Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Dr. Henry Weston malpractice suit.
Cillian glanced at the open doorway to his new office as he typed the search terms into the computer’s Internet browser.
The hallway was empty. Not that anyone could see his screen, since it faced away from the door. But better safe than sorry.
These people were Victoria’s co-workers. Probably had a high opinion of her father, the famous Chicago neurosurgeon.
But everyone had secrets. Especially bullies like Victoria’s father, people that always got what they wanted, that climbed ladders to success and pushed down anyone who got in their way.
Dr. Weston’s days of getting away with those tactics were over, at least with Victoria.
Cillian had about thirty minutes between the early morning orientation meeting that had just ended and the next meeting with Racquelle to sign more paperwork. He wasn’t about to waste another second before working on the real reason he’d come back and taken this job.
Given his observations during the all-too-short dessert meeting with Victoria last night, there was no question she was still under her dad’s thumb. It was way past time to cut her loose and let her live her own life.
And Cillian knew how to do it. Since she was obviously not going to free herself, he’d have to go to the source—her father. Cillian would have to force him to let her go.
A tall order, but not an impossible one. Cillian had developed more than one technique for handling bullies and power abusers in his years as a family social worker. With a guy like Henry Weston, persuasion was out, as was intimidation. The only thing that would work was leverage.
Cillian scanned the results of his search on the screen, hoping to find the leverage he needed.
Most physicians, and especially surgeons, seemed to encounter a malpractice suit at some point in their careers.
Victoria’s dad had been practicing for decades and was one of the two best neurosurgeons in the country, according to the Internet.
Some disgruntled patient had to have sued him.
Sure enough, the search results showed three—no, four—malpractice suits brought against Dr. Henry Weston, Chicago neurosurgeon. Cillian clicked on the public records result first and skimmed the information.
Not very helpful, other than giving him the name of the plaintiffs. He backed up to find the news media coverage. Handy that Dr. Weston was so well known, especially in Chicago. The coverage was more detailed than for most mal—
The beat of his smartphone’s ringtone cut into his thoughts.
He glanced at the caller ID. JaKobe Riley, requesting a video chat.
Cillian accepted the video call and picked up his phone as the boy’s face appeared on the screen. “Hey, bud, how are you doing?”
“Hi.” The frown tugging the nine-year-old’s mouth wasn’t a good sign.
“I can tell something’s wrong. What’s up?”
The boy shrugged his small shoulders under his blue shirt.
“Is it your mom?”
“I haven’t seen her in like forever.”
“You didn’t get to see her last week?” The arrangement for parental visits meant JaKobe’s mom could have supervised visits every other week.
“I guess.”
“Oh, good.” Cillian kept his expression as serious as the boy’s. “It’s not your mom, is it?”
JaKobe shrugged again. After they’d initially met, it had taken Cillian about two weeks to get the boy to say anything to him.
That happened when a kid grew up getting smacked whenever he cried or talked too much around the adults in his life.
Any communication at all was a victory and showed how much JaKobe had healed and grown.
“Let me guess. You’re worried about your new foster family.”
JaKobe finally looked at the screen and gave a small nod.
“They’re good people, JaKobe. I made sure of that. You know I wouldn’t put you anywhere that wasn’t safe.” Cillian had also stayed in Philadelphia long enough for JaKobe to move in with the Hamakers and start adjusting before he’d left for Chicago.
“We gotta eat dinner together, and I have to go to church.”
Ah, so it was the structure and rules—things that would give JaKobe the stability and security he didn’t know he craved. It was a hard adjustment for a kid who thought neglect was normal.
Cillian leaned back in his chair, holding the phone in front of him as he settled in to help JaKobe through the shock of experiencing a stable family for the first time in his life.
He’d given JaKobe and the other kids he’d worked with his personal phone number for this very reason. So they had one person they could count on to help them whenever they needed it.
They would never again experience his fate. They would never be alone and vulnerable, having to fight to survive and free themselves from the dysfunction and misery their parents created. He would make sure of that. And he would help more kids as soon as he could get back to family social work.
But for now, he would calm JaKobe’s fears and then return to another kind of rescue. Saving Victoria from the father who’d kept her as his prisoner for so many years, she didn’t even want to get free.
Apparently, God’s mercies in the new day didn’t mean Victoria would successfully keep Cillian Doherty from her thoughts.
She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as she turned into the wealthy neighborhood where Thomas lived. She had hoped not having to stop in the office that morning, since it was her day off, would enable her to avoid bumping into Cillian, but her mind crashed into him at every turn.
“I never forgot you, Vicks. Never.” The memory of his statement and his expression when he’d said it sent a shiver down her spine.
What kind of outlandish declaration might he make next? And what if he did so in front of her coworkers or Racquelle, her boss?
Perhaps Victoria should’ve stayed longer at Mason Grill instead of letting fear get the best of her and fleeing like a flustered young girl.
Thanks to her impulsive escape, she still didn’t understand why he had returned out of the blue.
He couldn’t actually mean he intended to rekindle their romance, could he?
The thought twisted her stomach. But if he supposedly hadn’t forgotten about her and still had romantic interest, then what had he been doing for the sixteen years of silence?
On the other hand, she had made it very clear that she would no longer date him or see him. Ever. She’d been surprised how easily and quickly he had respected her wishes at the time. Nothing like the bad-boy rebel he was then.
He hadn’t tried to call, hadn’t appeared outside her bedroom door, throwing pebbles against it as he had many nights when he’d wanted her to go on some adventure with him.
She never had gone with him in the middle of the night, despite his persistence. Not until…that night.
A night she definitely did not need to remember at this moment. She needed to be calm and ready to hear Thomas’s concerns, or whatever was weighing on him, without being distracted by her own problems.
The large ash tree that stood outside his fence, barren of leaves, caught her gaze, guiding her to his home and her thoughts to a less unnerving subject than Cillian.
No one would have retrieved the mail from the box yet since it was only a few minutes before nine. Though she could have beaten the mail carrier, as well. She would check anyway.
She looked ahead at the closed, wrought-iron gate as she pulled into the driveway, then shifted the car into park and opened her door.
She planted her heeled boots on the ground, her gaze going to—
A man lay flat on his back by the mailbox. Silver hair and beard.
“Thomas?” The name nearly choked in her throat as she launched from the car toward him, her feet slipping on the icy patch where he lay.
She knelt on her long wool skirt and felt his neck for a pulse. Something oddly textured met her fingers. She bent to see behind his ear.
Blood, frozen and dried, tracked down his neck from somewhere behind his head.
His face was white as snow, his lips tinged blue.
She moved her fingers on his cold skin. She could have misjudged where the pulse should be.
Horror and disbelief surged up her throat.
No. There had to be a pulse. There had to be.
She pushed to her feet and hurried to the car, fumbling for the phone in her purse on the passenger seat.
Pressing the emergency button for 911, she rushed back to Thomas.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
Victoria put her phone on speaker and laid it on the ground as she answered the operator and began CPR. But as she performed chest compressions, her eyes and even her heart knew she was too late.
He was dead.