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She lifted her chin as she stepped onto the street. She hoped Nolan thought all of those things, hoped he considered himself lucky to be free of her, hoped he had a new girlfriend who knew which fork to use at a fancy dinner, who was already planning an expensive wedding that would be attended by Boston’s best and brightest.
She started for the car, ignoring the pain that squeezed her chest and turning her thoughts to Seamus, his words echoing through her mind.
Time will tell, lass.
She had an inexplicable feeling that they were all on the verge of a cataclysmic shift, a storm that would blow through the neighborhood like a hurricane, leaving nothing untouched.
She shook her head as she got behind the driver’s seat. She was being melodramatic. She could call it an upside or a downside, but one thing would always be true: nothing ever changed in the neighborhood — not the little corner stores or the dive bars or the people like Seamus who ran things.
And definitely not people like her, who were too busy trying to keep their heads above water to worry about changing anything.
6
Nolan stepped into his apartment, then held the door for Christophe Marchand to follow him. Bridget’s name had haunted him all the way home, the possibilities circling his brain like water around a drain, a vortex that threatened to suck him under.
He locked the door, set down his briefcase, and flipped on the lights. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Bourbon, if you have it.” Marchand walked to the wall of windows overlooking the city, its skyscrapers lit like a series of Christmas trees rising from the concrete. “Nice view.”
“It’s not Paris, but it’s home.” Nolan walked to the bar he kept in the living room, pouring an inch of Maker’s Mark into two glasses.
“There’s quite a lot to be said about home.” Marchand turned away from the window and accepted one of the glasses.
Bridget flashed through Nolan’s mind, her hair a halo of fire, her slender throat rippling as she laughed. “Yes.”
Marchand stood next to the sofa and Nolan realized he wasn’t going to sit until he was asked.
“Please, have a seat,” Nolan said. He was falling back on his upbringing, pandering to a current leader of the Syndicate, an organization he had no interest in being associated with.
Marchand sat, took a drink of the bourbon, and stretched one arm along the back of Nolan’s couch as if he were perfectly at home.
Nolan took a chair across from the couch. “You mentioned Bridget Monaghan.”
“She’s working for Seamus O’Brien,” Christophe said.
“I know.”
“I figured you did,” Marchand said. “What I’m assuming you don’t know is that the Syndicate — under its new leadership — is preparing to launch an attack against O’Brien’s infrastructure. It will be unpleasant, dangerous for those close to Seamus.”
“Bridget isn’t close to Seamus.” Nolan said it even though he had no way of knowing if it was true, had no way of knowing anything about Bridget except the things he couldn’t stop Will from telling him.
“Perhaps not. But she is close to his operation, and that could prove problematic for her,” Marchand said.
Nolan’s blood turned to ice in his veins, a veil of rage threatening to drop over his vision. “Are you threatening her?”
Marchand looked genuinely surprised. “Of course not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“First, because we don’t like collateral damage, and it’s our understanding that Miss Monaghan has suffered a financial crisis and may only be working for O’Brien as a means to mitigate that financial crisis. We thought you might be able to warn her away given your history together.”
Nolan thought of Owen. He’d only learned about Owen’s diagnosis because of Will, but he’d immediately begun researching the disease, searching for statistics on mortality, information on traditional treatments, possibilities for clinical trials.
It was action he was sure Bridget had already taken but it was the only way he could feel close to her, the only way he could feel like he was doing something to help even though he would never have a chance to share the information with her. He knew she wouldn’t accept his money, knew a large anonymous donation would be attributed to him and returned.
“Why me?” Nolan asked. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
It wasn’t entirely true. He’d caught glimpses of her twice. The first time she’d been coming out of The Chipp with Rachel Westwood, her best friend. Nolan had ducked into the vestibule of Marty’s Liquor, waiting for the sound of their laughter and conversation to fade as they walked away.
