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As I walk, I replay snippets of conversations in my head, trying to piece together who could be responsible for both the stolen data and the recent security breaches. Confidential documents have been leaked, and while we've tightened our security measures since, we still haven’t identified the source. As suspicion grows within the team, I can't help but think of my father and how far he will go. How do I lash out at an enemy I can’t see?
I shake my head, making a conscious effort to redirect my focus from the perplexing issue of staff turnover. The sudden resignations of key personnel, starting with Emily and now Marissa, all citing personal reasons, leave me uneasy.
There's a nagging suspicion that their departures aren't mere coincidences; the recurring phrase in their resignation letters feels like a coded message. It's as if my father, in his ownpeculiar way, is signaling more than just undermining my authority—he's sabotaging my project. I've resolved to confront this modern-day Goliath.
Tackling my father's influence requires more than a metaphorical sling and sword; it demands a formidable arsenal. Taking on this iteration of Goliath won't be a skirmish; it's a battle that might necessitate a metaphorical nuclear warhead. The question looms: Do I possess the strength and resources to embark on such a formidable challenge?
"Damn you, Dad," I whisper, clenching my fists. "You won't destroy my vision—you won’t destroy me."
As the night grows darker, I know that I must remain vigilant and one step ahead of my seen, unseen enemy.
For the sake of my team, my project, and my dreams, I cannot afford to fail. Time is running out, and with every passing moment, the shadowy figure in the background draws closer, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
Chapter fifteen
WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS.
TONY
I am a person who, on average, might be considered level-minded and bright. I am also science leaning—in my third year of nursing school. On a grand scale of things, one can say quite definitively that I am of above-average intelligence, yet here I am, sitting in a dim room draped in heavy velvet that seems to swallow the light, waiting for answers.
I have left school. My siblings and I seem to be locked in a fight, our strife escalating, yet what we are battling about, I don’t know. My mother is dying, and my father’s killer is stalking me. My life is in shambles.
I have looked into myself for resolutions and found none, turned to God through Father O’Malley and drew a blank, so here I am, sitting across from a psychic, a woman whose fame comes from the depths of other people's secrets, hoping that she will tell me the one thing I need to hear to quiet my soul.
Lady Viola’s demeanor is enigmatic, her presence captivating, her eyes sharp—almost predatory. They are fixed on me now as if she can peel back the layers of my existence and find the answers that brought me here—she makes me so uneasy.
How can I justify going to Father O’Malley and seeking Lady Viola’s wisdom all in one breath? Who do I believe in? What doctrine do I follow? You can’t believe in the Holy Bible and the occult all at the same time. The color spectrum is either black or white . . . no shades of gray. I wish I knew where my life is headed. I feel like a wayward frog.
The psychic realm clashes with my rationality, yet here I am, yearning for answers beyond my reach. The mere idea of spirits feels like nonsense, but her presence is hypnotic.
If my brother Dick knew I was here, I’m pretty sure he would draw up the papers himself and have me committed, and I won’t even try to think how disappointed Mama would be, but this is something I am doing for me . . . I don’t need anyone’s approval.
"Tony," Lady Viola walks back into the room and begins her ministrations, her voice smooth like silk but with an edge that could cut glass. "The spirits are restless around you. I started out with the white candles but quickly had to move to the special ones."
I shift in my chair, uncomfortable. The idea of spirits has always seemed like nonsense, but here I am, seeking answers from someone who converses with the unseen. I clear my throat suspiciously. "What do they say?"
She leans forward, her bracelets clinking softly. "They speak of betrayal . . . and forgiveness." Her words echo Father O'Malley's, but hers carry a different weight here, wrapped in mystery.
A chill runs down my spine as I mull Lady Viola’s words.Betrayal?Could that be the man in my father’s journal? Someone my father worked with betrayed him?The mentionof betrayal aligns with my father's cryptic journal entry.Could someone he trusted have caused his demise?
“You noticed I spent a little longer than I mentioned to you when I went into the altar to pray? The spirits had a lot to say. There are so many dimensions when it comes to you.
I don’t know you at all, apart from what I’ve read in the papers, but it looks to me that you are putting out so many fires on so many different fronts. The one thing that kept coming up was forgiveness, but who have you wronged that you need to forgive?”
“This is proving to be a waste of my time and yours, ma’am. My apologies. I don’t mean to be rude, but so far, everything you have told me you could have gleaned from the papers. Forgiveness? The whole world is talking about the Dexters and us. A two-year-old could answer that question. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Let me pay you for the part you have done so far, and I will see myself out.”
I gather my pocketbook and rummage inside, looking for my wallet when Lady Viola says something that stops me cold in my tracks.
“Put your money away. If there is no benefit to you in what we have done so far, then there is nothing to pay, but before you go, I need to say one more thing. It made no sense to me earlier, so I did not know what value to give it, but a man in a brown tweed jacket with a big hole in the left pocket said something that I believe is a special message for you. He said, ‘Willow has the answer.’ He then started saying something that starts with a T, but then I lost the connection.”
Every drop of blood in my system feels like it has drained to my feet, leaving my brain deoxygenated. She couldn’t have known about my father’s tweed jacket, nor that it had a big hole in the left pocket where my dog Biscuit had chewed right through it, and “Willow” is the nickname my father gave Liamwhen I was little because he was small and willowy before he got into sports at school and bulked up, and a few people that know me intimately call me T, but Lady Viola’s not one of them.
These are not things that had made the papers because they are so inconsequential to all but me. I took it upon myself to repair my father’s jacket because it was my dog that did the damage. After I was done, the pocket looked so bad my father said, “I think it looks so much better with the hole in it.” We took off the patch and left the hole open. He never wore it again.
Without knowing what she has done or its value, Lady Viola has unknowingly unlocked a buried memory and my belief in a world that didn’t exist in my realm of existence this morning.
This revelation challenges my skepticism, compelling me to listen despite my rational resistance. The inconsequential detail triggers a flood of emotions, and I'm torn between disbelief and acceptance. I sit, grappling with the inexplicable, realizing that something beyond the tangible has drawn me here.
