Page 7 of Blood in the Water

“Because I had the choice,” Bridget said. “I could have taken a job as a legal assistant with some third-rate ambulance chaser. I could have spent five years building my resume, trying to get an advanced degree in the hopes that I might land a spot at one of the bigger firms, but what would be the point?”

Her mother rubbed an invisible spot on the dining room table with her index finger. “An honest job making great money isn’t nothing, Bridget. I know it sounds crass, but there’s something to be said for the freedom it buys you.”

It was a game they played: her mother alluding to the work Bridget did for Seamus O’Brien to bring in extra money, work her mom pretended not to know about while Bridget pretended she didn’t know her mother knew. It was easier than talking about it, than confessing that she not only did work for Seamus but that she was increasingly in debt to him, a result of the extra money he padded her weekly pay with to cover Owen’s medical expenses.

If they talked about that, Bridget would have to come clean about how much she owed Seamus, about what would happen when he decided to call in the debt and she couldn’t pay. She would have to tell her mother she didn’t have a plan, that she was hoping for a miracle to save her from any of the ugly possibilities Seamus could use to get his money out of her, not the least of which was joining the girls at the Playpen who were rumored to do more than dance as a way to pay off their debts — or the debts of family members — to Seamus.

Her mother would be devastated, would tell her father. They would both demand that she quit immediately. Her father would probably insist on talking to Seamus himself, a move that might get him killed. Then Bridget would be forced to tell them about the Syndicate, about the fact that she was an unofficial mole for them through Nolan, that another illegal organization was the extent of her plan for eventually getting out of this mess.

“Wanting financial security isn’t crass, Mom. I get it, and believe me when I say I’m not turning my nose up at the thought of more money. But I sacrificed my freedom through eight years of part-time college. I didn’t want to spend more time in the books to just maybe earn more money later.”

It wasn’t a lie — she valued her work at BRIC, felt good about the fact that she was using her education to do something good — but there was more to the equation. Work at a law firm meant long hours with no extra pay. It meant late nights and weekends prepping for trial, nights and weekends when she couldn’t be on call for Seamus, who was paying her enough to make real contributions to Owen’s care.

Her mother stood with a sigh. She took her plate to the sink and paused, bracing herself against the counter, her back to Bridget. “I’m worried about you, love.”

Bridget picked up her plate and set it next to the sink. She put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I’m fine. Everything will work out in the end. It always does.”

She said it even though she wasn’t sure it was true, even though she knew tons of people for whom everything hadn’t worked out in the end. What was the point of it all if they didn’t even have hope?

Her mother patted her hand, took her plate off the counter, and turned on the water to start the dishes.

“Leave those,” Bridget said. “I’ll do them when I come back.”

Her mother turned to face her. “Come back? You just got home two hours ago.”

“I know,” Bridget said, picking up the serving dishes from the table and setting them on the counter. “I need to do some more work on the Ramirez case.”

“Don’t tell me that poor boy is still worried about being deported,” her mother said. “He was studying to be a physical therapist, for heaven’s sake!”

Jorge Ramirez had been stopped for going eight miles over the speed limit three months earlier. The officer had claimed to smell alcohol in the car — a subsequent breathalyzer had proven Jorge was stone-cold sober at the time of the stop — and had demanded Jorge step out, after which the cop had found a quarter of a joint in the glove compartment.

Jorge told the officer the joint had been left there by a friend, but his immigration status — he’d been going to school and hoping for legislation under the DREAMER Act that would allow him to work toward legal citizenship — caused every possible legal mechanism to kick in against him.

“He has a hearing in three weeks,” Bridget said.

She felt guilty using Jorge’s case as an excuse to leave the house after dinner, but her true destination was a Pandora’s box she wasn’t ready to open.

Her mother shook her head. “I hardly recognize this country anymore.”

“I know the feeling.” Bridget cast a glance at the dishes on the counter. “Seriously Mom. Leave those. I’ll do themwhen I get home. You should take a hot bath and read a book or something.”

“A hot bath?” Her mother laughed. “Am I a lady of leisure now?”

Bridget grinned. “You could be. For the rest of tonight anyway.”

She stepped out of the kitchen and paused to ruffle Owen’s hair. “What are you watching, loser?”

“Doc…umentar…y…” He didn’t take his eyes off the TV as the word emerged from his mouth in pieces. She waited while he swallowed. “About… Aus… tralia.”

“Cool.” It wasn’t lost on her that he was no longer teasing her back, their lifetime ritual of good-naturedly trying to one up each other with insults falling by the wayside as the effort it took for him to speak made it necessary to pick and choose his words. “Want to stream Shark Week reruns this weekend?”

He gave her a stiff nod.

“Awesome. I’ll get ice cream.” It was one of the few treats he could still enjoy, and he tore his eyes from the TV to give her a pained smile that almost bought her to her knees.

She had the sudden urge to bend over, kiss his head, hold him. He’d hate it, so she held out her hand for a low five instead. It took him a few seconds to raise his hand and smack his palm against hers, but it was worth the wait.

She headed for the hall, grabbed her coat and bag, and wrapped her scarf around her neck as she stepped onto the porch. She didn’t feel like she could really breathe until she was in the car, driving away from the neighborhood that held all her hopes and dreams — and every one of her darkest fears.

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