Page 18 of Forbidden Girl

He’s silent for longer than a beat. My uneasiness swells with every passing millisecond. “Fine. Make sure I never see his face again. And if he causes any trouble?—”

“He won’t.” I hang up without so much as a goodbye.

I turn around to find Ben posted up against a dock piling, arms folded—not impatient, simply waiting for instructions. Or an explanation of what the hell just happened, I’m unsure which. My heart is heavy, and it sinks further into my gut with every step I take toward him. My head dips instinctively. I can’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, man. You’re done working for us.”

“What the shit? Why? Did I do something wrong?”

The bewildered sadness on his face makes him look like a schoolboy anticipating a scolding. I can’t tell him that I’m saving his life. And I can’t tell him that I don’t have the power to do the same for his father. I could drop to my knees and beg at my dad’s feet, my face soaked with tears, but he wouldn’t be moved. A second who is disloyal to their first has no hope of salvation. Alistair knew that and he did it anyway. I take his hand, pull him to his feet and into a hug. In his ear, I say, “Ben, you’re like a brother to me, so I’m forcing you out. Find a legit job behind a fucking desk or something, okay?”

He steps out of the embrace and looks at me for the longest while, trying and failing to suss something out. I’m careful to keep my face stony, give nothing away. “Yeah, okay,” he says, suspicious. “Maybe I’ll take a trip first. I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”

I guess he’s not such a buffoon after all. “Excellent idea. But you’ll need to get a goddamn bank account before you can book anything, Mr. Always Pays with Cash.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mom.”

NINE

JULES

My dad is sitting in his raggedy green leather recliner in the living room, reading an actual printed newspaper like the utter Boomer he is. I’m on the love seat opposite him, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, happy to not be the focus of his attention for as long as I can manage. His trust in me is at an all-time low, as it should be. I’m keeping a sizable secret and I’ve been doing a lot of lying as of late to keep it. I wonder what the equivalency is: How many of the small white lies I’ve told throughout my life will it take to match one lie about the 5’7” gorgeous brunette mortal enemy I’m crazy about? And how long will it take for karma to catch up to me?

The front door flies open so hard that it smashes against the wall. If the glass weren’t double-paned, it would have shattered. “Slow—ow, fuck!”

My father bounds from his chair and the newspaper floats to the floor. I follow him into the foyer. First, I notice the blood trail, a stark contrast of red against the white tiles, like a diseased little river carving through snow-covered land. Then I see Gino, with a pale hand wrapped around his gushing right thigh and the other arm slung around Teague, the only thing keeping him upright. My father doesn’t get the chance to ask what happened; Teague spits, “The Monaghan bitch shot him!”

Oh, hey there, karma. Didn’t take you very long. That is the last coherent thought I have. I know what I should do—help. Control the bleeding, call for an ambulance. But it’s Gino, Teague’s oldest friend, and thereby one of mine, too. Gino, who’s a few years older than me, but whose shoes I always had to tie as a kid, who always covered his eyes at the scary parts of horror films, who used to chase the ice cream truck for Batman popsicles. Gino, who even as an adult greets me with unfunny knock-knock jokes, who wrangles Teague for me when he’s around and sees I need a break from being Juliet Calloway.

Do something. Before I can act, I watch my father hurry through the archway into the dining room. He jerks a chair from its neat spot tucked beneath the table. “Sit him down.” Teague helps Gino hobble over to the seat, and Gino collapses into it. “Go get a towel from the bathroom,” my father commands Teague. I have never witnessed my cousin move so fast. He’s back with a gray monogrammed guest towel faster than I can say “gray monogrammed guest towel.”

My father tells Gino to, “Let go.” Gino looks at him, confused. Once the directive clicks in his brain, he removes his hands from the wound. The blood flow increases. My dad ties the towel into a makeshift tourniquet. The silver C turns burgundy. In any other household I could pretend it was wine. Not here. This is not the first time the Calloway home has been turned into a bloody crime scene. I doubt it will be the last.

Gino’s skin is pasty and he’s sweating profusely. He might pass out at any moment. I’m no healthcare professional, but it doesn’t take a doctor to tell he has one foot in God’s waiting room. “He’s lost a lot of blood.” I bring up my phone’s dial pad. “I’m calling 911.”

“Do it,” my father replies, his blood-stained hands shaking as Gino slumps against the chairback.

The call connects. The operator asks, “What is your emergency?” and I tell her in no uncertain terms I am watching a man die in real time from a gunshot wound that seems dangerously close to the femoral artery. She hurries through all the standard questions, double-checks the address, and dispatches an ambulance. I end the call.

I lock eyes with my cousin and realize he’s shaking like my father, but not out of fear that Gino is about to expire—out of rage that Rowan may have stamped his best-by date. Defuse him. “I think this is the part where you tell us what happened, Teague.”

He seeks permission from my father, who grants it with a nod. The story he recounts is asinine. I cannot fathom how Patrick Calloway, Criminal Mastermind, could be so incredibly stupid. And reckless. And outright warmongering. “I swear I’m going to kill her,” Teague adds. He has a fire in his eyes. I know that expression. He means it.

Being hit hard by the initial shock of something is one thing, but panic is something else. It’s not something I do. I’m a numbers person. I stay collected, level-headed in moments when others find it impossible to be. I see situations, calculate odds, and figure out how to twist them to my advantage. But in this moment, both logic and my talent for manipulation fail me. All I have is panic, because all I can picture is losing Rowan… In the ghastliest, most barbaric way possible—piece by piece. Fingers being mailed to her father. Her ears, tongue. Teague jokes that the T in his name stands for torture. I happen to know it’s not a joke.

“So, let me get this straight. Dad, you sent these two miscreants to steal from the Monaghans, in the clear light of day on property they own, and now you”—I point at Teague—“have the audacity to blame Rowan Monaghan for protecting her family’s assets, property and people. Is that right?”

Both men stare at me, agape. This is not a version of me either of them has ever seen. Take a good look, this is the Juliet you’ve created. “Were you sending out an open declaration of war? What good did you think would come of this? Or did either of you think at all? Jesus Christ, thank God Mom isn’t here, she’d be packing her bags!”

I have nothing left to say, and am uninterested in whatever retort either of them has to offer. I’m thankful for the blaring sirens of the ambulance. They grow louder as it approaches, until finally they go dead silent. Two paramedics charge in through the open front door, one with a large, bright yellow trauma bag in tow, and get to work on Gino. The taller, dark-haired man takes his blood pressure, while the shorter of the pair undoes the towel and examines the wound. I can tell by their expressions that Gino’s situation is dire. Paramedic number two makes a splint above the wound to curb the blood flow. Paramedic number one asks my father questions. He’s unhelpful throughout, answering with a steady stream of, “I’m not sure. I can’t say. I don’t know.” I know better than to jump in and answer with the truth, but I have to force myself to keep it in. My dad’s lies are never white, or even gray; they’re black as death.

Once they’ve heard enough, they leave to retrieve a gurney, return and load Gino onto it with a synchronized three-count: “One, two, three.” For some reason the taller paramedic speaks to me on their way out. “We’re taking him to Mass General.” He combs over my father and cousin. “In case someone wants to follow us.”

“Thank you. I’ll let his family know where he is.”

I follow them out. They lift Gino into the ambulance, slam the doors, and start on their way. I watch from the doorway as the flashing red and blue lights disappear into the distance. When they’re out of sight I head back inside and close the door behind me. Teague looks like he has something to say, but I speak first. “Save it. I don’t care. If he dies, that’s not just on Rowan, it’s on you, too. Both of you. Now which one of you wants to call his mom? That’s not my job and I won’t be doing it.”

“I will,” my father says. “Will you help Teague get this place cleaned up?”

“No. It’s his mess; he can clean it. I’m going to my room.”

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