Page 11 of If You Go
My hand shake as I unfold it.
Once I finish reading it, I snap a photo and fire it off to my dad—Stephan O’Brien, the almighty leader of the Western US Irish Mafia—with nothing but that stupid squirt-gun emoji. The one I always use when I want to say blood without saying blood.
The garage isn’t some casual lot. Dad had it built like a bunker–cameras in every corner with overlapping angles, infrared beams that read heat signatures, license-plate readers at the entry, bollards that drop if the code doesn’t clear, magnetic locks on the pedestrian doors, key-card gates for vehicle access, PIN pads on the service doors, motion sensors under the soffits, and vibration sensors embedded in the concrete that would scream if somebody tried to jack a car out from under it. There are motion-activated lights, a redundant fiber optic loop for the cameras, and an off-site monitoring service that mirrors everything in real time. Even the elevators have biometric checks to get from the residential level down to the garages. It’s all logged–timestamps, who swiped what card, which license plate rolled through at what second. Nothing here is casual. Nothing is easy.
So whoever did this didn’t just walk in. To bypass it, you’d need one of a few ugly options: a cloned key-card and a tailgater, a direct physical breach with heavy equipment (and enough time to not trip the seismic sensors), or serious cyber-foo to blind cameras and scrub logs–which means someone with real hacking skills. Or you need someone on the inside to open a door and look the other way. None of those are simple. None are cheap. None are quick. And none are likely unless you have resources, balls, or friends in low places. Which means this wasn’t random. This was planned. It was precise. It was personal.
When I look back down at my phone, I see my dad replied.Five minutes. Go back upstairs. Tell Hazel to stay home.
He must have already been in the city.
“Dad says head back up. Don’t touch a thing. Hazel—he said don’t go to work. I am assuming he wants to talk to you about the shop since we heard about it from June already.”
Hazel’s face drains of any color. “That’s not ominous,” she mutters, pulling out her phone. She types fast, texting Juniper that she isn’t coming—my car was destroyed, and apparently, we’re all grounded.
The three of us trade a look, silent, wide-eyed, then hustle back to the elevator. None of us breathes until the doors close.
Upstairs, Alisha makes a beeline for the wine fridge like a soldier to her weapon. She pulls out four bottles and doesn't even bother with glasses. Hands us each our own, opener included, then cracks hers and drinks half in one go. Hazel and I follow suit, collapsing on the couch, gulping down liquid courage. Richie not leaving his spot between the front door and kitchen as he chugs his entire bottle before striding into the kitchen and grabbing four more. Words don’t come. Not even curses. Just silence, heavy as the texts from Gavin sitting in my pocket.
I wonder if there’s a word stronger than furious. I’ll have to Google that.
Now I feel like I do need to tell them. This doesn’t just affect me. Not that I ever expected it to only affect me in the long run. It’s Juniper and her shop. It’s Hazel and her work. It’s our garage. It is all of our safety.
“Hey, so I have been meaning to tell you something. I have just been really afraid. Also, I think I have been avoiding it. But I go–”
Ding.
The elevator chimes.
Alisha and Hazel look expectantly at me. “It’s my dad I’m sure. I’ll get it. Then I can tell all of you at the same time. I need more alcohol though.” Hazel gets up and moves toward the kitchen to grab more. For everyone.Third bottle of wine in a row, damn we are going to be drunk before I can even tell them.
“Oh, a stór, yer beautiful car!” Mama’s voice breaks the air as she rushes from the elevator, skirts rustling as she half-runs toward me. She knows how much I loved that car, and it’s nice to have those feelings validated. I know it’s just a car. But, it was something that I loved. A lot.
“Mama,” I choke, tears spilling fast. I don’t even know what I’m crying for—fear, grief, rage. Maybe all of it.
She gathers me into her arms, whispering, “Sweet girl, we’ll sort this.”
Behind her, my dad steps in, broad and calm, but his voice carries the weight of command. “Sweet Surry, we need t’ talk. But since it seems t’ touch all four o’ ye, ye’ll all stay put.” His accent thickens when he’s tense. He scans the room seeing the open bottles in our hands. “Fetch s’more bottles, will ye?” He directs at Richie. “We’ll be needin’ it before this is done.”
His guards, Darragh and Finley, linger by the elevator, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. Fingers fly, tapping furiously. Not normal. Not casual.
“Papa, I—” My voice falters. Shame prickles hot. “I have something to add. I should’ve said it earlier.”
He holds up a hand. “We’ll get t’ it, mo stór. Let me speak first.”
He paces, his voice dropping lower. “We checked the garage footage. Wiped clean, as I expected. Finley’s workin’ on diggin’ it back. Darragh’s speakin’ wit’ the others about the note. I assume ye know the hand. The symbol’s been altered.” His jaw tightens. “Hazel, lass, the shop’s been hit as well. Likely ‘cause Surry spends so much time there. My men are on it, searchin’ fer anythin’ left behind. ’Twas the same mark on the wall as the one we found on ‘dis letter.”
I pull the note out of my pocket and hand it to my dad, glancing at it before I do so. I hadn’t noticed the symbol was different until now.
It’s his. Gavin’s. Always marked with Gort—the two diagonal lines. Life goes on. But now it’s changed. Eadhadh. Five straight lines. To conquer.
He intends to conquer his obstacles. His adversaries. Now it’s me. Us. My family.
My dad’s eyes bore into mine. “Has he contacted ye?”
The truth claws out of me. “He texted me. Last night. I panicked—I didn’t know how to tell anyone. I’m sorry.”
I hand him my phone, shame burning in my chest. He reads. Mama leans in, Richie hovering, Hazel too. Alisha doesn’t. She’s staring at me, hurt deep in her eyes. A different kind of wound.
