by Carina Adams
Fi was talking wildly, probably trying to convince Ezra’s family that this was not a normal family dinner. Part of me would feel bad later. I knew I needed to get up and check on Bree, and I would, once I knew Gabby was okay.
Dustin’s jaw was ticking and he sat rod-straight, every muscle on alert, glaring at his girlfriend. We all knew he hated to be embarrassed, and he probably felt as though Gabby had humiliated us all. I didn’t. It was my date who had made this mess.
Gabby, on the other hand, had slumped her shoulders, sinking under the weight of Dusty’s anger, and there was a touch of red on her cheeks. Her fingers tapped against the bottom of her water-filled wine glass, as if she was trying to distract herself. I knew that she was mortified and didn’t want to look up.
“Gabs?” I tried to keep my tone soft but hoped she could hear me above the rest of the chaos erupting around us.
Dusty leaned forward, eyes narrowed at me. “Worry about your own fuckin’ girlfriend.”
“Fuck off.” I matched his threatening tone, ignoring the hatred sparking in his eyes. “Gabby, look at me.” Warm eyes sought mine across the table. “Are you okay?”
“She’s right.” Gabby swallowed roughly, tears filling her eyes. “Bree’s right, Dec.”
What? My mind went in a thousand different directions, trying to figure out what in the hell she was talking about. I didn’t care where we were or who heard it, as long as Gabby did. “No, she’s not.”
Dustin stood, dragging her roughly to her feet before I could ask what Gabby felt Bree was right about. I shot up, hands fisting at my side. When Dusty’s hand wrapped around her upper arm, making her flinch, I thought about lunging over the table to get to them. I’d break his fucking hand in front of everyone.
Gabby shook her head at me frantically, as if she knew what I wanted to do. My brother moved, pulling her backward, putting more distance between her and me. No way in hell was I letting that asshole leave with her. I jerked to the side, intending to cut them off by the door.
Until my father stepped in front of me. “Kitchen. Now.”
My teeth ground—from frustration or anger, I wasn’t sure. “Not without Gabby.”
Dad leaned in close so only I could hear. “What’s he going to do to her here? In front of everyone? I’ll take care of him next.”
My father shoved me into the kitchen and reamed me a new asshole, spewing shit about how I owed my sister and Ezra apologies. I felt like a shit-bag for helping ruin Fi’s night, but I vowed to make it up to her before the wedding.
I hurried back into the dining room and found Fi sobbing in the corner. Not seeing Ezra or his family, I assumed they’d left, and guilt hit me hard.
Until she saw Dad and me coming and shook her head. “He took her, Daddy!” Fi swiped at her cheeks. “He’s really angry. You need to find them.”
I’d seen my father angry, I’d seen him happy, and everything in between to the extreme. The look of panic and dread that crossed his face was not one I could recall seeing before. My dad didn’t usually worry because he was the one everyone feared. But right then, he was scared. I shrank backward when he turned murderous eyes on me.
“I’ll find her.” It felt as if he was speaking to just me, promising me, before he slammed out the door.
My father always kept his word. This time, I didn’t believe him.
Chapter Seventeen
Gabby
I stood in the dark, staring out the window into my front yard, long after Zahira had tired and wandered off. I couldn’t move. Fear had paralyzed me. So I stood there, sliding the mother pendant I wore around my neck back and forth on its chain.
There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have been a shaking bundle of nerves after a scare like this.
Now, I stood here, strategizing.
I didn’t have many weapons in the house, but I was prepared. Declan had gotten me a gun after the police seized his. I kept it carefully hidden, taped to the underside of the drawer in my nightstand. I’d never had to pull it out, and I hoped I never would.
It was the other things, hiding in plain sight, that I wouldn’t hesitate to use. To a normal person, they were just things I had left lying around. To me, they were my lifeline. And right then, doing a mental walkthrough was all that was keeping me sane.
Hanging on the wall next to the back door was an old-fashioned baseball holder that had been my father’s. It had a cute saying on it, and a place for a ball and bat. Everyone complimented me on it. However, it wasn’t there for decoration. It held an antique wooden bat that when used to strike someone would cause serious damage.
On the other side of the kitchen, in the small space between the door and the counter, sat a fire extinguisher. Sure, it was there in case we needed it, but it had been left there with intruders in mind. Easy to grab, it could be used to hit someone or, better yet, spray in their eyes. Or spray in the face then hit them. Either way, it would give Grady and me a few extra minutes.
In the living room was the iron fire poker. We didn’t have wood fires that often, but intruders wouldn’t know that. That thing was the trifecta: long, heavy, and sharp. It could do some real damage.
I also kept the propane-powered torch on the mantel. How else was this city girl supposed to start fires? Of course, the real purpose was something much more gruesome. Everyone was afraid of fire, and that thing would light anything up.
In the bathroom was a spray bottle of bleach on the sink. Grady thought I used it simply to clean, yet I made sure it was full all the time. There was also a container of ammonia under the sink. If I had to, I could drop the two of them into the mop bucket faster than you could say toxic chemicals.
Next to the front door was a little table where I dropped my keys into a bowl. The only other thing ever left on the table was a can of wasp spray. It had a spray range of ten to twenty feet and could be fatal if ingested. I’d aim for the eyes because it’s hard to run after your victim when you’re blind.
On the front porch, between the wicker chairs, sat a basket full of gardening tools. They weren’t the ones that I used in the backyard. No, these were the ones that looked as though they’d been carelessly forgotten and would be overlooked. The cultivator could cause some damage, as could the pruners.
I sighed, thinking about how crazy I sounded. Maybe not crazy, but definitely paranoid. But I’d lived through hell once, and I’d put up one hell of a fight against anyone who tried to drag me back.
There was a time I hadn’t known how to fight back.
The wooden chair flew across the room and into the wall, making my head snap up. Dustin gave no further warning as he barreled across the room, grabbed me by the neck, and shoved me into the wall. My hands flew to his, trying to claw my way to freedom, as my feet scrambled to touch the floor and give myself some leverage.
“What did you just say?” He leaned in close, spitting the words in my face.
I shook my head, not understanding. What had I just said? I couldn’t remember. The edges of my vision got cloudy as he squeezed tighter.
Then he dropped me.
I couldn’t even catch myself. Instead of landing on my feet, I fell into a pile on the floor. I could smell the dinner I’d been cooking, now boiling over, and the idea of a ruined meal made me sad. I’d spent hours preparing one of his favorite dishes.
One more thing he’d be angry about.
Dustin reached down, screaming something I didn’t hear, and yanked me to my feet so hard my shoulder burned. He grabbed my hair hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, pulling my head back so I had to look at him. I blinked, trying to focus.
His eyes were narrowed at me, hate clear. Just this morning, those beautiful browns had been full of laughter and warmth. What had happened in a few short hours? What had I done?
His mouth was moving, spewing angry insults that I didn’t try to follow. I’d stopped months ago, not long after I moved in. It was the same every time, so why listen?
I hadn’t wa
nted to stay in Watertown. I’d wanted to follow Declan to Boston, to get away. But I’d believed Dustin when he told me he couldn’t live without me, and he wouldn’t let me live without him.
The day I got my acceptance to Boston University, he held a gun to my head, telling me that if I planned to leave, he’d pull the trigger then kill himself, because he loved me that much. I swore to him I would never leave him, and things had been good for a while. Then in a blink of an eye, it all went to shit.
This was my norm now.
He punched me then. The sharp stabbing pain stole all my breath, and I would have bent over if he hadn’t held me upright.
“Why do you make me hurt you?”
It was a question he asked me often, one I didn’t have an answer to. He didn’t give me time to answer this time, and rained down hit after hit. Never on the face, because then someone would see it. Everywhere else was fair game though. Because the bastard knew I’d cover up my shame.
I’d left a knife on the counter. A large chef’s knife that I had been using to chop veggies. My eyes zeroed in on it as Dustin showered me with angry words and painful blows. It would be so easy to wrap my fingers around the handle and bury the blade in him.
They’d take me to jail, if he didn’t kill me, and this nightmare would be over.
I could almost see myself doing it, the play-by-play running through my mind. Before I could act out my demented fantasy, Dustin followed my eyes. He grabbed the knife and held it between us.
“What are you planning on doing with this?” he said, almost laughing as he twisted it and turned it, watching the glint of the light on the blade as if it had hypnotized him.
He dropped it back on the counter just as quickly as he had snatched it and reached behind him, yanking out a gun. I flinched, expecting the worst. Instead, he shoved it into my hands.
“You wanna hurt me?” he asked in a tone I’d never heard. “Go on, do it!” He lifted my shaking hands, pushing the barrel into his chest. “Pull the fucking trigger, Gabby. Do us both a goddamned favor!”
I shook my head, trying to pull my hands away, but he held them tight. I could never hurt him. As much as he hurt me, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t fight back—I didn’t have it in me.
“You’re so fucking weak,” he hissed as he dropped my hands. “You disgust me.” He turned away and glanced over his shoulder. “Get cleaned up and finish dinner.”
I shook my head, saddened by the girl I used to be. If you had asked her, Dustin could have been saved. He was worth saving. That was before though. Before the drugs, before he double-crossed his family, before he let Mark in.
That time was gone. I had spent hours at self-defense classes, studied one-on-one with trainers, learned how to hold and fire a gun properly, and I wasn’t going down without a fight. I wouldn’t let anyone get to Grady as long as I was alive. If Mark came here, this time, I would fight back.
Mentally walking through my hidden safety nets one more time, I nodded. Satisfied that I was prepared in case trouble came knocking, I went in search of my cell phone. Finally finding it hidden in the bottom of my purse, I wandered into the living room, plugged it in, and dialed Fi.
When the call went straight to voicemail, I hung up and dialed again. The second time, I tried to push down my disappointment and left a message. Fear threatened to creep into my mind; a million different scenarios, none of them good, started to play out. I resisted the urge to run out to my car and drive straight to Fiona’s.
Convincing myself that the reason she wasn’t answering was probably something very simple, I forced myself to stay put. This was Grady’s last night with his aunt. I couldn’t ruin it. Instead, I sat in the silence in the dark, waiting.
Chapter Eighteen
Declan
I inhaled sharply, trying to force the memories from that night out of my head. The woman next to me moved slightly, laying her fingers on my shoulder. She was probably reliving that night too, which only infuriated me more.
I jerked away, desperate to get away from her. “You’re right. That was the night I realized what a hateful bitch you really are.”
She didn’t even attempt to act offended. Instead, she shook her head sadly. “Declan.”
“You let him leave with her. Knowing how angry he was, knowing what a douche he was. You fucking let them leave.”
Moira’s eyes narrowed, anger taking over. “He was a grown man. What was I supposed to do?”
“A grown man with a sixteen-year-old girlfriend,” I snapped. “He beat the shit out of her.”
Moira’s nostrils flared. “That is not my fault.”
“No?” I stepped closer and leaned down into her face, not missing the way her eyes widened in surprise or the truly terrified look that crossed her features. “You going to take Dustin’s side again, Ma? You going to argue that Gabby knew what she was getting into? Or are you going to say she brought it on herself?”
Her hand connected with my cheek, leaving a trail of stinging flesh. She looked horrified, yet I only laughed.
“That all you got?” I asked.
“You think I wanted her with him?”
I hadn’t seen Moira’s mask drop in years—hell, I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw her react honestly. Not even when Dusty died. It was gone now though. I couldn’t read her face, but there was nothing but unfiltered, raw emotion in it.
“Her? Of all the girls in Watertown, the two of you had to fall in love with Graham Forte’s daughter.” She turned her back to me, and the tumbler that held her drink went flying through the air and smashed somewhere on the other side of the room.
“What does Gabby’s dad have to do with anything?”
Moira laughed bitterly as she whirled around, stabbing me with her hazel eyes. “Did Gabby never tell you?”
Worry tickled the back of my mind, and I knew I wouldn’t like whatever was coming.
“In all that research you did, all the watching from prison, you never discovered the link?”
I didn’t have a chance to ask her how in the hell she knew anything about what I’d done in prison, or even form a reply to her taunts, before she was striding back toward the bar and answering my unasked questions.
“Graham and your father were best friends. The kind that you read stories about. Colin treated him better than he ever treated Logan. They were that close.” She pulled the cap off the whiskey bottle, filled up a glass, and downed almost the entire thing before continuing. “Your father loved Graham.” She braced her hands on the counter. “And Graham loved me.”
“What?” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Don’t look at me like that!” She poured herself another drink but didn’t lift it to her lips. “I said he loved me. The feeling was not mutual.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust, as if the idea of caring about Graham was disgusting. “He was just a clueless kid with no big dreams, no future plans. Not like your father. The day your father told him we were getting married, Graham decided to tell Colin how he felt. The bastard almost cost me everything.” The hatred in her voice shouldn’t have surprised me, yet it did.
“Colin would rather have cut off his leg than betray that man. If Graham had asked him to, your father would have turned his back on me.” She tipped her head back, downing the whiskey. “If I hadn’t been pregnant with Fiona, I think Colin would have left me anyway.”
“You got your rich prince, Mother,” I pointed out, sarcasm filling my tone. “What does any of that have to do with Gabby?”
“He blamed me!” Her abrupt shout startled me. “There wasn’t a day that went by that Colin didn’t blame me.”
I wasn’t following her insane ramblings, and I was getting frustrated from trying to. “Blamed you for what?”
“Graham’s death.”
Gabby’s father had died in prison; I knew that much. She’d tearfully told me one night before I went away—because she couldn’t handle the idea that the same thing would happen to me. I’d though
t of that conversation more than once while I’d been locked inside, determined to get out alive.
“Graham didn’t stay in Maine, where your father could protect him. He said seeing us together was too much, and he moved away, knocked up some whore, and got into trouble. Colin did what he could, gave him work, but Graham never stayed straight for long. Then he went to prison, and it all fell to shit.” She licked her bottom lip, avoiding eye contact. “After he was murdered—”
“Wait.” I held up a hand, stopping her. “Murdered? Graham was in prison when he died.”
“He was.” She nodded. “Your uncle Logan called in the hit.”
“Wha—” My mouth fell open as I stared at her. Either she had finally gone batshit crazy, or I’d stumbled into Callaghan Family Secrets 101. “What the fuck?” I crossed my arms, staring at her. There was more to this, and I knew I wouldn’t like what I heard. “Why in the hell would he do that?”
She finally looked up, her mask was firmly back in place. “That’s not important.”
“The hell it isn’t!”
“There was a misunderstanding.” She never took her eyes off mine, trying to intimidate me. “All that matters is that your father blamed me.”
“If Dad blamed you, it was your fault.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Maybe not. It doesn’t change the fact that your father became responsible for Gabby that day. And it doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t want that girl anywhere near my children.”
Realization hit me like a ton of bricks. “Is that why you hate her?”
Moira straightened. “I don’t hate Gabriella.”
“You’ve always hated her,” I shot back.
“No.” She shook her head, slamming the tip of her finger on the counter top, emphasizing each point. “No. I hated how your father snuck around, trying to hide her from me. I hated that she was the girl Dustin decided to date. I hated how she used you—”
“Gabby never used me!”
