by Josie Litton
In the weeks since I’d returned to New York, I’d been too engulfed in my own problems to think of anything else. But now the promise that I had made to myself to find justice for Patrick returned in full force.
“We should meet,” I said. This wasn’t a conversation that I wanted to have on the phone.
Will hesitated. He was a decent guy but he’d been involved with the family for too long not to be aware of the dark reality under the gilded veneer. Even if he didn’t know for certain what had happened to Patrick, my cousin’s fate could only have made him even more aware of the risk he was taking if his loyalty was seen to waver even a little.
I waited, thinking he was going to refuse and trying to figure out how to persuade him not to. But finally, he said, “Maybe we should. I have some stuff I need to clear away but then I’ll call you, all right?”
“Yes, of course.” I was glad that he agreed to talk but at the same time his need to do so signaled how troubled he really was.
It was on the tip of my tongue to insist we meet at once but before I could, Will said, “Gotta go. Look after yourself, okay?”
“You do the same,” I said but he’d already hung up.
I stayed at Haven House a few more hours before heading back to my apartment. I had laundry to do and I thought that I might even get a haircut. Small steps but at least I was taking them. Not that I fooled myself that I was suddenly, miraculously better. Far from it. The simplest task required immense effort; I felt as though I was fighting my way through a thick, smothering fog while wearing lead boots.
But I kept going--spurred on by thoughts of Patrick, the need to find justice for him combining with fear for my own survival if I didn’t recover my strength both physically and emotionally.
By evening, I was folding laundry. I’d flipped the TV on more for the sound than anything else. A business program recorded earlier in the day was being aired. I was thinking about what I would do next, trying to plan out each small task so that I could get through them, when the host introduced his guest.
In an instant, everything changed.
Chapter Five
I gaped at the television. Almost without my being aware, my hand reached out to touch the screen. My fingers were brushing over it when I recovered myself enough to snatch them back.
Even so, I couldn’t look away. The man seen in close-up, his arctic blue eyes impenetrable despite the slight smile curving his sensuous mouth, commanded all my attention.
Adam.
Here in the city. Not thousands of miles away with an ocean between us.
The reality of seeing him so suddenly, without any warning, stunned me. My mind struggled to grasp it.
He didn’t grant interviews, preferring instead to guard his privacy. Distantly, I wondered why that had changed but really all I could think of was how at ease he appeared. Unmarked by anything that had happened between us, whereas I…
I had to sit down quickly before my knees buckled.
His tall, perfectly honed body was clad in a custom-tailored charcoal gray suit that only served to emphasize his natural power and authority. The uncompromising masculinity of his features further heightened the impression of strength and will. From the very first, I had thought that he was stunningly, even savagely male and experience had only confirmed that.
He might look the very image of a civilized, urbane man of the 21st century but I knew better. Under the finely woven worsted wool beat the heart of a warrior accustomed to taking whatever he desired.
“I’m very fond of New York,” he said when the fawning interviewer asked what brought him to the city. “I keep an apartment at the Plaza precisely because I get here as often as possible.”
The smile he flashed tore at my heart. When had I seen him like that--relaxed, even congenial? It was one more side of his complex nature that I longed for, no matter how desperately I tried to deny the hold that he continued to have on me. In my dreams, waking, moment to moment, freed by him, sent away, I still remained his captive in every sense that mattered.
They went on to talk about the state of the financial markets but I was no longer listening. All I could think of was that the man who had shattered my life was staying only a few miles from where I sat shaking in the grip of dark desire and helpless rage.
Maybe the therapists had been right and I really did need labels, drugs, referrals, all of it.
Or maybe I should seize the opportunity that had just presented itself and do something to truly help myself.
Jumping up before I could think better of it, I headed for the door. Only to realize that I didn’t have my phone or wallet. And I wasn’t wearing any shoes. Never mind a jacket or coat, I could do without either.
When I finally had myself as together as I could get, I moved fast. Out on the street, I hailed a cab. Traffic was heavy but moving. I kept my mind as blank as possible until we pulled up in front of the Plaza Hotel. Then the full magnitude of my intentions slammed into me, heightened by vivid memories of the last time I had stepped into the ornate lobby, minutes away from encountering Adam for the first time.
A wave of nausea hit me. I couldn’t do this, I was too weak, I needed more time. He’d be in New York again. I’d approach him then when I was calmer, better, when I could demand that he tell me why he had done what he had without losing all control of myself.
Hard on that thought, self-disgust washed through me. I was done cowering. That ghost of a girl I kept seeing in the mirror wasn’t me. As much as I feared and despised my family, I was still a Delaney. My ancestors had climbed out of the peat bogs of Ireland and dared to build a life for themselves in a new world. I refused to show less courage than they had done.
Even so, I hesitated a moment before approaching the reception desk. What was I going to say? That I wanted to see the ultra-rich and powerful Adam Falzon? He might not even be there. Or he could have left instructions not to be disturbed. Even worse, he could be with someone… A woman.
Pain stabbed through me, so intense that I smothered a gasp. The elegant young woman behind the desk glanced up. Seeing me, she frowned.
“Miss, are you all right?”
Aside from my hands being clammy and a sensation in my throat as though someone has just grabbed hold of it and was squeezing the life from me? Apart from that, I was fine.
“Sorry.” I pretended to cough while I drew a quick breath. Exhaling in a rush, I said, “I’m here to see Adam Falzon.”
She gave me a cool, professional smile. “Mister Falzon, yes, of course. Is he expecting you?”
“No, but if you’ll let him know that I’m here--”
The dismissal that tightened her features disappeared the instant she took a closer look at me.
“Oh, Miss Delaney! I’m so sorry not to have recognized you immediately. Of course, I’ll let Mister Falzon know at once.” She reached for the phone so quickly that she knocked the handset out of the cradle. Recovering, she smiled nervously and made the call.
I concentrated on breathing--in and out, in and out. If I could manage that, I’d be all right. But the seconds ticked by too slowly. I was near the end of my endurance when I heard her say, “Yes, sir, immediately.”
She raised a hand, gesturing to a plain-closed security man standing nearby. “Miss Delaney is going to the penthouse. Please assist her.”
I followed him to the private elevator, waiting as he keyed in the access code before stepping back as the doors closed. The ride up was swift and so silent that I could hear the throb of my heartbeat in my ears. I steeled myself, going over in my mind why I was there and what I intended to say. I could do this; I had to.
But the moment the doors slid open, my resolve scattered like thistledown on the wind. Adam was standing in the private entry foyer, waiting for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part of me still couldn’t believe that my plan had worked. After an endless day of interviews--granted solely in the hope that Grace would learn that I was in the city and choo
se of her own volition to seek me out--she was right there in front of me.
Too slender, pale, and looking intensely wary but still there, close enough that I could reach out and touch her. The urge to do so was all but irresistible. I fought to control myself.
“Grace.” Her name was a caress on my tongue. I remembered the taste of her lips, her skin, her cunt. Ravenous hunger filled me, a raging need for all of her. I had to hope that she couldn’t feel it or she would surely flee without a second thought.
Faintly, she said, “Adam.”
I felt the tension radiating from her and my heart constricted. We stared at one another until the elevator doors began to close. Quickly, she stepped off.
Tilting her chin upward, she said, “I’d like to speak with you.”
“Of course.” I gestured for her to go ahead of me.
Stepping into the main living area, she stopped. I couldn’t blame her. The views from the duplex apartment looking out over Fifth Avenue and Central Park were spectacular. Evening was settling over the city but the last rays of sunlight still gilded the lakes and ponds that dotted the expanse of green hovering on the edge of autumn.
It was a setting almost unparalleled in the world and one that I usually enjoyed. But not at that moment when all my attention was focused on the woman who occupied my dreams both waking and sleeping.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
She turned and looked at me, her eyes dark pools of emotion. I sensed that she was holding on to herself by the thinnest of margins.
“No, thank you. This won’t take long. I just want you to answer a question.”
“Of course, if I can.” The sheer impact of her presence made it difficult for me to think. She was dressed simply in a soft taupe skirt clinched at her narrow waist by a darker leather belt and a forest green sweater almost the exact hue of her remarkable eyes. Her mahogany hair was swept back in a ponytail. The improvement in her appearance was heartening. I took it as evidence that her strength and courage were exerting themselves against the darker forces assailing her spirit.
Forces that I was all too vividly aware of having unleashed.
“You don’t mind if I do?” I gestured toward the bar.
“Go right ahead.”
I poured myself two fingers of a twenty-one-year old single malt Glenfiddich and took a moment to savor the taste before I turned back to her.
“What do you want to know?”
She moved a little farther into the room, her fingers trailing over the back of the Chesterfield sofa.
“Why you did it. What did you want from my family?”
“You’ve asked me that before.” After the windowless room and the chair, when I told her that I was sending her back. She had screamed it at me. Why! Tell me why!
I could still see her tears, each one a shard still buried deep within me, sharp, pointed, remorseless. I didn’t dare to wonder what she had been crying for--herself or something more. A dream of us that could never be?
Yet there I was--in New York, in the same room with her, prepared finally to tell her the truth. Because she needed it but also because, try though I did, I couldn’t shake the faint glimmer of hope that she might somehow, against all odds, understand. Strictly in the rational sense, of course. I didn’t aspire to forgiveness. And yet, perhaps, there was a path to absolution, however rocky and precarious that might be?
“I didn’t tell you because I believed that the less you knew, the more likely your family would be to accept that you were simply an innocent victim.”
They were predators in the extreme, able to sniff out any weakness and exploit it without mercy. She wouldn’t have stood a chance alone against them.
Shadows stirred behind her eyes.. “Are you suggesting they would have believed that I was in league with you?”
I swirled the amber liquid and took another swallow. When had I last resorted to alcohol for any form of courage? I couldn’t recall ever doing so but nothing was as it had been. The ground was shifting under me, a seismic quake reordering my world.
“Can you deny that possibility?” I asked.
To her credit, she didn’t even try. “I have no illusions about what they’re capable of. If you recall, I warned you about them.”
She had and in so doing, she had given me the clue to how they could finally be defeated. They cared for nothing but their own reputation, the gilded wall behind which all manner of crimes were hidden. To protect it, they would sacrifice anything, including her. I hadn’t wanted to believe her but events had showed just how right she was.
Yet, despite everything, she had refused to tell them my name. I marveled at that, turning it over in my mind like a rare, beautiful object of incalculable value and mystery.
Before I knew the true extent of her resolve, I had assumed that once Grace’s sociopath of a grandmother realized who had wrung from her the one thing she was most determined not to give, she would seek revenge. I had taken appropriate precautions, as I would have against any rabid wolf, but I needn’t have bothered. Grace had protected me even as I had failed utterly to do the same for her. Until now.
I threw back the rest of the whiskey and set the crystal tumbler on the bar. “All right, I’ll tell you what you are so determined to know. But I have a request.”
I had become the supplicant, with no will at the moment to pose conditions or lay down requirements. The best I could do was ask. “After I’ve done so, you’ll answer one question for me.”
“What question?”
“Afterward.” Gently, I added, “For now, I suggest you sit down.”
Chapter Six
I was shaking as I lowered myself onto the couch. Part of my mind refused to believe that I was actually there, confronting Adam. The rest couldn’t focus on anything other than him. Being there with him unleashed a fury of emotions, many of them contradictory, all overwhelming. At the same time, I was aware of a new sense of resolution in him that I couldn’t quite grasp.
I almost regretted refusing that drink.
He sat down in the chair opposite me, far enough away so that I could breathe a little easier but not so far that I didn’t remain vividly aware of him.
For a long moment, he did nothing more than look at me. I fought a losing battle to appear calm and self-contained but my anxiousness must have been obvious. I nearly leaped out of my seat when, somewhere in the vast apartment, a grandfather clock struck seven o’clock.
As the last chime faded away, Adam said, “Last year ago, a school bus went off a canyon road in southern California near Santa Monica. It was national news. You no doubt heard about it.”
I frowned, wondering why he was bringing up a tragedy that had riveted the public but was now old news. “Two grade school classes were on a field trip,” I said. “Their bus went off the road and fell several hundred feet. Everyone was killed.”
The dry recital of facts couldn’t disguise the horror of all those lives, so many of them young, snuffed out in an instant. Try though anyone might to put it down to fate, chance, whatever, it still felt like a violation of nature itself.
“The authorities blamed the driver,” I added.
Adam nodded. “His name was Manual Velasquez. He was a family man who had been driving a school bus for a dozen years without a single complaint against him. His doctor said that he was in good health. A check of his cell phone records indicated that he wasn’t using it at the time of the incident. There was no hint of any trouble at home or any kind of substance abuse. His wife said that he’d slept well the night before so fatigue wasn’t an issue.”
A premonition of dread rippled through me. I had a sudden, wrenching image of that school bus careening off the road, hanging motionless for an instant against the sky before falling away into space. The screams of terrified children and adults both growing faint before they ended all together, silenced by the shriek of twisting metal and shattering glass strewn over hard, unforgiving ground.
Words pushed past
the clog of anguish that suddenly was no longer impersonal. This had something to do with my family…with me. I had to know even if the weight of that knowledge proved unbearable.
“If it wasn’t Velasquez’s fault, what did cause the accident?” I asked.
Adam hesitated long enough for me to wonder if he was debating whether or not to go on. But finally he said, “A man who works for me and who is also a close friend asked that question. Rolf had good reason to do so because his brother-in-law was one of the parents who were along on the field trip. The man had been working a lot of overtime and took a day off to catch up with his kids, eight-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. After burying her husband and their only children, Rolf’s sister, Clara had a breakdown. She’s been in and out of hospitals and institutions ever since. A few weeks ago, she attempted suicide again.”
“Oh, god…” My stomach clenched as a feeling of sick helplessness swept over me, an echo of what I had experienced when I still believed that Patrick had brought about his own death.
“Rolf has played a very important role in my life since I was a child,” Adam went on. “But even if he hadn’t, he is one of the people who give me their service and loyalty, and who rightly expect to receive the same in turn. When an injustice is done to one of them, it is done to me.”
That was a very old way of thinking that hearkened back to the days when the only justice came at the tip of a sword. The world had changed…but had it really? How many ordinary people without powerful connections felt disenfranchised, helpless, even denied justice when they needed it most?
“He came to you for help.” It wasn’t a question. The interplay of events from a canyon road in California to the castle in Malta and finally to the apartment perched high above Manhattan was becoming clearer even if key connections along the way still remained in the shadows. I feared where it was all leading but I couldn’t turn back; I had to know.
“The information that Rolf was able to gather raised strong suspicion that there had been a cover-up.” Adam said. “I looked into the matter further and learned the truth.”
