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As I continue driving, paranoia intensifies, and memories of a dodgy figure from the previous week resurface. At the time, I dismissed it as nothing, but now it haunts my thoughts. The more I ponder, the more certain I become that this figure seems to appear everywhere I go. The impending danger feels real.
Who is this person? And why are they following me?
Perhaps someone is trying to set me up . . .
Or worse… take me out.
I reach the office parking garage, and while looking back through the rearview mirror, I see the same menacing sedan or one just like it. Fear grips me for a moment before I remember that the garage has CCTV, and Fifth Avenue is always crawling with cops. No one would be that daring, except for Russian assassins—those ones are crazy, and they do 'up close and personal, with poison-tip umbrellas.'
Taking a chance is better than sitting here alone,I convince myself.
I hurry into the office without incident, only to find Martin waiting for me with urgent work that needs my immediate attention, robbing me of the few minutes I need to gather my thoughts—when it rains, it pours. Flustered, I confide in him about the unnerving events.
"Man . . . all that just this morning? It isn’t even ten o’clock. Maybe you should hire a private bodyguard," Martin suggests, his concern evident in his eyes. I grapple with the idea but eventually agree, realizing the threat is more significant than Iinitially perceived. They could be anywhere, and I don't know who "they" are.
"Thank you, Martin," I say, my voice wavering. "You're a lifesaver."
"Hey, don't worry about it," he replies, clapping me on the back. "I just want you to be safe."
Martin recommends a security company that mostly handles big accounts, but for the right price, they will take on private bodyguard contracts. Gratitude fills my chest, knowing Martin has my back.
That evening, as I leave the office, I can't shake the feeling of someone's eyes on me, even though my newly hired bodyguard shadows me like the Incredible Hulk. We drive in silence, each lost in our thoughts. "Am I really being followed?" I question myself, "Or am I just paranoid."
We arrive home, and I have never been so happy to see my house. Max, the bodyguard/driver and I both get out of the car on the same side. He opens the door for me, and I step out, then lean back to grab my briefcase, and suddenly, shots ring out, and Max collapses, pinning me down between his bulk and the back tires. As he lays there pressing on me and dying, he takes two more bullets, then nothing.
Silence ensues, leaving only the echoes of gunfire and the pounding of my heart. My worst fears have come to fruition: the bodyguard, hired just hours ago, lies dead beside me.
Whoever this is, they're not playing around,I think, my body trembling.
Where can I go now? Who can I trust?
Father O'Malley. The church is my only refuge.
Chapter twenty-six
THANKSGIVING IN ZURICH.
TONY
I push open the library door, the creak of the hinges slicing softly through the silence. Mom's breathing steadies the room, a metronome of life that I've come to measure my days by. She's asleep, nestled amid a fortress of cushions on the makeshift bed we've assembled in a very cramped space.
"Mom," I whisper, approaching her bedside.
Her eyes flutter open, revealing pools of fatigue. "Tony, sweetheart," she murmurs, attempting a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" I ask, keeping my tone level professional almost, despite the undertow of concern.
"Ah, well," she starts, shifting slightly, grimacing. "My back's been giving me hell. And there's this persistent itching . . . everywhere." She waves her hand vaguely over her body.
"Those could be side effects from the medication," I explain, adjusting her pillows to help alleviate the pressure on her back."Dr. Schneider mentioned it last week, remember? The itching is common with jaundice, which isn't unusual in pancreatic cancer patients."
"Of course," she sighs, lying back down as I massage a non-prescription lotion into her skin, the kind Dr. Schneider recommended for such annoyances. "It's just so constant."
"An irritation but not alarming, mama," I reassure her, my voice steady like the beat of a drum. "Your liver enzymes are better than they were two months ago. We're heading in the right direction."
She nods, comforted by the certainty in my words. I can see the trust in her eyes, and it buoys me. I have never been more thankful than I am now that I chose to go to nursing school instead of picking law. In these trying times, I've become not just my mama’s daughter but her advocate and conduit to the medical world—I'm her anchor to a disease we are both hell-bent on defeating.
"Thanksgiving will be nice with everyone here," she says after a moment, a spark of something like hope flickering in her gaze.
