Page 13 of Mob Knight

There’s silence while Meredith expects me to fill her in more, but there’s nothing more to say.

“Couldn’t you have suggested urgent care if she didn’t want to go to the ER?”

“I didn’t think she’d go anywhere, but I thought she might see you if it didn’t feel like a big deal.”

“She wasn’t forthcoming about how she got injured. She said she tripped. Cormac, did someone hurt her?”

“No. She was somewhere she should have been safe when something dangerous happened. She protected me, but we fell in the process.”

“The way she answered—it was too rehearsed. She’s given the ‘I tripped’ excuse before. It almost sounded plausible except I’ve heard it too many times to fall for it.”

My hand grips my phone so tightly I fear I could crack it. My other hand fists. I tell myself not to overreact.

“Were there any signs she’s being abused now?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”

“Do you think I need to check on her? Intervene?”

“I don’t know. Something felt off.”

“I thought maybe the hospital fees kept her from wanting to get checked out. Now I wonder if she feared someone would push for a full examination and find things she doesn’t want shared.”

“That thought crossed my mind, too. Cor, it could just be a trauma response she developed years ago and is still her instinctive response.”

“But it could be something more.”

“I trust your discretion, and she relaxed once she found out I’ve known you since you were twelve. Learning that didn’t make her more comfortable with me. It made her more comfortable about you. It was like she feared trusting you. But once she knewI’ve been around you for most of your life, and I spoke fondly of you, she stopped doubting herself. I think she would listen to you if you spoke to her. Just go easy on her.”

“Do you know where I could find her tomorrow?”

“She said she had appointments in Port Richmond.”

That’s the part of Staten Island we were in today. Do I just camp out there all day? That’s a great way to guarantee getting shot. Pablo’s going to have his goons patrolling the streets, looking for anyone with red hair. I could have Finn check the DMV records, so I can find out her address or license plates. I’m not hanging outside her front door like a stalker. But the license plates would make it easier for Finn or Sean to track her once she’s in the neighborhood.

All of this feels super stalkery. Nothing about this strikes me as something she’d be okay with. But she might have to suck up being angry to give me some peace of mind. How fucking fucked-up is that? Talk about selfish. But it’s true. I’ll risk her ire to reassure myself she’s safe. That means I have to find her somewhere outside Port Richmond because it won’t be safe if anyone sees her with me again.

My mind’s whirring a mile a minute. I’m assessing everything. I’m used to making life-altering decisions with no room for error in a matter of seconds. It’s why I’m alive and in my early thirties instead of being worm food in my teens.

“Did she mention her office?”

“She splits her time between Port Richmond and Manor Heights. I don’t know which one she’ll be at tomorrow. I don’t know if she’s going there or just straight to whatever appointments she has in Port Richmond. She said she works in schools, too.”

I rack my brain for the schools in the area. She made it sound like she’s known Ronaldo and Jesus a while, and they both graduated from high school a year ago. There are high schoolsin both neighborhoods and a few P.S. whatever elementary and middle schools. I don’t remember the numbers in that area. My guess is she’s assigned to a middle school. Then again, they could have assigned her to like ten, given the perpetual shortage of social workers.

“All right. I’ll figure something out and check on her tomorrow. Thank you, Meredith.”

“You’re a good lad.” Every once in a while, her Welsh accent gets extra strong.

She’s a retired British Royal Navy surgeon and salty as the day is long. She’s heard every excuse, so nothing impresses her. But she’s kind and been like a third aunt for nearly two-thirds of my life.

We hang up, and I’m left looking in the mirror at my bruised ribs. Could Joey’s clothes have hidden more than just the hottest body I’ve ever felt?

Fucking hell.

What kind of perve am I if she’s being abused, and I’m thinking about feeling her up?

I spend way too much time in my head. Introspective is what my mom calls it. Morose is what Seamus calls it. Prone to overanalyzing and being too self-critical is what everyone—including me—knows it is.

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