Sparrow

  “Uhm, let’s see. Maybe because my dad was a drunk and my mom was a hippie, and together, they came up with really stupid name ideas?” I tried disguising my embarrassment with laughter.

  Inside, though, my stomach twisted in tight knots. Everyone around me called me Birdie, with Troy calling me Red. No one called me Sparrow for a reason. It was an awkward name and I hated it. I tossed my hair back, faking boredom. “Anyway, I wonder about the bigger stuff, like why the hell my mom left me, not why she saddled me with a name that’s basically an invitation for bullying.”

  “You hate your name,” he said.

  I twisted out of his embrace, feeling my face heating. Peeling off layers was hard. Not only for Troy, but for me, too.

  “Aren’t you clever.” I took a long sip of my drink.

  He scooped me into a bear hug again, locking me in his arms. His lips grinned against my skin.

  Did he find me adorable?

  “You shouldn’t hate it, it’s perfect for you. It symbolizes freedom and independence. You’re both.”

  “I’m not free,” I reminded him.

  He rolled on top of me, straddling me with his muscular thighs. I lay beneath him, admiring his strong body and knowing, deep down, that I’d gotten comfortable in my cage.

  “No, not from me,” he agreed. “But trust me, lovebird. Even if I let you out of this cage, you’d be flying back in no time.”

  It was true, but that was exactly what worried me.

  We spent more time making out on the carpet like two teenagers, before he got to his feet and disappeared into his office. He came back with a small box. Simple, light green. The kind you can get at the dollar store. He kneeled down to where I sat on the carpet and placed it in my hand.

  “I’ve been studying you for a while now,” he said. “Every day is a class day, each conversation is homework, and I think I know by now what I would have picked if we had known each other before we got married.”

  My heart fluttered in my chest, my pulse picking up speed. It was a moment of true, raw happiness, and it scared me beyond repair. I knew a long time, maybe even forever, would pass before I’d have this kind of moment again.

  I opened the box, a part of me still scared I’d find something offensive. Last time he gave me a gift, on our wedding day, I almost threw up yesterday’s lunch on his lap. In the box sat a ring. It was very different from my engagement ring—monstrous, attention-seeking bling. No. This was a simple red ruby. It looked like a drop of fresh blood. Basic, beautiful, special and original. More than anything, it was very, very red.

  It dawned on me that the ring was exactly how he saw me. This was Troy’s version of trying, and he was doing it for me. This was him being thoughtful. I looked up, a mischievous grin on my face.

  “My original engagement ring has a diamond the size of the moon. Some would call this a downgrade.”

  “Trust me, it’s an upgrade.” He took the ring and slid it on my finger, brushing his thumb over it. “Besides, the diamond in your first one ain’t real.”

  My grin collapsed into a startled oh.

  He laughed. “I’m kidding, kiddo.”

  When the evening rolled into night, we took things to bed, and I writhed beneath him, screamed his name, just like he told me I would on our wedding night. Arcade Fire’s “Rebellion” played from the stereo, and the irony wasn’t lost on me.

  I was in love with a murderer who didn’t love me back, who never explained why he took me for his wife. It wasn’t fine, wasn’t okay, but it was the ugly, embarrassing, uncomfortable truth.

  Considering how fucked up my truth was, I began to understand why Troy gave me something far more convenient and beautiful.

  He gave me lies, and I ate them from the palm of his hand.

  He gave me lies, and for him, I closed my eyes.

  SPARROW

  I TOOK A LITTLE break to watch the birds overhead as they migrated out of my rainy city.

  That was my first mistake.

  I only paused for a second, and it was a second too long, because as I plucked out my earbuds, “Monster” by The Automatic playing, to watch the birds flee from the rain, my fate was sealed.

  I smiled to myself when I thought about how, for the first time since I was probably born, I wanted to stay put and not take flight.

  My happiness cracked, collapsing into a frown, when I spotted him. Brock stood in front of me, blocking my way on the narrow pavement between the tall red-brick buildings.

  This time I was scared. It started to look less and less like a coincidence and more like the stuff Fatal Attraction was made of. Boston was not that small, and he’d shown up where I was four times.

  It was almost like Brock knew where I’d be. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was all too eager to follow Troy’s suggestion—okay, order—and keep my distance from the guy. He leaned against a lamppost, one foot bent, as he puffed on a cigarette. When he saw me, he pushed off the lamppost, his face cracking into a smile.

  “Oh, hey,” he said through an exhale. I twisted back to where I came from, trying to resume my run, but he grabbed my arm, his voice still easy. “I need to talk to you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said, “unless it’s work-related.”

  Things at Rouge Bis weren’t going as planned. Pierre still hated my guts, no matter how hard I tried, and Brock still tried to get close to me. Still, I knew they wouldn’t fire me, though a small part of me wanted out of the place just so I could look for something better.

  Brock tucked his free hand into his heavy wool jacket. “It’s about your husband.”

  “No,” I stated, scowling. Why was it that every time Brock talked about Troy, I felt like my heartbeat slow and my breathing got more shallow?

  Because I knew that he knew. Knew whatever it was that I didn’t about why he’d married me.

  I reached for my phone inside my hoodie pocket with every intention of calling Troy, but he yanked it from my hand and tossed it into an open dumpster. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets, and I felt the blood draining from my face.

  “What the hell?” I roared.

  He didn’t answer, but his face changed. He looked seriously and royally pissed. He pulled me into his body, my chest bumping into his. No more easy and cutesy for Brock, I gathered. He was done playing nice with me.

  “Come with me,” he growled.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, asshole.” And then I felt it. He shoved the barrel of a gun deep into my stomach, so hard I was sure it’d leave a mark. But my fear numbed my pain.

  “My car’s down the street. Be quiet, and don’t make me hurt you more than necessary.”

  Shit. Even his accent changed. Suddenly, he sounded local. He sounded…Boston?

  I looked around me, frantically trying to spot someone on the street, but there wasn’t a soul within earshot. My fault for running every morning right before dawn. I hadn’t seen anyone else for at least ten minutes, and then it was a woman walking her dog in the opposite direction.

  I was alone. No, worse—I was with Brock.

  “Brock, please.” I wasn’t sure what I was asking. Was I asking for him to let me go? Fat chance, considering the fact he’d just thrust a gun in my side.

  He spun me in the opposite direction and led me to his car, prodding me along with the gun. I felt his breath on the nape of my back, and it sent a shudder down my spine. My mouth was dry, and I fought not to panic.

  “Get in the passenger seat,” he said from behind me. He swung the door to his Audi open.

  I did as I was told.

  He walked briskly to his side of the car and buckled up, his fingers still wrapped around his gun. “See? Now we’re on the same page. It’s a shame you needed that little push in the first place, Sparrow. Men don’t normally dig difficult women.”

  I didn’t answer, staring at the gun like Brock’s voice came from its barrel.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He smirked, admiring his weapon as he h
eld it up and turned it right and left for me to see. “I love how it feels in my hand. Like the world is in my palm. Powerful shit, huh?”

  But not as powerful as my husband, I wanted to bark back.

  “Hands all the way up, sweetheart.” Brock pointed the pistol at me, nudging it in my direction. I wanted to protest but then he pressed the cold barrel to my temple, the steel digging into my flesh.

  “Jesus, okay.” I lifted my hands up slowly.

  Brock leaned into my space, opened the glove compartment, took out a syringe with his free hand, bit off the cap with his teeth and slammed the needle hard into my thigh. I screamed, reaching for his hand, but he smacked my arm with the gun. Then he did it again with my other leg.

  I stared in horror at the needles sticking out of both thighs. “What the hell did you do to me?”

  He waved me off, tucking his gun between his thighs. The fact that he was less guarded now frightened me even more.

  “A small dose of anesthesia.” He kneaded the area around the needles. “You have to make sure it distributes well. It will keep your legs numb during the ride. Don’t want you trying to hop out and run. When Connor picked up his last check, he mentioned your little stunt with him. I thought it best to be prepared. But don’t worry, you’ll be completely alert.”

  He started the car, one hand on the wheel and the other squeezing my leg. “Get comfortable, we’ll be driving for a while.”

  We left the city, taking side streets, and soon enough the car rolled onto a deserted two-lane road, heading west. With every mile and minute away from Boston, I became more and more paralyzed, and not just from the dead weight of my legs.

  Why did I get out of bed so early? Why did I insist on jogging at unreasonable hours? Why did I always take the small, empty pavements, searching for those hidden Boston gems, the places no one knew or walked in? Why had I insisted on getting rid of my bodyguard? Why do I never carry mace on something else that could scare away potential attackers?

  Why? Why? Why?

  I was in trouble. Something that was much bigger than marrying the wrong person or being left by your stupid parent or a drunk dad. Brock might be crazy, perhaps even the psychopath I ironically believed my own husband to be, but he wasn’t stupid. If Troy found out he’d kidnapped me, he was a dead man.

  Which meant Brock couldn’t let Troy find out. Whatever else Brock had planned for me, I wouldn’t be making the drive back to Boston with him.

  Still, it was worth reminding him of the consequences, in case Brock had second thoughts.

  “You can still take me back, you know,” I said, staring ahead at the front window. I couldn’t feel my legs at all at this point. My mind, though, was as sharp as ever—and I wish it wasn’t, because knowing what was about to happen was nothing short of devastating.

  We were driving deep into the woods, dim morning light filtering through the tall pine trees. I was so far from crowded, hectic Boston, it almost felt like I was on another planet. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. Troy won’t stop looking for me. Once he finds me, he’ll kill you.”

  Brock just stared ahead too, smiling and rubbing his stubble with the gun.

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  TROY

  PATRICK ROWAN WAS dead.

  It was my duty—and pleasure—to pay him a final visit and attend his mass. Paddy was being buried in Weymouth, where he was born and raised, just outside the city. His body had been flown in from Miami. Jensen had alerted me yesterday.

  The funeral had attracted all kinds of old-schoolers. People my father and Rowan left behind, survivors of the chaotic mess they created with their own hands. Abe Raynes was there, looking high as a kite and just as incapable of forming a sentence as he usually was. He was deteriorating, despite the extra cash I’d streamed into his bank account since I married Sparrow.

  I exchanged a brief hello with him, and only because I thought highly of his daughter.

  Ignoring the other mourners, I walked straight to Rowan’s open casket, peeking inside to make sure the fucker was really dead. A part of me wanted Red to see this, but I knew I needed to shield her from that sort of shit. It wouldn’t do her any good, anyway. She wasn’t a monster like us, wasn’t high on revenge and drunk on power like we were. She was strong, but also innocent. And she wasn’t for me to corrupt.

  I, however, planned to enjoy the event to its fullest.

  I took a seat in the first row, next to two elderly men I didn’t recognize. I glanced sideways, scanning them. From their attire, mannerisms and the faint scent of mothballs, I gathered the geezers were not ex-mob. They were ancient looking, with snow-white hair and gray flannel suits, and although probably Irish, they didn’t mix with the rest. Outsiders.

  Good. I wasn’t in the mood to suffer the usual crowd.

  The priest started talking and I tuned him out. Tara and her mother, the only relatives Paddy had left, sat on the other side of the church. Tara cried and sniffed, clutching torn, damp pieces of tissue in her fist, and although I felt a little sorry for her loss, knowing she’d inherit nothing from her deadbeat dad, I stood my ground. Sparrow deserved whatever Paddy had more than she did. It wasn’t Tara he had hurt.

  As soon as the service started, I found out exactly why the spot I chose in the front pew was empty in the first place. The men beside me were gossiping like fucking teenage girls. They were at it in full force, ignoring the priest and everyone else. Sounded like they were doing an inventory of who was there and who wasn’t, and even though I didn’t want to, I pretty much had to eavesdrop. Not that it was really eavesdropping when their voices could carry all the way to Cape Cod.

  “Who else hasn’t shown up?” One of the men clucked his tongue.

  “Ah, the old wife, Shona. The one he married in the nineties. She ain’t here either.”

  “I’m not surprised. Paddy gave her hell.”

  “That, he did.”

  “And the Kavanagh kid, surprised he’s not here.”

  “I think his name is Greystone now. He changed it after his da died. I would, too, after what happened to him.”

  “David Kavanagh brought shame to his family. Killed by a drug dealer.”

  “Greystone,” the old man continued, ignoring his friend. “Should be here. Paddy was his godfather, after all. He should show some respect.”

  “The Kavanagh kid’s living in Boston now, you know. Moved back five, six years ago, I think. I saw him hanging around his da’s favorite bar a couple of times. Makes you wonder why Kavanagh didn’t show up when he lives just down the road.”

  “I told you his name’s Greystone.”

  The old geezers were rambling, the thread of the conversation tough to follow, but I’d caught one thing. How many Greystones were there in the world, and even more importantly, Greystones who had moved to Boston five or six years ago?

  Kavanagh. Greystone.

  Kavanagh.

  Greystone.

  Brought shame to his family…living in Boston now…Paddy was the kid’s godfather…Kavanagh.

  David Kavanagh.

  Who was David Kavanagh? I tried to remember. The name sounded familiar, like a childhood lullaby I hadn’t heard in years but could still hum.

  David Kavanagh. Who the fuck are you, David Kavanagh?

  Then it hit me.

  David Kavanagh. A beating gone bad. It had happened nine years ago, when the mobsters of America realized how poorly regulated the recycling industry was and cashed in big while going green. Cillian had Kavanagh roughed up after he tried to steal a shit-ton of recycled pipe and copper wire. Kavanagh got caught, pulled a knife instead of taking his medicine and ended up dead. There was blood. Everywhere.

  Cleaning up the mess was one of my earliest jobs as The Fixer. I’d staged a drug deal, dumping the body in an alley with Kavanagh’s knife, proud I’d handled things so neatly for my father.

  David Kavanagh. Fuck, fuck. David fucking Kavanagh.

  Trying not to let paran
oia get the better of me, I eased back into the pew, but it was too late. I was all fucking ears, dying to hear what they’d say next.

  One of the white-haired men nodded, spitting more info and a little saliva on the burgundy carpet.

  “Brock,” he said with conviction. “Brock was the kid’s name. Nice boyo. I think he’s married now.”

  My hand snaked to my breast pocket. I clutched the yellow slip of paper. All the pieces fell together. A moment of clarity washed over me, and I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Brock had a motive, and access.

  Fuck.

  Paddy was Brock’s godfather. Of course he fucking was. That’s why Paddy knew about Red’s mom. Why he knew about the arrangement, about the marriage, about everything.

  Jesus fuck.

  And Brock? He’d reinvented himself as Greystone, even dropping a fucking clue by adopting a last name that was a little morbid and a lot angry. As a rehab counselor turned restaurant manager. As the good guy.

  He knew I’d keep an eye on him if I realized who he was, that I would never have given him a job. My mercy, hospitability and love for Catalina had some hard limits, even back then. Shit, if I’d known Brock was Kavanagh’s son, I’d have sent him back where he came from. His dad was no innocent victim. He sold us stuff, stole our stuff. Ratted on us. He did a lot of damage, was responsible for the loss of a couple of lives, too.

  Brock Greystone was not a Greystone, and he wasn’t a West Coast outsider either. He was David Kavanagh’s son, one of us. An Irish kid from Boston who pretended to be someone else. He even had that smooth Cali accent to accompany his thick hair and Hollywood smile. No trace of Boston in his voice.

  How could I not have known Brock was one of us?

  I let him into my life without even checking who he was first. My mind was so messed up over losing Cat, over her betrayal, over her pregnancy, and how her baby-daddy needed a job on the East Coast, I got sloppy. Before I knew it, Brock had access to my business, to my secrets, to my father.