Sacrifice

  “Four walls and a roof, mostly,” she said. But when she walked inside, she realized there really wasn’t much more than that.

  No, that wasn’t true. He had a sofa and a television and a small two-seater kitchen table, but that was pretty much it. The television was tuned to the local news, though it was muted, with closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A heavily made-up anchorwoman spoke animatedly into the camera about a crime in a neighboring community. A fluorescent bulb hung over the kitchen sink, casting the rest of the space into a maze of shadows. No pictures hung on the walls, no books anywhere, no knickknacks.

  Irish noticed her looking around. “I told you there wasn’t much. I haven’t lived here long, so . . ”

  She smiled. “It smells nice, though. Like apples and cinnamon. Baking?”

  “Yeah, right.” He pulled mugs out of a cabinet and gave her a wry glance. “I literally plugged in an air freshener the minute I hung up the phone. How do you take your coffee? And keep in mind that I only have milk and maybe a few Splenda packets if you’re lucky.”

  “Just milk is fine.” She eased into one of the chairs at the table. Almost immediately, something alive wound around her ankles, and she gasped.

  A small, orange tabby cat looked up at her and meowed.

  Irish looked over. “Snap your fingers at him if he’s bothering you. The cat’s on a hair trigger.”

  “He’s not a bother.” She trailed her fingers along the back of the animal’s head and got a prrrrow in response. “What’s his name?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Cat.”

  “Original.”

  “I picked him up as a stray when I lived in Chicago.” Irish picked up the mugs and joined her at the table. “Never got around to naming him. He’s never seemed to mind.”

  “You don’t strike me as a cat person.”

  “I’m not. But sometimes life sends things our way for a reason.”

  She mock gasped. “Did you get that off a fortune cookie?”

  He smiled. “Funny.” He paused and wrapped his hands around his own mug. His expression went serious. “What’s up, Blondie?”

  A hundred things. A thousand. But now that she was sitting here with a—with a what? A friend? It felt like such a foreign concept. But now that she was sitting here with an audience, she couldn’t find the words. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t think you’d be here for nothing.” He paused and turned his mug in circles. Waiting.

  Hannah stared into her coffee, inhaling the familiar scent.

  She had no idea what she was doing here.

  After a moment, she pushed the mug away. “I’m sorry, Irish. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  He put a hand over hers before she could stand up. “Hannah. Stop. You’re not a bother.”

  She stared at his hand where it rested over hers. He had strong hands, warm yet rough from work. It didn’t feel like he was hitting on her. It felt . . . supportive.

  Her eyes lifted to meet his. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  So she did. All of it. Everything her father had said, even the bits about her mother leaving. Everything Michael had said, including the parts that didn’t make sense. Irish was a good listener, and he kept quiet while she talked. He stared at his coffee as if he was taking it all in.

  By the time she finished, the cat was in his lap, and her coffee had gone cold.

  “Wow,” he said. “It has been a long day.”

  “I still can’t believe I woke up in the hospital with Michael this morning. That feels like it happened weeks ago.”

  Irish didn’t say anything, but he was studying her.

  “What?” she said. “If you have any thoughts, feel free to share them, because I’m not sure what to think anymore.”

  He winced. “I don’t want to throw my hat in the ring with the rest of the men trying to control you, but it sounds like both your father and this Michael guy agree on one thing, and maybe you shouldn’t ignore it.”

  “You mean staying away from him?”

  Irish raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, scowling. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to be avoiding each other regardless.”

  Irish tapped his fingers on the table and didn’t say anything.

  “I can feel you thinking,” she said. “Come on, out with it.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It sounds like you’re determined to show them you don’t need them. I don’t know about Michael, but I’m sure your dad knows what you’re capable of.”

  She frowned. “I have a pretty good idea what he thinks I’m capable of.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  This felt painfully personal, but it was easier to share secrets in the shadowed darkness of Irish’s quiet apartment. Her voice dropped. “He’s never forgiven me for having James.”

  “Do you really think that’s true?”

  “I know it’s true. He practically didn’t speak to me for the entire time I was pregnant.” But now that she was saying that, she thought back to the exchange with her father at the police station.

  You’re impossible to talk to.

  I’m not the only one.

  She remembered getting the positive pregnancy test, how she’d cried to her mother for an hour straight. By the time her father had come home, she’d been so ashamed and humiliated that she’d screamed at him and hidden in her bedroom.

  She hadn’t been able to make eye contact with him for weeks.

  Had she started it? Had she been blaming him for something she’d initiated years ago?

  Maybe. But he hadn’t helped.

  Hannah looked up at Irish, and she felt a familiar shame creeping up her cheeks. “I don’t know who James’s father is.” She hesitated. She’d never shared this whole story. Not even with Michael. “When I started high school, my father got super strict. I didn’t mind, really—I’d always done everything my parents expected of me. But it almost wasn’t good enough. He’d grill me on where I was every minute of every day. I’d go to the library after school, and if I wasn’t home exactly when I said I’d be, he’d flip out. Once he sent police officers to a friend’s house to make sure I was really there for a sleepover. Just because I didn’t answer my cell phone. Can you imagine how humiliating that was?”

  Irish smiled. “I don’t need to. My dad was a cop, too. He used to treat my friends as if they were smuggling pot and whiskey into my house. I wouldn’t accept a ride home from anyone because my dad would be standing in the driveway, wanting to smell their breath.”

  Hannah faltered. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” He shrugged. “I think some of it is just being a parent, and some of it is knowing the consequences of poor choices. Well—you know all about that, right? With James?”

  She blinked. James wasn’t old enough for her to humiliate him, but she was more cautious than other parents. She’d seen too many injured children to be otherwise. She never let anyone other than her parents drive him around. Michael and his brothers were the first non-family members she’d ever let babysit. When James was invited for a play date, one of the first questions she asked the other parent was whether they had a gun in their home and how it was secured.

  Irish was right. She knew too much.

  Was that her father’s issue too? Did he know too much?

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” said Irish.

  All of a sudden, she didn’t want to finish. She’d always felt a little self-righteous about this part, but now, in this new light, she felt more foolish.

  She traced a line in the wood of the table. “During my junior year, a friend’s brother was going to a frat party. He invited her. She invited me.” She shrugged a little. “It was your typical college party. Lots of guys, lots of music, lots of alcohol. I snuck out of my room and we went. I was so ready to break free of all those expectations that I just completely le
t loose. I met some guy, one thing led to another, and . . . well, you know.”

  “I can connect the dots.”

  “The party got out of control, and someone must have called the cops. I don’t even know what happened to the guy, but he must have gotten away.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  She gave him a look. “No. I didn’t. And you can guess who was waiting for me when his underage, drunk daughter was dragged into the police station.”

  Irish gave a low whistle. “I bet that was a good time.”

  She scowled. “It sucked. It was humiliating. I would rather have been thrown in jail. I sure as hell didn’t give my dad all the details of what had happened. And what sucked more was that I didn’t give the guy another thought until I peed on a stick six weeks later and came up with two pink lines. By that point, I didn’t even remember his name. My friend’s brother didn’t know who he was. It was this one-time random hookup.”

  “So you think your dad has been blaming you for all this time.”

  “Yeah!”

  He spun his coffee mug on the table again. “You don’t think maybe you’ve been blaming yourself?”

  “Okay, Dr. Freud—”

  “I’m serious, Blondie.” He smiled. “Hannah.” He glanced up at her. “I didn’t even know you had a kid until I showed up at your house. It’s not like you tell everyone about him.”

  She had good reason for that. She was sick of being judged by everyone. “You have no idea what it’s like, Irish.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. I’m sure it was hard as hell being a mother at seventeen.” He hesitated. “But you’re not seventeen anymore.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me to grow up?”

  “No. I’m telling you that you already have grown up.” He paused. “It’s okay to act like it. You don’t need anyone’s approval.”

  Wow.

  She blushed. “Thanks, Irish.”

  He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m glad you joined the station.”

  He made a frustrated noise. “You’re one of the only ones.”

  She remembered the comments she’d overheard. “Are you still getting crap from the other guys?”

  “We’re south of the Mason-Dixon line. I’m sure I’ll still be getting crap in twenty years.” He paused. “It’s not bad. I’ve heard worse. It just makes it hard to cover some guy’s ass when you know what he thinks of you.”

  “Are you going to say something?”

  “I’m going to keep doing my job as well as I can.”

  “But that’s not right, Irish.”

  “I spend a lot of time thinking about right and wrong,” he said. His eyes were very serious. “Sometimes it’s worth losing a few battles to win the war.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “Not maybe. I—” He stopped short and frowned, looking past her. “Look. Is that local?”

  She looked at the television, which was still muted. The reporter was in a box at the upper left, but the majority of the screen showed an aerial shot of a large home on an even larger plot of land.

  Or what used to be a large home. Because the building on the screen had been destroyed. Fires blazed in four areas that she could see. Smoke streamed from the structure, which was surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances.

  Her eyes locked on the closed captioning flashing across the bottom of the screen.

  . . . in Annapolis. First responders have yet to identify any survivors. Local sources estimate that twelve to fourteen teens may be in residence at the group home at any given time—

  Her heart stopped. What had Michael said?

  There’s a part of me that’s relieved that my brothers aren’t here. If no one I know has any idea where they are, they’re safe.

  This couldn’t be a coincidence. Couldn’t be.

  The guy who sent those texts is dead. But I don’t think he’s working alone.

  Shit. She fished her phone out of her pocket and dialed with trembling fingers.

  “What’s wrong?” said Irish. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  She didn’t expect Michael to answer, so she almost dropped the phone when he did.

  His voice came across the line, rough and gravelly. “Hannah. I’m sorry—”

  “No. Michael. Listen to me. I’m not calling about that.” Her voice almost broke as she looked at the screen again. “You need to turn on the news.”

  CHAPTER 27

  They were stopped at the end of the road. The police had set up a barricade. The hell with that. Michael almost shoved Tyler out of the driver’s seat to floor the accelerator.

  He must have actually started trying to do that, because Tyler grabbed his arm. “Hey. Take it easy. I’ll park down the road a bit, okay?”

  Hunter was in the back seat, but he’d come to the edge to peer around them. His breathing was almost as quick as Michael’s. “Do you think they’re here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Michael. After Hannah’s call, he’d stared at the news for a solid minute. His brain hadn’t wanted to process the images or the words—until it all burrowed into his brain with the force of a speeding bullet.

  Another bombing. At a group home for teenagers.

  Guilt and panic had wound through his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else, and they showed no sign of leaving. To think, a few hours ago, he’d been relieved that his brothers had been taken. Relieved. He’d thought this meant safety for his brothers.

  Gabriel had wanted to run from the hospital. Michael had stopped him.

  He hadn’t been able to get out of Tyler’s apartment fast enough. Thank god Tyler had followed him to the parking lot, because it wasn’t until he was out in the cold November air that Michael remembered he had no truck, no way to go anywhere.

  While Tyler drove, Michael had called the social worker. No answer. No surprise, either, considering it was after eleven on a Sunday night.

  Next, he’d called David Forrest, who didn’t have any information, but at least he was awake and concerned and said he’d find out what he could immediately.

  After the bombing at the restaurant, Tyler had been able to deflect some of the fire damage. Did Gabriel have the strength to do the same? Were his brothers hiding here somewhere? Would they have tried to rescue the other residents, or would there not have been time?

  He texted Hannah. She’d have access to a radio, and she’d know what was going on.

  Have they found any survivors?

  Not yet.

  He gritted his teeth and typed another message. His finger shook as he pressed send.

  Have they found any bodies?

  No text came through, but his cell phone rang. Hannah.

  “We’re five minutes away,” she said. It sounded like she was crying. “I’m trying to reach my dad to get more information, okay?”

  “Do you know anything now?” His voice was hollow.

  “They’ve found—” Her voice broke. “They don’t know—Michael, I’m sorry.”

  “What, Hannah?” He had to choke the words out. Her emotion said more than her words did. “What have they found?”

  “No bodies,” she said.

  “No bodies,” he echoed. It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. He felt as if someone else were having this conversation. “Then what?”

  Tyler parked the truck beneath some trees a little way down the road. He killed the engine and didn’t move. Michael held his breath, waiting for Hannah’s answer. Hunter shifted closer, trying to listen.

  Her breathing kept shaking. She was still crying. “Let me find out more, okay? Wait for me to call you back.”

  “No! Hannah! What did they find?”

  She choked on a sob. “Parts, Michael.”

  “Parts?” He couldn’t make sense of the word.

  “From the explosion.” Another hitched breath. “But they don’t know, okay? They haven’t identified anyone. Just wai
t. Wait ’til we get there.”

  Michael couldn’t speak.

  Parts. From the explosion.

  “Thanks,” he said, and again, it was as if someone else were speaking for him, because his thoughts were tied up in panic and rage.

  No wonder the building was still burning. No wonder they hadn’t found any survivors.

  His brothers hadn’t been able to stop it.

  Michael grabbed the door handle, but Tyler hit the locks.

  “Stop,” he said. “Think about what you’re doing. We should have a plan.”

  Michael could barely process that. Smoke was in the air and he needed to get out of this truck. He clawed at the lock as if he’d never seen one before. He needed—

  Tyler grabbed him. “If some Guide blew up this place,” said Tyler, “he might still be here.”

  “Good,” said Michael. The rage he’d felt earlier was nothing compared to this. His power was already reaching for the earth below the truck, ready to lay waste to the entire county if that was what it took. “I’m going to find him and kill him.”

  “Not if I get to him first,” said Hunter. Metal clicked in his hands. Light glinted off his gun.

  “Jesus,” said Tyler. He reached over and unlocked his glove box.

  When he pulled out a gun of his own, Michael turned wide eyes his way. “You had a gun when we faced that guy in the woods?”

  “I didn’t have it on me. I didn’t think I’d need to be armed to board up your front windows.”

  Michael’s cell phone chimed, and he pulled it out of his pocket, expecting a text from Hannah. His heart leapt, hoping for good news.

  But this text wasn’t from Hannah. It was from a new unknown number.

  Did you honestly think I was working alone?

  Michael didn’t hesitate. He typed back.

  I’m going to find you and kill you.

  The response appeared almost immediately.

  Go ahead and try. Save me some time.