Page 48 of Forbidden Girl

“And what’s the security like? Cameras, an alarm system?”

“You know your father doesn’t trust technology. He prefers good old-fashioned manpower. He has two men on guard duty at all times.”

“Hmm.” Two isn’t bad. Men are dumb. I can manage two with a short skirt, a hair flip, and the Clueless Young Woman in Need of Assistance schtick.

“Why the piqued curiosity? You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?”

I most definitely am. I trust my mother implicitly. Still, if she can keep secrets under the guise of protecting me, I can do the same for her. “It’s a lot to piece together, that’s all. I’m having trouble digesting everything. I think it would help if I could see this place.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like Dad’s going to let me go anywhere anytime soon.”

“Not unsupervised.” She’s wearing a conniving expression I know well. She and I share it. How my father remains ignorant to it is unbelievable. “We are going shopping tomorrow. There must be a handful of things you need before going back to school.”

Will my father buy that? We haven’t done back-to-school shopping since freshman year, when they both flew across the country to help me move into the dorms, and then proceeded to buy me an entirely superfluous living room set. “I doubt Dad would let either of us out alone after today.”

“He knows I can handle myself. And I always carry a snub nose revolver in my purse.”

She WHAT? She’s always despised guns as much as I do. My parents have had endless arguments about keeping any in their bedroom. The compromise was a biometric gun safe unlockable by either of them, and only them.

“Okay, I cannot handle any more revelations today.” Actually, there is one more thing I must know. “Is it pink?”

“Absolutely not. It’s Tiffany blue.”

I don’t know why I find that so hilarious, but I’m crowing. “Gives a whole new meaning to Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I wonder how Audrey Hepburn would feel about it.”

“Disapprovingly, I suspect.”

“Okay. ‘Shopping’ tomorrow.”

“Oh no, dear, we will be doing some shopping. We can’t come home without a few big bags or Dad will be suspicious.”

“Fair enough.” And once I’ve staked out the warehouse, I’ll give Rowan a full report. Great. A plan is in motion. That’s something. But without an endgame to focus on, I’m getting slammed with shockwaves from, um, being fucking shot at. I am not okay. How can I be? My mom and Rowan could have died this morning. I could have died this morning. The full weight of that is starting to sink in.

“Can I stay here with you for a bit? I don’t want to be alone.”

She paws at the corner of the duvet and folds it down. “In with you,” she says like she used to when I was young, and she’d tuck me into bed at night. I stuff the debit card into my robe pocket and climb under the covers. She creases them tight around my body, then lies down next to me. She combs her fingers through my hair and starts singing, “Ninna nanna, ninna oh, questo bimbo a chi lo do?”

Memories surge to the forefront of my cognizance: Me at seven, spiking a fever, cranky as a hornet. Me at twelve, cut from the middle-school gymnastics team for being less coordinated than everyone else, and disappointed in myself. Me at sixteen, still closeted and heartbroken over a girl who broke up with me for a football player. This is how my mother calmed me every time.

I close my eyes and lose myself in her airy, ethereal voice.

I wake up alone. Alone alone—I scan the room; my mother is nowhere to be found. I check the time on the analog clock mounted on the wall across from the foot of the bed. It reads 8:15. The soft golden rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains momentarily confuse me. Oh, 8:15 a.m. It’s Sunday morning. I slept for more than sixteen hours. I guess surviving the trauma of gun violence makes one sleepy. Better than the alternative of not surviving it. I wonder how many of my father’s associates, or their innocent bystander family members, were casualties yesterday. Monaghan lost at least one man, I’m certain of it. I had a good view of him as we left the cemetery. Blood seeping from three holes—one in his sternum, two in his abdomen—zero movement, including signs of breathing.

My brain is foggy, zombified from too much rest. I need to chug a carafe of coffee in order to feel remotely human again. I check my robe pocket to ensure my “insurance policy” hasn’t fallen out, then push myself up. My muscles scream at me and I don’t know why they’re as sore as they are. It has to be psychological, there’s no other explanation. It’s not like I ran a marathon. I didn’t even have to run for my life. I was petrified, as in literally scared stiff. And I think Rowan knocked me to the ground? Whatever.

The hallway is quiet. I debate trudging to my room to throw on some clothes, but the way my feet are dragging that isn’t going to happen. Caffeinate first, function like a person later.

I’m halfway down to the first floor when the front door opens. My dad enters and I hold to my steady descent but stop dead upon seeing Teague. His face is monstrous, purple-black and puffy. The left side is worse than the right. My dad told me he needed surgery to repair his broken cheekbone. I wasn’t anticipating this result, however. It’s as though there’s a tiny, angry creature gestating inside the bruised, bulging bag under his eye. Just a few more weeks ’til that baby’s ready to pop out. He’s walking unsteadily, his gait favoring his right leg. Jesus, Rowan legit… Fucked. Him. Up.

I should say something to him. “You look like shit.” That was not the right “something.”

“I feel like shit.” He groans.

Oh, poor baby. Have you chosen violence at every opportunity and those choices have finally caught up with you? “You earned it.”

“I did.”

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