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16
It was just after five o’clock in the morning when Liam drove a very annoyed, hungover Margaret back to her house in Belltown Heights. The sun was already creeping over the horizon, painting the streets and buildings in glorious shades of warmth, but inside, Liam felt an icy prickle of apprehension. He knew evidence of a disaster waited for them back at Margaret’s house, and he kept stealing worried glances in her direction.
Aside from her initial reaction at seeing his bruised face, she was quiet and withdrawn this morning, which was unlike her. She hadn’t said a word since they got in the car. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, she pulled her phone from her purse, then exhaled in frustration. Liam could tell from the black screen that her phone had no power. Neither did his. It had died somewhere in the early morning hours.
“Mine’s dead, too,” Liam said.
No response. He was beginning to wonder how long her silent treatment would last.
Finally, she threw him a sullen glance and asked, “Why?”
He searched her face, noting her bloodshot eyes and lips pressed together in unhappiness, then tried to lighten the mood. “Well, I’ve learned that when you don’t plug your phone in, it doesn’t charge, and that’s why the screen goes—”
“Stop. Why bother with this?” She wagged her finger between them. “You came over last night and made me believe you wanted to smooth things over. But nothing’s changed, has it? You aren’t interested in getting back together. You never were.” She paused, giving him a chance to explain, but he said nothing. Margaret made a sound of disgust and crossed her arms, staring out the window.
“I just didn’t want to leave things the way they were when we last spoke on the phone,” Liam said. “I hated to think that I’d upset you.” More importantly, he’d been doing the best he could with the cryptic message the angels had given him, and he’d been trying to save her life.
“No, Liam. You just did it for closure. For yourself. You don’t really care about me at all.”
He gripped the steering wheel in irritation. “That’s not true.”
She held up a hand. “Don’t. That whole thing last night was some messed-up way for you to feel better about dumping me, and you know what? It wasn’t necessary. Truly. Because I’m done with all this. I don’t need this shit in my life.” Her voice hitched and Liam saw her hands clench into fists as she hugged herself. Margaret was trying to sound tough, but he knew she was barely hanging on.
Before he could say anything, he turned onto her street, and an ambulance sped past. Three police cars were parked at odd angles in front of her house, and someone had cordoned off the area near her front door with yellow tape. Police officers were coming in and out, and others were milling outside to keep spectators from interfering. This was it.
Margaret gasped and sat bolt upright in the car. “That’s my house!”
Liam pulled to the curb across the street, about half a block away. Margaret jumped out of the car and ran toward the scene. She was arguing with an officer near her front door when Liam caught up with her.
“But I live here,” she cried. “What happened? Why hasn’t anyone called me?”
“We weren’t able to reach you, ma’am.”
“My phone,” she said under her breath, then, “I didn’t charge it. What’s going on? Did anyone call my husband? He’s out of town, but—”
“This way, ma’am.” The officer tried to lead her away from the front door. “If you’ll just step over here, I’ll explain.”
“No.” She tried to move past him. “I want to go inside.”
Liam placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t!” She jerked away, then rounded on him. “Tell him that’s my house. Tell him!”
“I believe he knows, Margaret,” Liam said in a low voice. “Wait out here for a moment, and I’ll find out what’s going on.”
The officer led a furious Margaret over to one of the squad cars.
Liam flashed his badge and entered the house. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, and several forensics people were busy collecting evidence in the living room.
“O’Connor.” Boyd stood in the center of the chaos with a wrinkled shirt and messy hair. “What the hell happened to you?” He looked frazzled and tired, but his avid curiosity over Liam’s battered face couldn’t be masked. It reminded Liam of the man he used to know back in Ireland. Liam couldn’t even remember how many scrapes and fights he and Boyd had gotten into growing up, but Boyd always took a feral sort of glee in the chaos of it. Even now, Liam could see that intense, almost eager scrutiny on Boyd’s face. Some things never changed.
“Bar brawl,” Liam said in dismissal. “What’s going on here?”
Boyd waved him into the living room. “Victim’s name is John Brady. Murdered sometime last night. A neighbor was taking his dog out this morning and saw the door wide-open. That crack in the front window made him suspicious, and then he smelled smoke coming from inside. He entered and found the victim like this, so he called 911.”
Liam stared at the body of Margaret’s husband lying on the floor between the living room and study. He’d seen dead men before, but that didn’t make it easy, nor did the guilt stabbing at him because of his affair with Margaret. He hadn’t actually done anything with her in this lifetime, but what did it matter? It was a terrible burden to know disaster had been looming, and now he wondered if he could’ve somehow saved this man, too. Or did John die because of some ripple effect of Liam kidnapping Margaret for the night? The thought hit him like an anvil to the head. He’d never know if his actions resulted in this innocent man’s death.
“You okay, O’Connor?” Boyd was watching him with suspicion. “You look like you’re going to be sick. Don’t tell me you’re getting soft.”
