Gabriel

by Naima Simone

  Oh, God. Was it his imagination, or did her perfume still linger in the air? Common sense assured him the bit of fancy was impossible after so long, but… He inhaled, straining to catch the familiar, but elusive scent.

  He sank to the floor, silent tears slowly trickling down his face. He leaned against the footboard of the bed, his back propped against it, legs bent, and wrists resting on his raised knees. He listened to the quiet. For once, the absence of noise wasn’t the enemy but a friend, allowing his mind to fill with the joyous times he, Maura, and Ian had enjoyed as a family.

  For the first time, those memories didn’t carry debilitating pain. Yes, he still felt a dull ache, but mostly the thoughts invoked a warmth that comforted instead of cut.

  He sighed. “I couldn’t have imagined a life without you, Maura. And yet here I am, trying to make heads and tails of it. I haven’t done…well,” he confessed, rueful. “Hell, sweetheart, I’ve screwed it up royally. I think the only people able to put up with me are Mal, Rafe, and Chay. And then there’s Leah… Oh, Leah.” Gabriel studied the floor. “You always said it saddened you that someone so lovely seemed so alone. That she needed someone to care for her.” He lifted his head, his gaze centered on the far wall. “She does, Maura. She needs me. And, sweetheart, I need her. I…love her.”

  He whispered the admission and tensed, expecting shame to crush him. But it didn’t. Instead a weight disappeared from his shoulders, from his soul.

  “Maura, I’ve carried so much guilt over you and Ian, especially after realizing someone hurt you because of me. I didn’t feel worthy of love again because I failed you so badly. But somehow—for some reason—I’ve been offered another chance, and I want to be happy again. And Leah, she brings me joy. In a different but very real way, she completes me as you did.” He laughed, the sound sharp and abrupt. “She called me a coward, you know. Well, she’s right. I was afraid of letting go of you because then I’d have to admit I was okay with surviving when you and Ian didn’t. I can’t say at this moment I’m fine, but I am ready to live and love again.” With a small groan, he pushed himself to his feet and took another survey of the room. “I’ll miss you forever, sweetheart.”

  He rose and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  He descended the steps and walked into the living room. The seven-foot-tall, artificial Christmas tree still stood in the corner, decorated with various bulbs, balls, and white lights. Two years ago, he hadn’t allowed his friends to remove one ornament from its dark green branches because stripping the tree would have been tantamount to admitting the life he’d known had ended. And it had, he reasoned, moving across the room to stop in front of the tree.

  But now another was beginning.

  Slowly, he reached for a crystal angel hanging from a high tree limb. He removed the ornament and placed it on the coffee table behind him.

  Then removed another.

  And another.

  …

  Leah stared at her computer, but the report could have been a Rorschach inkblot for all the sense it made. She’d been at the office trying to type the summary of her latest assignment for the last two hours. Nathan had ordered her to stay away from work until next week, but after waking up in a hotel room on a chilly Saturday morning with the entire lonely day stretched out before her, she had made the executive decision to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, and driven to the office after all. Thankfully, no one else was there on the weekend.At the time, work had seemed the antidote and refuge from her loneliness. And the memories.

  But so far, her great idea had been a bust. She’d turned on the radio, but the noise had only served to emphasize the deafening quiet. Now the report was proving impossible to write. Of course, maybe completing the document wouldn’t be so difficult if she could keep her mind focused on the job, and off Gabriel. If she could stop picturing how he’d looked the last time she saw him: standing in front of the conference room window, sunlight haloing his rigid figure and sorrow twisting his handsome features.

  “Damn,” she muttered, turning from the computer monitor and propping her elbows on the desktop. She dropped her head into her palms and allowed the tide of humiliation, hurt, and sadness she’d stemmed by sheer force of will to crash over her.

  She’d told Gabriel she loved him. For fifteen years, she’d guarded her secret, maintained and protected their friendship. And in one reckless second, she’d blown all her efforts to hell and back. What had she been thinking? She rolled her forehead against her palms. Had she really expected him to declare his love in return? To stop her from walking out the door and beg her to stay?

  “God, I’m such a fool,” she whispered. He had never made promises, while she had naively hoped for an ending that only happened in Disney movies. Now she had to figure out a way to mend what may have been irrevocably broken.

  If it should even be mended.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain and, after a long moment, leaned against the back of her office chair. She’d planned to go see Catherine this afternoon, but after a sleepless night had decided against it. The decision to storm the battlements of the older woman’s Weston home had been made in the heat of anger, and after hitting rewind/replay on her memories all night, Leah had decided Gabriel had stated a valid point. Charging in there with no idea of what awaited her was foolish. Not that she’d call him and admit as much. Her lips twisted into a slight smile. She had some pride left—a scrap, maybe, but some. So here she sat, holed up in the office, hiding.

  I have to move on.

  The admission caused the bottom to plummet from her stomach as if she’d whipped down a dizzying roller-coaster loop. She’d spent years loving Gabriel and denying herself a future that included a husband, children, a full home. Could she love another man as she’d loved Gabriel? Maybe…maybe not. But she owed herself the opportunity to find out. She deserved it.

  Yes, she decided. Once she turned over the tapes to the authorities and aided Malachim, Chay, Raphael, and Gabriel in whatever capacity they required, she would get on with the life she’d voluntarily relegated to a dusty shelf. If her heart rebelled at the idea, too damn bad. The stubborn organ would just have to get on board.

  Sighing, she turned back to the computer and the report. Determined to finish, she forced herself to concentrate, shoving thoughts of Gabriel aside. For the next fifteen minutes, she was successful, but then her cell phone jangled. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She flicked a glance at the phone and debated answering it.

  “Forget it,” she mumbled, and reached for the phone. But as her fingers brushed the casing, the generic ring tone stopped. The caller’s number appeared under the missed-call message, and she frowned, not recognizing the seven numbers following the Boston area code. As if responding to her silent question, the voice mail notification dinged. Curious, she entered her password and pressed the phone to her ear.

  “This message is for Ms. Leah Bannon. Good morning, Ms. Bannon, this is Dillon Truitt from Howard Security. We are the home protection provider for your father, James Bannon. We have been unable to contact Mr. Bannon regarding a monitored security alarm that was tripped at 1:00 a.m. this morning at the Beacon Hill residence. You were his secondary contact number. We sent a patrol car to his home to investigate the alarm, and after a careful search of the premises, verified the rear door had been opened, but the officers did not locate any sign of an intruder. If you could give us a call at”—Dillon Truitt recited the number that had flashed across her screen along with a double-digit extension—“to let us know you received this message, we would appreciate it. Thank you, and have a good afternoon.”

  Leah lowered the phone. Panic, hot and bright, flared in her chest. Terrifying memories from her break-in flooded her mind, and she envisioned her father lying on the foyer floor, bloody and torn… God, she could’ve been there—she should’ve been there. What if she hadn’t decided to check into a hotel but instead had gone to her father’s home?

&nb
sp; Stop it! She sucked in a deep lungful of air and deliberately released it on a slow, measured breath. The suffocating choke hold eased the tiniest bit, but it was enough to allow a sliver of rational thought in.

  She was okay, and so was her father. The conference in New York he was attending concluded tomorrow morning, and her dad most likely wouldn’t return until Monday.

  Still…

  The office chair skidded across the floor as she shot to her feet. Several taps to the keyboard later, she’d saved her incomplete report to a thumb drive and shut the computer down. She couldn’t explain the compulsion to visit her childhood home and confirm for herself that no harm had come to it. First, the Victorian she’d made her home had been violated, and now the house she’d grown up in. Damn, was there a place she would ever feel safe in again?

  Gabriel’s, a voice whispered. You felt safe with Gabriel.

  Shut up, she ordered the traitorous voice. Moving on, remember? And for real this time.

  She slapped her tote bag on top of the desk and shoved a couple of folders, her organizer, and notepad inside. Hurriedly, she flipped through the files littering her desk but after a few minutes conceded defeat.

  “Crap,” she muttered, propping her fists on her hips. “Where is it?” The file from her last assignment. She couldn’t finish the report or the invoice of services without the file containing her detailed log and notes from her surveillance.

  Nathan’s office. It must be there.

  Of course. With her being busy with Richard’s investigation and her banishment from the office until next Tuesday, Nathan had probably taken some of her work upon himself to complete.

  She rounded the desk, strode out of the office and down the hall toward the last door on the right. She twisted the knob. Locked. Damn. Frustrated, she frowned down at the brass handle as if her stare alone could miraculously spring the lock.

  What now? As an employee, she didn’t have a key to the boss’s office…

  But wait. She pivoted and headed in the opposite direction. There was one employee who may have access. Shelly, the receptionist.

  “I’m not a crack detective for nothing,” Leah murmured after a quick search uncovered a ring of keys, each carefully labeled. The last on the ring had Nathan’s name printed in neat, small handwriting.

  Satisfaction buzzed through her as she retraced her steps to the corner office. She fitted the key into the lock, turned it, and the door swung open. Before she could rethink her decision—because really, rummaging through the boss’s desk was wrong on so many levels—she entered, pocketing the keys.

  The large room reflected her employer and friend—conservative, urbane, elegant, yet strong. The wide cherrywood desk with its broad legs and heavy scrollwork dominated half of the space. Behind the masculine piece of furniture stood a tall armoire, its doors thrown open to reveal various awards, plaques, and certificates honoring Whelan Investigations along with its owner. Assorted works of art such as delicate vases, intricate sculpture, and vibrant paintings dotted the office, attributing to both Nathan’s sophisticated taste and his success.

  Leah approached the desk, her steps slow, measured, belying the urgency to get in, get the file, and get out. The inbox-outbox rack, multi-line phone, and calendar were the only items on the uncluttered surface except for a lone picture frame on the right corner. The photo seemed to possess a place of honor, and as Leah rounded the desk, she understood why. She immediately recognized the woman forever caught in time by a photographer’s camera.

  Nathan’s mother.

  As if drawn by an invisible cord, Leah moved closer and peered down at the eight-by-ten frame. It was an older picture. She had seen Mrs. Whelan a couple of years before her death from heart failure. Her hair had been snow white, there had been deep grooves bracketing her mouth, and thin lines etched into the skin around her eyes. In this photo, her elegant chignon was as dark as a raven, her smooth skin free of crow’s feet, and her lips wore the barest hint of a smile. The woman seemed almost content, if not happy. Yes, Leah thought. She could see why Nathan would choose this picture of his mother to commemorate her memory.

  Leah leaned over the desk and studied the engraving at the bottom of the frame.

  Donna Whelan b. 1954—d. 2010.

  She frowned, tipped her head to the side, and examined the image more intently. Something about it… She reached out, but her fingers stopped inches from the intricate iron whorls surrounding the picture. After a moment, she shook her head, straightened. Nothing special or extraordinary stood out. But even so, she couldn’t shake the nebulous warning tingling at the back of her skull, insisting she was missing…something.

  The file, she admonished herself. The purpose behind breaking into Nathan’s office was to find the case file, not analyze his mother’s picture. Yet as she turned to his inbox and thumbed through the neatly labeled files there, the urgency humming beneath her skin kicked into hyperdrive. A knot coiled deep in her stomach, and her heart took up the call to arms, thumping out a faster tattoo.

  Get the file, get out. Get the file, get out. Get the file, get out. The words repeated in her head like a rap song, her pulse providing the pounding rhythm.

  “Gotcha,” she said triumphantly. Grinning, she plucked a manila folder with the correct name printed on the tab from the tidy pile. Relief sang through her. Finally. She heaved a sigh, and set the file on the desk. Now to leave Nathan a note and get the hell out of here.

  She snatched a sticky-note from the yellow memo pad on his calendar. A pen. Slapping the note on the desk, she pulled the top drawer open. Several pens of various colors and sizes waited for her in an organizer that would’ve made a drill sergeant proud. Damn, the man was neat and—

  Oh, God.

  Her heart slammed against her chest. She whimpered, but barely heard it beneath the deafening roar whirling in her ear.

  Trembling, she reached for the gold coin winking up at her in the weak, late-morning light. The cool metal shook in her hand.

  A lion’s head with a laurel wreath above its mane.

  Richard’s token for his “special boys.”

  And Nathan owned one…

  A terrible suspicion developed like a gray and indistinct Polaroid gradually focusing and sharpening into full detail and color, forming a clear and frightening picture.

  Her gaze darted back to the frame and the engraving at the bottom, even as snippets of various conversations from the past week whispered through her head.

  “After my father left, he was a good friend to our family.”

  “I’d had hopes for the relationship he’d been in after his divorce—at least Donna was from a good family, even if she was a single mother. But he broke it off with Donna after meeting Evelyn Gray.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Comprehension doused her like a bucket of ice water. Donna Whelan. The “woman from a good family” whom Catherine mentioned Richard had dated after his relationship with Renee—the woman he’d broken up with to date Evelyn.

  Donna had been Nathan’s mother.

  Donna had fit his pattern: a divorced or single woman with a teenage son—a son he’d preyed on.

  Nathan knew the significance of the gold coin, the same coins found with Ian and Darion. The same coin her attacker had placed beside her head.

  Nathan was the one person she’d told about her plan to stay the night with her father. The same night an intruder had attempted to break in James Bannon’s home.

  Horror slithered through her. It coated her mouth, clogged her throat, and churned in her stomach. Yet, underneath the burgeoning fear, a sliver of disbelief lingered. She clung to the strand of hope. It can’t be true. Not Nathan.

  A whisper of sound jerked her gaze to the office door.

  “Hello, Leah,” Nathan said. And smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Video tapes,” Malachim murmured. “What a sick POS.”

  “Yeah,” Gabriel said, adjusting the Bluetooth vo
lume on the steering wheel controls. He flicked the car’s turn signal, telegraphing his intention to switch lanes, then continued his cell-phone conversation with Mal. “Richard’s ex-wife hid the tapes all these years.”

  “Shit,” Mal growled. “You said Richard molested his ex-wife’s son, too?”

  Gabriel clenched his jaw, fury rising once more. Death was too fucking good for the pain so many boys, including Chay, had suffered at the hands of Richard Pierce.

  “Yes. It’s why his wife divorced him. And from the size of the collection Leah described, his stepson hadn’t been his first victim.”

  “Or most likely his last,” Mal added.

  “No,” Gabriel said, thinking of Chay. “Most likely not.

  Mal swore softly. “Is Leah okay? I can only imagine the pain and shock of discovering not only is the uncle you adored and revered dead, but he was a depraved bastard.”

  “She was crushed.” And Gabriel had heaped more hurt on top like a screwed-up sundae of shit. “But she’s also determined to help Chay and us. Did you call your friend yet? The defense attorney?”

  “Yeah,” Mal said. “He’s agreed to represent us when we take our case to the cops and the DA.”

  After all these years, the secret they’d guarded so zealously was coming to light. So many emotions roiled in Gabriel’s gut—trepidation, fear, relief. They couldn’t go back now. Part of him wanted to shed the heavy burden.

  “I had another reason for calling,” Gabriel said, his grip on the wheel tightening. “I need the name of a good real-estate agent.”

  A long pause followed his request. “You’re moving from the condo?” Mal asked, his tone halting.

  “No.” Gabriel inhaled. Exhaled. And plunged over the precipice. “I want to put my house on the market.”

  “Gabe,” Mal breathed. Gabriel waited, and at length his friend cleared his throat. “I’ll find one for you,” Mal promised, voice thick. “Can I ask what made you come to this decision?”

  “Who,” Gabriel correctly quietly. “Leah.”