Page 72 of Vow of Vengeance

“His real name was Tartan Erwin—when he died, he was a thirty-four-year-old Scottish man with prior convictions.” Gian continues, “He had blue eyes—lighter than yours, I’ve heard—and a vine tattoo on his neck.”

“A vine tattoo…” A faraway vision comes closer, my finger tracing the outline of an oval-shaped leaf. Another false memoryof him pieced together by tidbits I’m hearing, or is it real? I look at Gian. “Do you know what type of vine it was on the tattoo?”

“I have no idea, sweetheart.” Gian lays a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve never even seen a picture,” I admit.

Haze rubs comforting circles on my back. “Your family should have given you a photo to have.”

“No kidding…” I murmur.

I’ll never speak ill of them, but now, with Gian almost a stranger and realizing how important it is for me to know about my past, I’m angry at my family. How can they not see that hiding my father from me is not what’s best?

We three are quiet momentarily, the two men allowing me time to process. Gian turns to Haze and says, “Get her a wine. She needs it for her nerves.” Haze hesitates to leave my side, but his eyes flicker over my face; what he sees makes him decide I need the wine. He leaves us, going to the bar.

Haze returns with a chilled glass of white wine. “This will take the edge off. Riesling. It’s a little sweet. I haven’t seen you drink, so I thought this might be a good starting point.”

Grateful, I thank him. I sip, the bright, cold flavor bursting on my tongue. “It’s sweet. I love it.” What I love more is how he slips his arm around my shoulder. The feel of his warmth, weight, and strength against me calms me.

My eyes lock on Gian’s as I steel my nerves and ask the question I’ve been in desperate need of the answer to for so long now. My palms feel damp, and I wipe them over my thighs. “How did my dad die that day? What happened?”

Gian takes a breath, takes a sip, and steels his own nerves. He pops an olive in his mouth and chews. Finally, he locks his eyes on mine.

What he says next comes as a complete shock.

“He was trying to leave the Hoax,” Gian says. “For your sake.”

I let the idea settle in that my father loved me and that he wanted what was best for me, and that the reason he died was because he was trying to make things better.

For me.

“He was hiding out with you in Edinburgh. But that’s the thing about a crime family.” He and Haze exchange a glance. Haze looks away. Gian says, “Once you join, you can’t leave.”

Gian continues, “He was crossing the street with you in his arms when he spotted the hitmen of the Hoax. He saw Freya across the street. He didn’t know who she was, but something about her made him choose her. He thrust you into her arms, and moments later, he was shot.”

My father holding me. The loud noise.

My vague memories… are they… real? I’ve done my research. I paid attention in Psych class.

I was what? Only two? Maybe two and a half. You can remember things that young, especially if the memories are tied to trauma.

“Freya and her husband took you home with them. She called you Pearl for the necklace she wore that day, the one you liked to play with so much. Also, she thought your face looked like a little white pearl encapsulated in the dark shell of your hair.”

It’s too painful thinking of my father’s death, so I focus my mind on Freya. In my memory, she’s like a beautiful, golden ray of sunshine. The thought of being her wee black pearl—it’s lovely. I think of myself as a pearl buried in a dark, shining oyster shell.

“Oh, that’s… so nice.” My voice cracks.

Don’t cry, Ophelia. Don’t you dare cry.

Gian puts his smooth, manicured hand over mine. “She and her husband live in a miniature castle and run it as a bed and breakfast. The same one they brought you home from Edinburgh to. It’s right here in Inverness. They’re waiting for us there now.”

Freya is waiting for me, and I’m invited to the place I went to moments after my father died. The idea is wonderful but overwhelming. I lift my glass, bringing it to my lips—and down half the glass. The wine is cold in my mouth but warms as I drink it. I pinch the stem between my forefinger and thumb, twisting it as I absorb the idea of seeing Freya in the flesh.

“The woman with the pearl necklace is waiting for me,” I say. I correct myself. “I finally know her name. Freya is waiting for me.”

“Freya and her husband, Fredrick Frisque, also fell in love with you during your stay at Inverness,” Gian says, “and we’re all going to see her now.”

“Oh, my God.” I try to process, but I can’t.

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