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She turns away from the door and bustles off through her living room and around the corner. A minute later, she comes back struggling with a big cardboard box.
“Oh! Let me get that for you!”
I rush to take the heavy thing from her arms as she exhales with a puff.
“Thank you, hon.” She clears her throat. “This junk has been taking up space in my back closet for years. If it was anyone else, I’d have thrown this crap away as it came. But, being who it was who paid for the apartment…”
I frown, looking at the closed-up moving box.
“What is this?”
“Old mail. It pretty much stopped a year or two after Cynthia died. But I still get the odd piece of junk. Again, it’d toss it, but…” She shrugs. “Well, I don’t know if you know, but the Kildare name still carries a little bit ofweightaround this neighborhood.” She waggles a brow. “Irish Mafia, you know,” she mutters conspiratorially in a stage whisper.
I stare at the box. “Do you mind if I…”
“Nope, go right ahead. Here, come on in and have a seat. I’ll just be in the kitchen fixing some dinner.”
I thank her again as I step into her apartment and take a seat on her sofa. I leaf through the box, but whatever last hope I was clinging to fades when I realize it’s basically just junk mail—coupon books, catalogs, and the like.
I’m about to give up and thank Delores once more, when I get to the very bottom, where I find four envelopes dated from about eleven years ago. One has no return addresses at all—delivery or sender. The other three make my heart go still.
They’re from Declan Kildare, addressed to Cynthia James.
Without giving it a second thought, I stuff them into my bag, close up the box, and stand. In the kitchen, I thank Delores profusely again, telling her she can ditch the contents of the box. Then I’m out the door and hailing a taxi.
In the back seat, heading back uptown, my hands shake as I yank the envelops out of my purse and open the first one. My pulse skips when all I find inside is a check made out to Cynthia, from Declan, in the amount of five thousand dollars.
In the memo field, it just says “August.”
I swallow as I open the second envelope. Again, all I find is another check from Declan to Cynthia for the same amount, this one with “September” in the memo field. The next envelope repeats the pattern: same five grand, with “October” for the memo.
I frown. What the fuck are these for? And why was Neve and Eilish’s father paying for Castle’s parents’ apartment in the first place?
I slowly open the fourth envelope, feeling my heart thud against my chest as I pull out a handwritten letter addressed to no one.
Consider this your one and only warning. Do not ever come to my home again. Do not contact me. Do not write, or call. I am sorry for your loss, but it is not my problem.
He is not my son anymore, he’s yours, and I know you’ve been paid well for that, so don’t even try to come crying poverty to me. If he gets himself killed over there in the army, I’m sure you can go whine to Declan for more money.
Again, this is your only warning. If you ever come near me again, I’ll have you killed.
-S. T.
My hands shake as I reread the letter twice more. My heart begins to thump louder, my pulse jangling in my ears as the words blur and the pieces of the horrible puzzle begin to fall into place.
A few months ago, as part of a deal Eilish and Gavan made with the Bratva kingpin Drazen Krylov, Gavan received a hard drive full of information collected on rivals and other Bratva families. Included in that information was proof positive that Declan Kildare had been having a long-time affair with Svetlana Tsarenko, Gavan’s adoptive father’s sister.
Also that there was a child that came from that affair.
Declan was sending monthly checks to the family of one of his regular street-level enforcers…whose apartment he was also paying for… A family with two short parents with dark and red hair and dark eyes, with a daughter who was the spitting image of them.
…And a son who lookednothinglike them.
A son with Declan Kildare’s bright blue eyes and broad shoulders, and Svetlana Tsarenko’s blonde hair and height.
My head swims and my heart climbs into my throat as the letter drops to my feet in the back of the taxi.
“I always like to double check with people before they open Pandora’s box. The toothpaste doesn’t go back in the tube, know what I’m saying?”
