Page 58 of Forbidden Girl

“You found the right number?”

“Yeah. The ATF has an anonymous tip line.”

The ATF is comprised almost exclusively of ignoramuses. Federal agencies take longer to get anything done than it did Moses to lead his people out of the desert to the Promised Land.

“That’s—”

“I know what you’re thinking. They’ve been after Callum Monaghan for a long time. All I have to do is drop his name and it’ll light a fire under their collective ass.”

“That was fast. We’ve reached the point in our relationship where we can read each other’s minds.”

Rowan laughs a big, braying laugh. I can picture her, head thrown back, directing the sound of pure joy at the sky. It’s the most beautiful sound. “I didn’t know that was a real thing. It’s a first for me.”

“To be your first anything is a pleasant surprise.”

“You’re my first love. That counts more than any other first.”

It takes my breath away how she manages to say the perfect things, regardless of how steeped in sarcasm my words may be. “Oh, I’ve turned you into a puddle. Do I get a medal or something?”

She clicks her tongue. “I’m hanging up, Juliet.”

“Goodbye my darling. Light of my life, moon in my sky.”

The line goes dead and I laugh. I take off my shirt, splash some water in my hair—have to make it look convincing—towel it off, and then go find my mom in the second of only two havens she has in this house: The back garden, in which she planted a plethora of high pollen flowers so that my father, with his allergies, would avoid it. She’s too deep into this with us not to be included on every minute detail, but so adept at duplicity I know she’ll be fine. She’s been playing the long game, hiding behind the façade of dutiful wife and mother for decades. Whatever relief I’ll feel when this is over will be peanuts in comparison to hers.

She sips her iced tea and listens intently as I deliver the change of plans.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Mom begins, “but it’s good that Rowan will be there. She might be able to limit the violence. Callum’s killer instinct is toned down when she’s around, and the grunts have to take whatever order she gives them. The poor night guards may live to see sunrise.”

“Right. That doesn’t do much to abate the nightmarish visions of my girlfriend being pumped full of lead.” It comes out of my mouth sounding acerbic, but in truth that’s all I’ve seen lately, whether I’m awake or dreaming—Rowan and my mom and me, riddled with bullets, the lifeblood leaking out of us until all that remains is expired meat.

My mom is sporting that knowing air that only mothers have. The worry extends from her face into her eyes. “After this is finished, we’re going to find you a therapist that specializes in trauma and PTSD. As much as your father and I have tried to keep you away from the ugliness of our business, it was inevitable that some would seep through the cracks.”

We’re Calloways. We don’t do therapy. We don’t even step foot into the confessionals at church. Nobody carries our burdens for us or hears the slightest breath of our sins; they’re ours and ours alone. No doctor or God can offer us immunity from real-world repercussions. I’d be better adjusted if I had been allowed to talk about any of the batshit crazy things I’ve experienced in my life. I probably wouldn’t be so prone to or comfortable with lying or manipulating or keeping every goddamn normal human emotion locked away inside me. And in the last week, between Gino and Teague and the cemetery, I’ve seen more carnage than I have in twenty-two years of living.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

I move to hand her back her phone. She shakes her head. “It’s yours for now. Keep it hidden from the insufferable men in the house.”

“They are barely tolerable, aren’t they? Not in the good Elizabeth Bennet kind of way.”

“Correct. You’re flustered; have a sip of this.” She thrusts her glass at me.

The instruction confuses me. I’m not a fan of tea, iced or hot, and she’s well aware of that fact. “Mom, I?—”

She smirks at the pitcher atop the copper bistro table between us. “It’s from Long Island, dear.”

“Should’ve led with that.” I help myself to more than a sip.

TWENTY-FOUR

ROWAN

I leave the house to make the call. My dad isn’t home, but in true paranoid fashion I worry that every room except the shitter is under surveillance, now that our rivalry with Calloway has boiled over. I choose the patio of Cathedral Station—what must be the only gay sports bar in existence—as my office for the day. Might as well enjoy a cocktail while destroying everything I know and hate… And love. I do still have love for my dad, and that’s what’s making doing the right thing so damn hard. I’m angry at myself for loving him. He’s tried everything he possibly could to force me to stop loving him. He’s worse than a plague of locusts. But love dies slowly and then all at once. I guess I’m waiting for the “all at once” part to come.

I speak to some low-level ATF intern for no more than thirty seconds. The recipe I concoct has two simple ingredients: I say “Callum Monaghan,” add “Patrick Calloway” to the pot, give it a stir, and am transferred to the special agent in charge of the Boston field office. As expected, I am fucking grilled longer than a brisket. I’m asked for the who, what, where, when, why, and how, but I’m not willing to divulge more than is necessary: There’s an arsenal and some bad guys at this location on this time and day, go get ’em.

I lose patience and cut off Agent Whoever-the-Hell. “Christ, man, are you a cop or a journalist?”

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