Page 94 of Tortured Eyes
Thirty-Two
I’ve still not sorted my bike out, and I’m getting fed up of taking a cab or walking. Maybe that’s what I need. To blow all of my concerns away on the back of a bike and shed my worries.
The door slams behind me as I try to wake myself up from a disturbed night’s sleep. I laugh. It was barely sleep at all. Too many memories. Too many visions of him and his words. And too much goddamned angst crawling under my skin. I wish it wasn't the case, but it is. He's still inside me, regardless of the fact that I sent him away. His eyes. His body. His smile.
I pass the entrance desk, sure the only way I'm getting over this is to go beat the crap out of something.
“Ah, excuse me, Ms McCarthy,” the steward calls after me. “You have a delivery. It’s parked in your designated spot. Here are the keys.” He hands me a fob with a single key on it.
“Who delivered this?”
“A gentleman. He was coming from the elevator late the other night, a friend of yours?” He raises his brow suggestively at the word friend.
Logan. Of course.
Despite my atrocious mood, I can’t help but be excited to see what bike he’s decided to gift me. A jet-black Ducati sits in the space assigned to my apartment, gleaming and gorgeous but for the matte custom engine. The sight pulls a smile from my lips as I consider the power it has. Custom, perhaps, or is it the one that we shared? So much has happened in such a short time.
I note the lack of helmet, and right now, I don’t give a crap. I climb on the back of the bike and turn the key, feeling the rumble of vibration as it roars to life, and something immediately settles within me.
The urge to peel out of the garage and tear down the street is almost too powerful to ignore, but I abide by the traffic laws and take her slowly out of downtown to the place I’ve avoided for the last few weeks—the place I need to confront and maybe get some answers.
* * *
“Hey, Dad.” My voice is hoarse and choked up as I stand and look down at the gravestone. The weight of my emotions breaks through me, pummelling me as if I’m being physically beaten. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I sob.
My knees hit the earth as my body crumbles. A wave of sorrow sweeps over me as I recount the memories I’ve shared with my father. The vow I pledged to finish his work and get to the bottom of the cases that always haunted him. Was he asking me to find the truth about him? Was it his way of confessing? I’ll never know now, but those questions won’t go away. There will never be peace to them, and that realisation eats at my insides like a poison.
“Why?” I yell, my sadness now turning to anger. “You let me believe a lie. I always looked up to you. You were my hero in a world where it was so easy to become the bad guy. You were always the good guy who showed me what I wanted to be.” The heels of my hands rub against my eyes as I stem the waterworks.
I’m not the good guy anymore. How can I be after my actions? Nothing about me feels good, and the worst of it is that I feel good when I’m with Logan. Somehow.
Silence draws out as I wait for… something. Divine inspiration, an echo of a voice to tell me my new path, perhaps? As I breathe in and out and listen to the few birds squawking as they pass overhead, my mind travels to a certain priest. Maybe I’m looking for answers in the wrong place?
“I can’t do this anymore, Dad. I love you, but I need to focus on mending myself. Because I’m broken. My world is broken, and I don’t know how to fix it, and you’re not here to fix it for me. I need to let go and look at myself without your shadow. Do you understand?”
I dash the water from my cheeks and pull myself to standing.
I won’t cry anymore.
“Goodbye, Dad.” The words shatter my heart, but I know something needs to change, and I can’t do that with the ghost of my hero looking over me.
At the gates of the cemetery, I pull up the details of St. Jude's Church in New York and make a call.
“Church of Saint Jude.” It's a voice I don't recognise.
“Hello. I was calling for Father Cleary?”
"I'm afraid Father Cleary isn’t here. He’s away for a couple of days. Can I help at all?" Shit. And no.
"I really need to talk to Father Cleary. My name’s Detective Bryce McCarthy. Do you have his contact details?" There’s a short pause, and I know I just crossed another boundary. Seems easier once the first one is broken. "It's vital I have them.” At least I haven’t lied about that.
"Yes, of course, detective." They rattle off a cell phone number, and I thank the woman before redialling the moment I can. It takes a while, but finally, he answers the phone.
"Hello?"
"Father Cleary?" Silence, followed by the sound of a door closing.
"Yes?"
