by Karr, Kim
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
LOGAN
Reality slapped me in the face.
Even after a shower, my skin still felt like it was bathed in a cold sweat. My fingers continued to tremble with the disgust I felt for what I’d done all those years ago.
I hated that I’d had to tell Elle about it, but she had to know.
As I walked into my father’s law office, my legs were rods holding me up with each step, but I couldn’t feel them. I was on autopilot. I was gunning first for Declan, and then finally Tommy.
Tommy was close, but I had to believe he didn’t know about Elle because if he did . . . I couldn’t even think what that would mean.
Sure, I had a plan.
One that would protect her.
But my plan was shaky at best.
I had to put the pieces in motion.
Stacks of newspapers were piled on my father’s desk. The lights were dim and the gray clouds outside didn’t make the room any brighter. We’d had one wonderful day before March storms kicked up again. He was at his computer, reading glasses on, studying some documents on the screen.
“Anything?” I asked, not certain he was working on anything to do with Patrick or Tommy.
He slid his glasses down his nose to peer at me. “Actually, yes, I think so.”
Like a bat out of hell, I dashed around his desk and looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. “What?”
He twisted in his chair. “I met with Patrick’s accountant this morning and told him I needed bank statements for All My Women for the past two years.”
Exasperated, I said, “Why would you do that? He’s going to want to know why.”
“Relax, Logan. This isn’t my first rodeo. I fed him a bullshit story that the Financial Action Task Force is cracking down on certain types of wire transfers, looking for terrorist cells. I explained to him that I needed to see for myself exactly where Patrick was moving the money so I could advise him on what he should and shouldn’t be doing to avoid being targeted, or worse, being pinned as a terrorist.”
Chuckling, I shook my head. “You must have had Hal shaking in his shoes.”
His eyebrows popped in amusement. “More like shitting his pants. He emailed me the statements as soon as he got back to his office.”
“Sounds like you found something interesting.”
“I did. And not just the fact that the five million used to make the drug buy that went bad wiped out Patrick’s operating fund.”
“Completely?”
“Just about. That’s why he’s freaking out.”
“What else?”
My father turned back around and used his mouse to highlight something on the screen. “Look at this.”
I leaned closer and twisted my lips. “It’s a withdrawal.”
He highlighted a deposit. Then a withdrawal. Then another one of each. And then another.
“Okay, Pop, so someone is withdrawing a lot of money.”
He zoomed in on the withdrawal slip. “Not just someone. Tommy. The dumb shit has been depositing money and withdrawing more than the deposit on the next day for some time now.”
“Would explain the lack of money in the operating.”
“Yes, it does.”
I shook my head. “What? Is it Tommy’s idea of laundering?”
His brows rose. “Who knows, but he knows it’s forbidden in the organization. These are unsanctioned cash withdrawals and although they occur often during most of the statements I have, they started ramping up even more about six months ago.”
“How do you know Patrick is unaware of this?”
“Trust me, he is. Tommy is going to the bank and making the small deposits and larger withdrawals himself. Patrick would never allow that. Too risky. The dirty money has to be cleaned first—always. That’s Patrick’s rule. Patrick also doesn’t allow cash withdrawals. Funny thing is, Tommy stopped this activity three months ago.”
With a slow shake of my head, I said, “When O’Shea’s wife disappeared?”
My father turned back around. “Yes. But I’m not sure the two are connected.”
“But possibly?”
He shrugged. “The only thing I’m sure of is that something was going on behind Patrick’s back.”
“More drug buys?”
“Could be. Tommy knows Patrick doesn’t want Blue Hill relying on the drug trade to earn.”
“Do you think he’d be that stupid to defy his father?”
“I don’t know, Logan, but I’ve been thinking about this whole situation. Tommy first brought Patrick’s attention to the drug ring for a reason.”
“Because he needed the funds?”
“Yes, but why wait so long after the deal went bad to tell Patrick?”
“He tried to handle it himself?”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I wish I knew. At this point Patrick wants his money back, but I’m almost certain he’s looking to eliminate whoever is running the renegade op. It’s like that person is some kind of threat to him or something.”
I leaned back on his desk and crossed my arms. “Okay, so how does this help us move forward with a solution?”
“It doesn’t. But if we can find out who O’Shea’s wife was working for and/or who she was getting the drugs from, we should be able to follow the trail up to the source, which will more than likely be the person in charge of the renegade operation. And if we deliver that person or persons by Friday, that girl you’re so concerned about should be safe.”
That girl.
She wasn’t just that girl anymore.
She was my girl.
Admitting it would be futile, though. What mattered was that I keep her safe. And that I would do, no matter what. “I know where to start,” I said.
My father looked at me skeptically.
I shoved off the desk. “Something happened last night.”
It took me fifteen minutes to tell him what happened to Peyton. He had so many questions—why was I there, what was I thinking, I shouldn’t even be near Elle. When the lecture started, I started for the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To see Declan Mulligan. I’ll call you later.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
I indicated my appearance. “I’m in a suit—what am I going to do?”
My father said, “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’ll be smart.”
“Dinner?”
“Can’t tonight, but tomorrow night I’ll be there,” I responded as I left his office. I had no idea what today might bring. Plans weren’t anything I needed to have.
His heavy sigh could be heard down the hall.
My heavy sigh, though—that was what Declan should be worried about.
Tie pulled loose, suit jacket off, and sleeves rolled up, I found a place to park on ever busy Charles Street.
Mulligan’s Cup was open for business and full of patrons when I walked through the door. And Declan himself was working the espresso machine like he was born to brew lattes.
“I need to talk to you,” I said, bending over the counter.
“Yeah, give me a minute,” he responded without glancing up.
“In less than a minute, this fancy machine of yours is going to be on the floor.”
That got him to look up and when he saw my unhappy face, he paled, and then cranked a knob or two on the Italian masterpiece in front of him that had to cost at least thirty thousand. “Logan, look, I don’t want any trouble.”
“I said, I need to talk to you.” I was seething. My fingers gripped the back of the machine so tightly it shook. I would shove it to the ground if I had to—if it was the only way to get his attention.
He swallowed nothing in his throat and gave me a nod. “Charlene, can you finish this order?” he asked the girl behind the register.
“No problem,” she answered, eyeing me with distaste.
As soon as we were through it, I slammed him into the wall. “Why would you do that?” I said with disgust.
Sputtering, gasping for breath, he choked out, “I didn’t do anything.”
“Wrong answer.” I punched him in the gut.
Declan curled around my fist as all the air went out of his body. “Logan, I didn’t do anything. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
I pulled him up by the shirt collar. “You’re trying to tell me you didn’t put Peyton in the hospital?”
“No! What do you mean? What happened to her?” He coughed the words out, his concern clear in his tone.
Shoving him back against the wall, I looked him in the eye. “Someone saw me with her yesterday and last night she was attacked—by Tommy.”
He blinked rapidly as if trying to process what I’d just said. “Is she okay?”
I stepped back so I could better assess if he was lying to me. He looked genuinely upset. With narrowed eyes I hissed, “You’d better not be fucking with me.”
He raised his palms surrender style. “I swear, man, I haven’t seen Tommy in years. I’m staying clean and trying to run an honest business.”
I clenched my fists, trying to beat back the urge to knock him around a bit and see if he really was telling me the truth.
“What happened to Peyton?”
Calming myself, I leaned back against the counter. “She was attacked and left with an E on her stomach as a warning . . . to me.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, no.”
Declan reached behind him, but I was on him too fast. My face was right up in his. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not carrying. I was reaching for my phone. I want to call Peyton.”
Unsure, I patted him down.
“Logan, I told you, I’m not in that life anymore. And besides, I like Peyton—I’d never do anything that might hurt her.”
Images flickered in my mind of the long walk up the hill yesterday, of the dozens and dozens of people we must have passed. Was Tommy one of them? Was he combing the streets looking for the same thing his father demanded be delivered by Friday?
Drugs.
Money.
The connection.
What the fuck was it?
I found myself staring at Declan. “What do you know about Tommy and dealing drugs?”
He shook his head. “I told you, I’m out of that life.”
Air pushed from my mouth. “Come on man, I’m not stupid.”
“I am.”
“Tommy let you out?”
“Patrick did. He knew my old man needed help with his business and for some reason, he let me go. Said it was for the good of the neighborhood.”
Possible, but not probable. “Come on, Declan, don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then what’s the real reason you’re out and still alive?”
He sighed. “Tommy got shot a few years back and the guys he was with left him on the ground bleeding. I saved him and in return, Patrick let me out. But it really was to work my old man’s business.”
For some reason, I believed him. “Even out, I know you have to hear things. Peyton is an innocent girl who got caught up in Tommy’s shit. If you care about her, you’ll help me out.”
An unlikely ally, I was surprised when he said, “I heard he was dealing and had been seen over at the waterfront with a redhead a lot, but that was months ago.”
“Can you find out where exactly?”
“I can ask around, but I’ll need some time. I can’t just bring it up. I have to run into the right people.”
My mouth twisted. “Something is going down soon and we don’t have much time.”
His eyes told me he understood. “I’ll hit the neighborhood tonight.”
The room was organized and I reached behind him for a clipboard hung on wall. Tearing a corner from a sheet of paper, I wrote down my number. “Call me as soon as you hear anything. I don’t care what time it is.”
I was out the door when I turned back. “Hey—”
He was already on his phone.
For a minute, I wondered again if he’d played me and was calling Tommy.
As if knowing my thoughts, he held his phone. Calling Peyton flashed on the screen.
“Sorry about the misunderstanding.”
He gave me a nod and then turned his attention to his call. “Peyton, it’s Declan . . .”
The door closed and I reached in my wallet and stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. Charlene was still eyeing me, but at least she added a smile.
Once I was back in my car, I sent Elle a text.
Me: What color hair does your sister have?
Elle: Red, why? Do you think you found her?
Red.
Could Tommy have been in business with Lizzy? Was O’Shea on the up-and-up when he said he had nothing to do with what went down?
I texted Elle back.
Me: No, I haven’t. Do you have a picture of her you could send me?
Elle: I don’t have any recent photos, but I know there are some on Michael’s FB account. Hang on.
Elle sent me a link.
Me: Thanks. I’ll be back soon.
Elle: I’m at the boutique. I took a cab. I’m waiting for the deliveries and then I’ll meet you back at the hotel.
Me: I told you to stay put.
Elle: I’ve been here for months. It’s safe.
She had a point. As long as I didn’t go there and she wasn’t seen with me, she was safe—for now. My fingers hovered over my screen. I wanted to say something to her to let her know I was thinking about her. My feelings confused even me. I’d known her what, four days, and I wanted to know more of her. I’d told her about the darkest part of me, and she didn’t think I was a monster. Something was happening between us, but I wasn’t sure either of us knew what it was.
Me: Looking forward to seeing you.
Elle: J
A smiley face? What the hell did that mean? I shoved my phone into my pocket before I sent her back a matching one or worse yet, a wink, or who the hell knew, maybe an xoxo. If I didn’t get my thoughts under control, I might just be texting her a heart before I even realized it. My groan was loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. I wanted to plug my own ears.
Pulling out, I focused on the traffic, the cloudy day, the people on the street. Anything to take my mind off the girl I was becoming way too attached to.
I spent the afternoon at the waterfront. What I thought I’d find there, I had no idea. I roamed Seaport Boulevard. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I ventured into the hotel lobbies. I found shit. Wandered the waterfront. The only things there were boats and seafood.
By five o’clock, I’d had enough.
It was time to get back to the hotel.
And I wanted to see Elle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ELLE
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the couch.
My laptop was on my knees, my inventory pad beside me, and my cell close at hand. I felt drained and done with work. The crackle of the logs caused me to open my eyes. Setting my things aside, I looked around.
Logan’s suite was swanky. That was the best word to describe it. Modern black sofas, crystal chandeliers, fine abstract art, and beautiful side pieces to accompany it all.
The vanilla curtains blew in the breeze and the fireplace warmed me. I’d decided on opening the terrace door and turning on the gas fireplace. My nerves had my temperature fluctuating. One minute I was hot, the next I was cold.
Peyton had said she was absolutely fine, but I forbade her from coming to work until Saturday. She needed to take a few days off. If what Logan said was true, and I was certain it was, I wanted her far away from anything until after Friday passed.
Friday.
D-day.
I hoped Michael knew
what he was doing.
He’d stopped by the boutique with Clementine and Sarah, the nanny, at lunch. Peyton had me seeing things that weren’t there, I was sure, but Michael did look pretty at ease with the nanny. He also seemed to be back to normal. He acted like nothing out of the ordinary was taking place in our life. He also acted like his wife hadn’t been missing for three months. I think he’d convinced himself that she really was in rehab. Both behaviors bothered me.
Cracking open a bottle of water, I checked the time—five fifteen. My stomach was growling, so I reached over to the pile of snacks I had brought from my stash at the boutique. The coffee table was littered with fruit roll-ups, granola bars, pretzel bags, and a few Snickers.
My fingers glided over each one before I decided on pretzels. They were the flat kind with salt-and-pepper flavoring. My favorite.
I pulled my laptop back onto my lap and in the search bar, feeling oddly curious, I typed in two words: sex addict. Not that I thought I was one. It’s just that for so long I’d thought of myself as almost asexual and now, after meeting Logan, that clearly was not the case. Still, naturally, I had to wonder if it was possible to move to the other side of the spectrum.
An article in Psychology Today magazine caught my attention. It was titled, “How to Tell If You Are a Sex Addict.” The article contained many stories of people who had thought they might be. I read them all but couldn’t relate to any of them. Still, I read on. I stopped when I came to a quiz with a series of questions:
Do you find yourself unable to concentrate because you’re thinking about sex?
Do you pay for sex? (Porn or prostitution.)
Has your sexual activity ever caused problems for your family?
Even when you’re in a relationship, do you still masturbate two or three times a day?
There were dozens and dozens more questions, but I stopped there. I was confident that I was most definitely not a sex addict. Who knows? Maybe I was just a normal woman with healthy sexual urges.
Munching on my pretzels, I liked that thought. Curiosity drove me to keep searching, and this time I Googled sex drive. The first article I read stated that the majority of Americans in their late twenties and early thirties have sex with their partner two to three times per week. There were tons more articles, all stating the same thing. Interesting. I was pretty sure Logan and I might have sex two to three times per day if we could.
