Page 72 of Irish Brute
Promise.Something about the word sparks a fire between my thighs. I want to test him. I want to see how far I can push things. I want to know exactly what he’ll do when he catches me breaking that promise.
But the reality is, my shoulder is throbbing like a strobe light. I didn’t sleep well last night, even though he let me hog the covers. I would be worthless, whatever work I tried to complete.
“I promise,” I say.
“Mo chailín maith,” Braiden says.
It occurs to me that Aiofe might understand those words. I glance at the child to see how she reacts. But she’s just chewing the last of her honeyed toast, her green eyes as grave as ever.
Braiden goes to his office.
Aiofe goes to the nursery, to meet with John Bell.
I wander through the house aimlessly, trying to find a way to fill my day.
I read for a while, but I fall asleep over an incomprehensible section of James Joyce’sUlysses. I try to watch television in the study, but nothing on the nine hundred channels holds my interest. I think about walking to the greenhouse but it’s too far, and the weather is too cold, and the thought of the flowers just takes me back to Russo’s threat.
That Night. He’ll tell Braiden. Tell Trap. Tell the Delaware bar.
What will the bar make of the truth, after all this time? Maybe I’ve been worried about nothing. I showed a shocking lack of moral judgment, one that to this day I can’t begin to explain, can’t even start to justify.
But will it make me lose my license to practice law?
I take my computer into the guest room, quietly closing the door behind me. I’m not breaking my promise. I’m not doing work. I’m just using the machine to access legal databases, to see what’s happened to other people who did what I did.
No one has done what I did.
At least, no lawyer has. I can’t find a single case in Delaware, where the bar has ruled on my situation.
But I find other cases where lawyers lied by omission. Where they hid the truth for years, about stealing, about rape, about murder. When the truth comes out, the bar says those are crimes ofmoral turpitude.
I haven’t used the phrase since law school, but I remember it clearly enough. It’s any act that completely violates the accepted standard of a community. Something that shocks the conscience. Something that cannot be forgiven.
I’ve committed a crime that cannot be forgiven and if—when—Russo discloses it, I’ll be disbarred. Feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut, I lower my head over my computer.
I’m guilty. I’m damned. If I still believed in the heaven and hell Zia Sara taught me about, I’d brace myself for an eternity in the fiery pits.
My eyes water. The roof of my mouth prickles. I’ve never cried about what happened, never mourned. I sniff, to keep my nose from running. I can almost smell it—Zia Sara’s sulfur and brimstone.
No.
Idosmell it.
And just as I realize the stench is real, my ears are filled with a piercing screech. It’s a smoke detector, complete with a mechanical voice and a flashing white light.
My heart tumbling into triple-time, I scramble to my feet. I vaguely remember fire safety drills from the freeport. I touch my hand to the door, making sure it isn’t warm. I check for smoke seeping over the threshold. I crouch so I’m low to the floor, more likely to avoid smoke inhalation.
With my good hand, I test the doorknob. It turns easily, and I make my way into the hall.
I can hear multiple smoke detectors now—the one in the guest room, and one in the hall, another in the nursery, andmore in other rooms. I risk a twinge from my shoulder so I can cover my ears.
The stink of smoke is even stronger out here. And looking down the hall, I understand why.
Flames climb the door to Braiden’s office.
28
BRAIDEN
