long together in one go. Maybe that’s all it is. A little adaptation period.”
“You think?”
The hopeful peak in his tone made me wince.
While that could be the case, it was also possible Maeve had found a pet peeve about Erel that she was having a hard time getting over.
I know I would. Like the fact that he never picked up after himself, too used to living in my brother’s mansion, where half a dozen maids trailed after him.
Or the fact that he never remembered to water her plants after she asked him to, yet he remembered the time of every upcoming European football match.
I moved on to my makeup. Cillian might not mind, but the idea of having guests over without wearing at least a soft glam look still made me uncomfortable, even if it was Maeve.
“Just come on over and talk it out with her. Being somewhere outside her place might help clear the air.”
“Okay.” He blew out a raspberry.
It was oddly endearing to hear him sound so discombobulated compared to the straitlaced, severe man I’d known for almost twenty years.
Over the past two months, Erel had grown on me, and I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing him more often than I used to in France, after I had moved away from my family to Lyon.
“I’ll be over soon. Should I bring something?”
“Oh, yes, please,” I responded enthusiastically as I blended in some smoky eyeshadow.
Since Maeve was already here, there wouldn’t be much time to bake or cook.
“There’s a brunch café a block away with a French chef.
Great food. I’ll place the order and send you the address. Will you pick it up on your way over?”
After we hung up, I placed the order over the phone, then sent the concierge a message to approve Erel as a guest and plugged in the hair dryer.
Since no arguments were breaking the sound barrier and no one came knocking with a demand for my intervention, I hoped that meant everything was going well on the other side of the apartment, so I finished styling my hair.
Knowing Cillian, he probably found a reason to shut himself in his office and avoid her entirely.
I was just picking out a stunning pair of lace-patterned ankle boots to complement my chosen outfit when my phone rang again.
“Any problems with the order?” I answered.
“Is my brother with you?”
Caught off guard by the Irish-accented English, I double-checked the caller ID. Unknown Caller blared in white across the screen.
“Who is this?”
“Brody O’Leary,” he stated, clear-cut.
I waited for him to add something else, like a basic “How are you?” or “How’s your neck?” or even a little “I’m sorry,” no matter how truthful.
“Answer my question,” he bluntly demanded.
I scoffed. “Aren’t you missing something?”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A hello would be a good start. Wondering about my health after you tried to strangle me wouldn’t be bad either. Just some basic human decency.”
“This is more important.”
I doubled over in a fit of laughter. I couldn’t with him because, honestly, his lack of concern deserved even less respect than that.
I put up with being belittled by those closest to me for decades, and it took me years of independence to see myself as more than the box they’d shoved me into.
No one was forcing me back inside it, especially not someone who knew nothing about me as a living, breathing person.
“Fuck you, Brody. Fuck. You.” Because he was still my brother-in-law, before hanging up, I tacked on with grace, “And have a nice day.”
I assumed that was the end of it, but thirty seconds later, the same Unknown Caller lit up my phone again.
My thumb hovered over Ignore, but unease niggled at me.
Brody never called me. Not once in the month and a half since I moved in with Cillian.
I certainly never gave him my number, and I doubted Cillian had either, which meant he’d gone looking for it to call me not once but twice. Me, not Cillian.
With an irritated grumble, I gave in.
“What do you want, Brody?”
“Cillian.”
“Call him if you need him.”
“I was talking to him. The call cut off, and he’s not answering anymore.”
“Maybe he wants to talk to you as much as I do.”
“No. No, he talks to me even when he’s angry.”
I threw an arm up in exasperation, and it fell back down with a clap against my thigh. “What do you want me to say?”
“I need to finish our conversation. It’s important.”
I tsked and gave myself a last check in the mirror. “If he’s not answering, he didn’t feel the same way.”
“Are you at home? Is he with you?”
“Yes, we’re here, but we’re having guests, so he’s probably—”
“Can you get him for me?”
“I’m not your relay girl. Look, this…has been interesting, but I have to go.” I crossed the bedroom to the door.
“Check on him for me.”
I paused, my hand on the door handle. “He’s a big boy, Brody, and I’m not his keeper.”
“He pushed his panic button,” he blurted out, a rush to his words with an undertone of distress that cut down my annoyance.
“Let me talk to him. Paulie and Devin are out of commission, and neither Arthur nor Charlie are answering. Liam’s across town with Smiles and Johnny.
I’m just as far, and none of the other guys have key access to the penthouse elevator. ”
“What panic button?”
“The one in his office.”
This was the first I’d heard of it, not that there should have been much use for it with two guards constantly in the hallway outside and an armory of weapons hidden throughout the penthouse.
“And he could not have hit it on accident with a jerk of his knee?”
“No.” There he went, back to being blunt. No explanation, as if that one word explained everything.
I chuckled through a groan and buried my face in my hand. “Brody, listen, there’s no reason for him to have pushed that button. There’s no fire, and there’s no one in the apartment but him, me, and my best friend.”
“Your friend Maeve Hackett?”
“Yes…? How do you know that name?”
“That’s it. She must be why. She has something to do with the Love Knot Killer. You need to be careful. She could be holding him hostage to—”
“Enough! Do you hear yourself?”
“You have to stop whatever she has—”
“Stop. Just stop. Two days ago, you accused me of being the Love Knot Killer. Now, it’s my friend? When does it end?” I looked up at the ceiling, completely done with this conversation and berating myself for ever answering either time.
“But she—”
“No,” I yelled. “Just no. You want to talk to your brother? Fine. He can deal with you. I have had my fill for today. Forever, actually.”
I threw the door open and marched through the living room, ready to give Cillian a much-deserved lecture about reeling his brother in.
No one was there or in the kitchen, and the door to the bathroom down the hall stood half open, lights off.
“Cillian? Maeve?”
I spun around at the sound of voices coming from Cillian’s office.
The door was left ajar. It surprised me that Cillian allowed Maeve in there, but I strode over and shoved my way into the room without hesitation.
At the same time, a heavy thwack clacked against wood.
I pivoted around to check the door, thinking it hit the wall on my way in, but it stood open nowhere near an obstacle.
My brows knitted, but I turned back to the matter at hand.
“Cillian, would you talk to your brother? I cannot—”
It took my brain a few seconds to catch up to the scene in front of me. The armchairs for guests were jammed against the walls. The desk was at an odd angle, the items atop it scattered across it and the floor. And the desk chair was missing. No, not missing. It was overturned on the floor with…
“Cillian!”
I ran to him, knocking Maeve out of the way. My cell phone flew from my hand and clattered somewhere between us. Why was she just standing there?
His body lay at an awkward angle, his neck twisted with most of his weight on it. I tapped his cheek. It was cold but sweaty. I checked for a pulse. It was faint but there. Then I put a finger under his nose. Slow, scraggly breaths scattered over my skin.
“Cillian, chéri, can you hear me? Cillian, wake up. Maeve, call an ambulance.”