Page 137 of Free to Fall

She texted me.

I know I’m fighting for Laura on every front imaginable. But the first person I’m pitting myself up against needs to know the truth of what really happened that night.

After all, he’s tied to her in ways I’ll never truly understand.

I clutch the soft drink in between my fingers as I wait for Jonathan Lockwood to join me at a bar located in the World Trade District. O’Hara’s stood long before 9/11 happened and opened its doors the minute it was granted authorization to post apocalypse. It’s always been a welcoming place for cops and firefighters, which is why I asked Jon to meet me here.

I figure if he successfully murders me in front of witnesses, someone will read the note in my pocket that he isn’t to blame. If that doesn’t work, they’ll at least bring Bailey to Laura to raise.

I study the scratches and nicks in the table, covered in a high gloss varnish in an effort to not worry he won’t show up.

When a blond man with an unwashed mop of greasy hair drops onto the stool across from me, I almost bark at him to get lost. It’s then Jon lowers his shades to reveal his natural eye color before raising them back into place in the dimly lit bar. I barely manage to catch myself before I gape at his disguise—he doesn’t look even remotely like himself. Even his voice projects differently from the arrogant heir-apparent who strolled into my office. Grittier, he raps out a quick “Ya got info for me?” which has a pointed Bronx accent.

My lips part slightly. “Yes.”

His twist into a nasty smirk before he leans over and admits in his normal tone, “Sorry, Liam. I was assigned a new case yesterday. I can’t break cover, even for my sister.” Sitting back and crossing his arms, his nasal-infused voice sneers, “Now, tell me how ya fucked this shit up?”

So, I do. Playing along with his cover, I start by confessing I never passed along the data he “recommended.” Then I recap the events at the hospital from my point of view. Miserably, I conclude, “I’m certain you know the details.”

“Sure as shit do, you piece of shit.”

I cringe because that one came from Jon, the brother, not the man in character. “I want to make things right.”

“Boy, you screwed the pooch on this job. I ought to have my boys fuck ya up.”

Because he could mean either his family or Hudson’s finest, I make only one request. “If you kill me, bring Bailey to Laura. I’ve already updated my will for that contingency.”

Now Jon’s face blanks with shock. He bellows, “You did what?”

“You’re right. I fucked up. Royally. I said shit to the woman I love, using her as an outlet for my anger, which never should have been directed at her. I was furious at your father, at the Tiberis, hell, at the dead woman who birthed my child. But that doesn’t mean I don’t regret every bit of it. Bailey loves Laura. If something were to happen to me, I need to know she’s with someone who loves her the same way I do.”

Jon’s jaw works back and forth so much I’m afraid he’s going to dislodge the fake teeth he’s wearing over his natural enamel. His head swivels around before his voice questions in his own tone, “I assume Laura has no idea.”

I lift my drink and take a sip before I admit, “She asked for space.”

“And you’re giving it to her?” His voice bellows in its Bronx accent, incredulousness overlaid heavy so much over that heads swivel in our direction.

My hand slaps against the table. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Court her. Ain’t she worth everything? Shower her with gifts—no, no, wait. Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” I’m now confused if he’s in character or not.

“That cunt, Tiberi, may she rot in hell—did that shit. You don’t need to be messed up with that.”

“Right. No gifts.”

“But you need to show your woman what she means to you—both of you.” He chews on his knuckles a moment before leaning forward and giving me some ideas of the kind of things his twin would appreciate. Again, my hope rises tentatively.

“So, I have your approval?” I lay the question out there between us.

“You’re redeemable, brothah.”

“That’s it?” I suspect him of holding back.

I wasn’t wrong.

As low as his voice can pitch, he lets me have it with both barrels. “You had no clue of the heart you held in your hands, but you’re not a complete fucking moron. You’re trying to fix you before you attempt to repair what you broke. That doesn’t scream out as someone who intends on hurting my sister again. Because if you did ...” He lets the sentence hang.

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