Page 55 of Paranoia

My grandfather was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of pinot noir. He was chatting with Ricky, who was taking something out of the oven.

As I approached, I asked, “Everything okay?”

Seamus lifted his glass. “Right as rain, my boy. Right as rain.”

I looked at Ricky. “Whatever you’re making smells fantastic.”

Ricky glanced over his shoulder from the oven and smiled.“It’s Chicken Marsala. I hope this is what I’m gonna make for my audition forRising Chefs.”

My grandfather said, “If it tastes as good as it smells, they won’t even hold a competition. They’ll just name you the winner right away.”

My grandfather always knew exactly what to say to the kids. That’s why they all gravitated toward him. When I thought about it, I’d felt the same way about him when I was a child. He’d worked hard, long hours at his bar. But he’d never neglected me. When I came home from school, he knew exactly what to say to keep me engaged in my schoolwork and activities.

I checked in on Mary Catherine, who looked better every day after a week on bed rest.

She said, “Iwillbe sitting at the table for Ricky’s big dinner tonight. And I’m not interested in an argument. Is that understood?”

I had to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ten minutes later, with assistance from Jane and Juliana, we had Mary Catherine seated at the end of the dinner table. She almost looked like a royal sitting on a throne. The kids fell over themselves making sure she had everything she needed. I saw a future for Trent as a concierge. He was attentive and polite, and had a sense of when to back away.

Ricky called for help serving in the kitchen. An assembly line of kids managed to get all the filled plates onto the table while they were still piping hot.

He also did his little show before we started eating, taking the lid off the remaining Chicken Marsala. “As you can see, we’re using chicken instead of veal.” He shot a dirty look at Jane.

Jane said, “The twins and I won’t eat veal. We barely want to eat chicken.”

Ricky sort of shook his head and continued. “The sauce has a traditional base of Marsala wine but is from my own secret recipe. Plus a generous helping of yellow onions and portobello mushrooms. The vegetable side today is glazed brussels sprouts. I would’ve paired them with the wine, but Gramps drank most of it.”

The dinner was exactly what I needed—listening to the kids talk about their day, the easy chatter between siblings, and an occasional story from my grandfather. Best of all, Mary Catherine was sitting right next to me. Although she wasn’t as talkative as normal, she had a decent appetite.

Seamus said, “Ricky, my boy, if this doesn’t win you that competition, it’s rigged. I hope they don’t take points away from you because you don’t have an Italian last name.”

Ricky had a big grin on his face. He had made a giant dinner and there was almost nothing left. Even Bridget, who tended to be a little mean to her brothers, said, “I agree with Gramps—this is the best dinner I’ve ever had.”

I just soaked in the banter and compliments. It was nice to see Ricky getting the credit he deserved for his talents in the kitchen.

Then Mary Catherine grasped my hand on top of the table. At first I thought it was a romantic gesture. And I felt the pressure in her grip. I turned to her and said in a low voice, “You all right?”

She shook her head and mumbled, “No. We need to go to the hospital. Right now.”

I felt panic race through my whole body. It was all I could do to stay calm and not alarm the children. It was Mary Catherine who took charge.

She looked over at my grandfather. “Seamus, I’m not feeling well. Michael is going to take me to the hospital. You’re going tomake sure these children focus on their homework and not worry about me.” Then she turned to each of the kids and gave a little message. To Ricky, she said, “Dinner was fantastic.” She turned to Juliana and said, “Thank you for taking charge of so much.” She worked down the line while I gathered my keys, wallet, and phone.

A few minutes later we were racing to Mount Sinai.

CHAPTER 80

KEVIN DOYLE HAD been texting back and forth with his employer. The little burner phone he’d bought from a kiosk in a shopping center on Long Island didn’t have the best on-screen keyboard.

He was sitting in his rental car a block down from the diner where Tammy worked for her uncle. He couldn’t get the pretty triathlete out of his head. He noticed that the big tattooed guy was back in the diner tonight. She did work fast.

Doyle had been using the quiet time to communicate with his employer. A call might’ve been easier, but he felt like this was safer.

Then the text came through that he didn’t want to see.It might be time to take action. Stand by. It’ll take a little while to work it out.

He knew that probably meant Bennett. He really hadn’t wanted to do anything like this. Killing the retired cops was badenough. This felt like a sin. An even worse sin than the ones he had already committed.

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