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"Mom will be thrilled." I manage a smile that he can't see but hope he can sense. "What time do you land?"
"Touchdown at 6 AM, your time on Tuesday. Can’t wait to see you and Mom, T."
The finality in his tone mirrors the uncertainty behind our gathering; family brought together by the shadow of what might be. Mom had a few really good weeks, but she seems to have more bad days than good.
Dr. Schneider doesn’t seem to be overly concerned, but this is not his loved one; this is not his sole parent. He says there’s nothing to worry about, that Mom’s numbers look good, but when you are the one watching a loved one go through something, it keeps you up at night, even if you can read the reports and understand the numbers.
“T, are you still there? I feel like I’m talking to myself,” Dick’s voice fishes me out of a pool of retrospection.
"Sorry, Dick. I’m just a little tired. Care if we speak tomorrow? I’m really poopped," I whisper.
“Sorry, kiddo. I can be so insensitive sometimes. It is late over there. Yes. Let’s talk tomorrow. Nanite.”
“Nanite.” I end the call and pocket the phone, feeling its weight like a talisman of normalcy, an anchor to a life before cancer became our uninvited guest.
Slipping silently back into the library, I hope Mama is asleep, surrounded by old family photos of our lives before Liam and cancer threw a monkey’s wrench on it and the scent of antiseptic and musty old books.
"Tony?" Her voice cuts through the quiet. Eyes open, she watches me approach.
"Couldn't sleep again, huh?" I ask softly, pulling a chair beside her bed.
She shakes her head, a wry smile playing on her lips. "My stomach's doing somersaults again, and this headache won't quit."
"Dr. Schneider said it's your body recalibrating after chemo," I remind her gently, reaching for her hand. "Remember he explained that the pancreas affects digestion and blood sugar levels? These are normal and nothing to worry about. Do you need the bedpan?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t feel bloated. I just feel weird all over.”
"Radiation therapy can weaken bones and muscles," I explain, my voice calm and clinical.
"Thanks, my girl. For being here, for . . . everything." Her voice trails off, lost in a moment of gratitude that fills the room like sunlight.
"Always, Mama."
Chapter twenty-seven
THE CHURCH IS YOUR REFUGE.
LIAM
The hard, unyielding bare pew digs into my bottom and back as I desperately try to catch my breath. My once crisp suit is now ruined, wrinkled, and stained with blood that seeped through the fabric when Max's body fell on top of me a little while ago.
I can still feel the warmth of his life slipping away from him, his eyes dimming slowly, his face pale and flushed with sweat. There was someone out there with a gun bent on killing me, and poor Max got caught in the crossfire on his very first day of protecting me. Somewhere in this city, there is a mother or a father who has lost a son.
I didn’t even have time to find out if he was married or not . . . somewhere out there, there might be a family waiting for Max to come home, and he isn’t. These things should be the expectation of families of people guarding high-target people like the president . . . not someone like me.
I doubt when Max accepted the job this morning, even though the perils of the job itself should be evident in the job title; I doubt Max thought it would come to this. Who would? I might come from a very wealthy family, but I’m still just me. I don’t make friends easily, but I also don’t go around offending people—not enough to want to kill me for it.
Threatening to do something, to make a point, like my father did on that mega fight, is one thing. This . . . what happened tonight—this is madness. There’s nothing I have done that warrants this.
My mouth feels dry and metallic now from the adrenaline and fears coursing through me, even in the sanctity of this church.Doesn’t evil sleep?
"I need you to tell me everything, Liam, but take your time," Father O'Malley’s voice interrupts my thoughts, his eyes filled with concern. "Tell me what happened."
My voice comes out shaky, but I manage to recount the unnerving events of the day. I tell him about the black sedan outside the Winston's, the feeling of being followed, spotting the same car lurking near my parking garage, and then Martin hiring a bodyguard for me.
As I describe leaving my office with Max, the newly hired bodyguard, and the assassination attempt that left him dead in my driveway, Father O'Malley listens intently, his face growing more serious with every word.
"Did you call the cops?" he asks.
