Cards of Love: The Tower

by Linnea May

  "Not me personally, but yes, the people I work for," I tell her truthfully. "The Abbott family has a long history of being a part of the most influential crime syndicate in the area. There have been a few, but powerful nonetheless, involved in fraud, thievery, and even complicity to murder, if you count the many times they helped factories cover up chemical leaks that led to the deaths of many employees."

  "But-but…" Libby stutters. "All those fundraisers they organized? My aunt did so much good in the family name."

  I huff in disgust. "That's what she wanted everyone to believe. It's one of the Abbott's most commonly used frauds. Taking advantage of other people's goodwill, spreading lies and building on false hopes. They faked numbers and bribed the right people to direct most of the proceedings away from those who were promised to receive them."

  A few moments of tense silence follow as Libby lies next to me, stiff and breathing heavily. I expected her to cry, to yell at me that it was all a lie and she doesn't believe a word of what I'm saying.

  But nothing of the sort happens. She just lies there, letting the ugly truth wash over her. And when she finally speaks, she surprises me once again.

  "I'm… not even shocked," she says, sounding bitter. "After what they did to me, how they treated me all my life even though I was the child of my aunt's brother. They were never a family to me; they never treated me as such."

  She quivers, trying to hold herself together but unable to keep the tears from coming.

  "After what my uncle did to me?" she adds. "He was willing to kill me, throwing me in your arms to save his own ass. No half-decent person would ever do that to anyone, let alone their own kin."

  I nod along, my hand traveling along the untouched side of her torso, caressing the soft skin as I try to comfort her.

  "I should have known," she whispers. "How could I not see? All this time I thought I was the bad seed, not good enough for a family that is so commendable in every aspect. I feel so stupid."

  "They fooled a lot of people. The public, but also their own friends and family. It's what they did. They mastered the art of deception," I say in a low voice. "I'm sorry, Libby. You don't deserve any of this."

  She snivels, shaking her head on the pillow while reaching for my hand.

  "Thank you." Her voice is thin and weak, emitting desperation.

  "You have nothing to thank me for," I object, guilt rushing over me as I remember the moment my misguided bullet brushed her hip.

  "Yes, I do."

  "For what?"

  She intertwines her fingers with mine, her thumb gracing my skin as she brings my hand to her lips and places a gentle kiss on my knuckles.

  "For saving me," she says in a low voice.

  Her words weigh heavily on my heart, pushing me down into a puddle of guilt.

  She trusts me. She really thinks I'm her savior.

  But I'm not sure if I can live up to that expectation.

  Chapter 17

  Keane

  She's doing it again.

  Every single morning since we got here, Libby has managed to sneak out of bed before me, catching the sunrise while she's standing outside in the garden, carefully rotating her shoulder and moving her arm.

  I had a minor freak-out when I woke up the first morning and didn't find her sleeping next to me. Grabbing my gun from the nightstand, I rushed through the house, my panic rising with every room I found empty. I yelled out her name when I noticed that the door was wide open, fearing the worst.

  Did she run out? But where?

  Or did they come and take her? But how?

  The Covey doesn't know this house exists. I bought it under my new name, leaving no hint that could trace it back to me. I have no ties to this area, I never mentioned anything to anyone, and I left my Covey phone at the medic safe house so they couldn't track me.

  No. There was no way they could find us up here. Not this fast, at least.

  All these thoughts tumbled through my crazed mind as I darted through the door, calling for her.

  And she just stood there, bathing in the early sunlight while wearing nothing but the pair of men's sweatpants I gave her. Her pale skin reflected the sunlight, dancing across her nipples, hard and stiff from the cold as she turned around with her eyebrows arched in surprise.

  "Don't fucking do that to me!" I yelled at her.

  "Do what?"

  "Just... disappear like that!"

  She let out a chuckle then, shaking her head. "Disappear? I'm right here, aren't I?"

  I added a lecture about her self-prescribed physical therapy, reminding her not to overdo it and spare her wounds for a few more days to heal.

  She nodded then, but she didn't listen to me.

  Today is the third day I wake up to find her doing the same thing. Sneaking out of bed long before I'm awake, wearing nothing but sweatpants as the cold morning air tightens her bright skin while she tries to rotate her shoulder as much as possible.

  I'm watching her from the bedroom window, not sure how to feel about what I'm seeing as her face contorts in pain. I'm angry with her for being so stubborn and for not listening to me, but I also admire her will to fight. She wants to get better as quickly as possible. She hates to be weakened like this, and she hates being the victim in this story.

  I can only applaud that.

  And I know I would do the same thing.

  Just like Libby, I too have developed a little morning routine that I prefer to do by myself, far away from her curious eyes.

  The Covey has no way to track me, but they also have no way to contact me, due to me leaving my phone behind. The latter poses a problem, considering my target is still alive, and I was told to remain on standby in case they find a way to take him out.

  Luckily, I was smart enough to consider potential problems like this when I prepared this house. One of the reasons I chose this place was not only its remote and random location but the fact that it was quite easily equipped with a secret office, hidden behind a bookshelf on the first floor. The small room used to be a big walk-in closet with no window and a door placed at the far end of the living room. I exchanged that door with a smaller one, attaching the shelf right in front of it so it would hide the door entirely, and that was it.

  The internet setup is secure and encrypted, making it hard—but not impossible—to trace my location when I use it to communicate with the outside world.

  When I built it, I hoped that I would never have to use it. It was only meant for emergencies. And emergencies were not part of the plan.

  Not killing Clyde Abbott wasn't part of the plan.

  Bringing his secret niece here wasn't part of the plan.

  Fucking his niece wasn't part of the plan.

  Feeling fucking responsible for her wasn't part of the plan.

  Since the Covey's only way to contact me is via the cell phone I left behind, I was the one who had to initiate contact, using a secure voiceover internet connection. I called Tom for the first time two days ago. My heart raced in tense suspense as I expected him to accuse me of abandoning the Covey when my job was still unfinished. After all, I had been out of reach for more than forty-eight hours, something that has never happened before.

  But he wasn't suspicious at all, revealing that he hasn't dialed my number once since I left my phone behind, which also meant there was nothing new to report.

  That was a relief on the one hand and annoying on the other because it meant the Covey was getting nowhere with their approach to Clyde Abbott. And as long as he's still alive, I'm not off the hook.

  Today, however, is different. I can tell by the tone of Tom's voice right away.

  "Keane!" he barks at me. "Where the fuck are you? Why aren't you answering your goddamn phone?"

  There we go. This is the kind of response I was expecting.

  "Lying low for a while," I simply say, trying to sound nonchalant while my pulse is racing at top speed. "Remember, I was the last person Clyde looked at before he jumped inside that
elevator. I was wearing a mask, but just in case he or any of his men knew who I was... I should probably be careful myself."

  There's a pause at the other end, making me wonder whether Tom is buying my bullshit. He's not the brightest bulb in the box but not a total idiot either, so this could go either way.

  "Any news about Abbott?" I ask, attempting to stop his contemplation before he has time to become suspicious.

  He lets out an annoyed growl before he replies. "Not really, man, or well, kind of. The guy is gone! We had eyes on him during the first few days, holding back while they were getting ready to put his wife to rest. But once she was in the ground, boom! Asshole disappeared."

  I furrow my eyebrows as anger and surprise blend in a grimace on my face. "What do you mean, he disappeared? How is that possible?"

  "We don't fucking know! He's not at any of his usual places. We checked them all. There's security at every single one of his places within the city and the family's country home, but he's not there."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "We are," Tom insists. "We've been watching all his places since the event, and we haven’t seen him enter any of them. He stayed at the hospital first, then a hotel, but we have no fucking clue where he went after his wife's funeral."

  "Fuck!" I hiss. "Why didn't we take him out while he was still at the hotel? We had him then."

  Tom lets out a dark and evil laugh at the other end.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" he exclaims. "Why didn't you take him out on the tower like you were supposed to? We wouldn't have all this trouble if it wasn't for your massive failure!"

  I nod, biting my lips to keep myself from saying something I might regret.

  "And where the fuck were you for Jered's funeral?" Tom probes. "He was our buddy, man. What kind of chicken shit are you not to show up at his funeral?"

  Jered wasn't really a buddy of mine, more like a work colleague who I had very little to do with. Tom was a lot closer to him, so I know that the loss is harder for him to bear than it is for me.

  "I'm sorry, man." It's a heartfelt apology, apparent in the low and circumspect tone of my voice.

  Tom sighs. "Well, yeah... what can you do. It's not like the bosses really cared."

  He huffs in disgust, and I'm sure he's the one now biting his lips to keep himself from saying something stupid. I know he isn't in it as much as other Covey henchmen are, at least not anymore. He's grown tired of it just as I have. But neither of us ever had the courage to say it out loud.

  "Fuck, man, I just want this job done," he adds, almost sounding desperate. "We need to fucking find this Abbott asshole and hope he didn't leave the country or something."

  His words hit a spot with me, causing my head to spin as an idea forms within the walls of my afflicted skull.

  An idea that could lead the Covey to Clyde Abbott and free myself from their bounds especially since I would be the one to finally enable his assassination.

  Because I possess knowledge about the Abbott family that no one else does.

  Clyde Abbott may not have left the country.

  But he could've retreated to a place that no one in the Covey knows of.

  No one but me.

  Chapter 18

  Libby

  I know we can't stay and play house in this little cabin forever. I know, and he knows.

  We've developed a routine, something that gets us through the day and keeps us sane during testing time. Things have changed ever since we had sex that first evening. There was always that tension between us, that pull toward each other. The way he treated me played with my mind. It's obvious he cares about me and that my well-being is a priority to him even though I bear the name of a family he's been paid to kill. Maybe that's why he's kept his distance during the first few days, avoiding my questions, avoiding my eyes, even avoiding my presence after he'd saved me from life-threatening danger.

  He was trying to decide what to do with me. He didn't know whether he should let me live. Keane doesn't have to tell me that. I could see it all in his face, in the way he looked at me, and in the crease that appeared between his eyebrows every time I talked to him.

  Has he made his decision now? His demeanor toward me has changed ever since that glorious sex we shared. My arm was hurting when I woke up the next morning, but instead of taking another pill, I decided to sneak outside and catch the sunrise while slowly working through the pain as I moved my arm. I'm tired of being crippled and weak. It's time for my body to understand that I'm done resting and ready to face what lies ahead.

  Whatever that may be.

  With each day that passes, Keane and I grow closer together, sharing little anecdotes from our lives, laughing together, kissing and playing together. We have had sex every single day, sometimes more than once. It's become like a drug to me, a remedy that I crave more than the painkillers to make me forget my ongoing agony. I hate how slowly my shoulder is recovering, and I'm tired of being in constant pain. The painkillers Keane gives me are helping a little, but they don't comfort me as much as being with him does. When he's inside me, when our bodies are pressed against each other, skin against skin, the warmth of his strong body radiating like a healing light—that's the only time I'm at ease.

  But I know it can't last. We're living an illusion. And despite everything, I still can't know for sure that he will let me live.

  We went for a little walk yesterday, something I'm sure he wouldn't suggest if he thought someone could find us up here. It felt so good to be outside for longer than a few minutes, to move, to be able to do something as mundane as walking through the fields, watching the sunset, and talking.

  But we were always careful, both of us. I have no idea what his plans are, and I don't dare ask because I'm afraid of the answer.

  All I have is my own puddle of wild thoughts torturing me as I sit idly on a bench outside the house with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I let the morning sun warm my face. It's still early, and my shoulder is throbbing angrily from my little workout as it does every morning. But I can feel it getting better. Keane has been helping me change the bandages every day, and every single day, the wound looks a little better, despite my overzealous attempts to speed up the return of my mobility.

  Keane repeatedly warns me not to overdo it, his eyebrows arched with concern and affection.

  I can't make sense of this man. He has done so much to me, good and bad. He sprung from the darkness, and maybe he is the darkness I've feared all my life. He told me a truth about my family that I've always sensed was tucked away in a dark corner where I wouldn't have to see it.

  He made me look. He made me face a truth that I needed to learn.

  But why did he do it? Why did he tell me all these things? Is it because he knows I'll be dead soon anyway? Or is it because he wants to help me leave it all behind for good? He said that the people he's working for are still looking for my uncle. They still want to see him dead, and if they knew I existed, they'd want me dead, too.

  I'm too afraid to inquire about the state of play. Have they found my uncle? Is he already dead? Would Keane tell me if he knew? And did Keane tell them about me? Are we just waiting out here for them to come because he can't kill me himself?

  Is all this a lie? Or can I trust the affection I want to see in his eyes every time he looks at me? The gentle way he touches me, his greedy kisses, his passionate lovemaking, and the way he stares at me dreamily after yet another joint climax?

  Can a person really fake all that?

  I shudder at the thought. I don't want to think about it. I want to continue living this illusion here with him in this lovely area and this cute little house that has become our own in a way.

  I want to be here, right now, at this moment, because everything else scares me. The past is filled with bleak horror and betrayal, and the future nothing but uncertainty. What kind of life would I even return to if Keane decided to let me go? I had no plan when I came back to the city. I left my little apart
ment in California behind, locking the door without knowing when I would return and under what circumstances. My family has never provided any emotional support for me, but I was taken care of financially. It always felt like a bribe to me, though, as if they were paying me to stay away and keep my mouth shut. I've been given a monthly allowance ever since the day they pushed me away, and I knew the payments would continue as long as I needed them. Money has never been an issue to the Abbotts, and the amount wired to my account every month resembles nothing but peanuts compared to other expenses that are seen as normal.

  I was facing a purposeless life with no financial worries, no goals, and no affection.

  How could I ever return to that? How would I cope with all that has happened without having Keane at my side? If he has a plan, does he consider me as a part of it?

  I know the only way to find out is to ask him. I know I can't pretend that these questions aren't nagging at me forever.

  If only it wasn't for this agonizing fear.

  "Libby!"

  His voice tears me out of my dwelling. I jerk up from the bench, clenching the protective blanket as Keane darts through the door.

  He's fully dressed in dark jeans and a thick sweater, topped with his leather jacket.

  And he looks worried. No, more than worried. Scared. His eyes are wide, and his movements hasty as he gestures toward me.

  "We have to go!"

  "What?"

  I stumble forward, shaking my head. "Why? Where?"

  "We don't have time for questions right now," he tells me in lieu of a response, approaching me in quick steps. "Put some real clothes on. I'll pack a few things and then we're out of here."

  "But, but wh—"

  "Libby, please!" This time, he's actually yelling at me. The sheer volume of his voice makes me flinch as if he'd hit me.

  I look up at him, tracing the lines on his face as deep concern marks it like never before. Ever since I first met him, Keane has never looked like this. Worried, concerned, scared. As if he's no longer in control.

  "Keane, what happened?" I utter a question that I'm afraid to hear the answer to. "Please, just tell me."