Inked Magic (35 page)

He released Etaín, though his hand settled at the base of her spine, and despite the churn of emotions inside him, he didn’t bother lying to himself by claiming he did it only to send a message to his uncle.

“When will I get the rest of the drawings?” Denis asked.

The question was a kick to Cathal’s gut. An accusation as he looked from his uncle to Etaín.

“You can have them now,” Etaín said.

The dead calmness of Denis’s voice after probably having looked at the first set of drawings made her wonder if he intended to take them to the police.
Not my business
, she thought, dismissing the question.

She offered him the tablet but found she couldn’t release it without meeting his eyes, without reminding him there could be consequences if he allowed himself to act on the emotions she knew churned inside him. “Brianna needs you to be there for her.”

He didn’t give a hint of his intentions away, just said, “I am. I will be,” before accompanying them to just inside the front door and returning the favor by giving her a warning. “You might want to stay clear of Stylin’ Ink for a few days.”

Every muscle tensed. “Why?”

“Media is camped out there. News story just broke and they’re trying to get a look at the woman they think is helping the Harlequin Rapist taskforce.”

“Any pictures of me circulating?”

“No.”

“Good. Thanks for letting me know.”

Denis placed a hand on Cathal’s shoulder. “A moment of your time.”

It was the perfect opening for her to leave. “I’ll head out now. I’ve
got a funeral to go to.” There was no reason to avoid it and if she was careful she wouldn’t be noticed.

A quick in and out to show Jamaal the drawing, then she’d figure out what she’d do next. She couldn’t bolt until after the fund-raiser. But maybe then she’d head to LA or Vegas and do a stint as a guest artist.

Cathal didn’t let her escape that easily. He turned her toward him, taking her mouth in a possessive storming, reaffirming what he’d said moments earlier, that they
would
return to their discussion about Eamon.

She didn’t know what she’d tell him. What she could possibly say that would make him okay with her being with Eamon and with him, but she wanted to find those words.

Days ago even the thought of a long-term relationship would have scared her. But with the electric hum of desire coursing through her, it was hard to think of anything beyond getting naked so skin could touch skin.

Cathal ended the kiss and let her go, reluctantly. His uncle waited for the sound of the Harley’s engine before saying. “You need to stay away from her now.”

“I could say the same to you. She’s my concern, not yours.”

Something moved through Denis’s eyes. There and gone too quickly for him to read it.

“Think, Cathal, with your head instead of your dick. Consider what might happen if some news reporter snaps off a picture of her with you. You want to give them a face to go with the name they’ve already got? You want her family to see who she’s associating with and reel her in? Ask questions? She doesn’t need the danger being identified with you would bring her.”

Denis’s voice was smooth glass delivering a truth Cathal wanted to ignore. He was often photographed, especially when he took a woman somewhere other than Saoirse.

And beneath the truth was a message it would be foolish to ever
forget. If Etaín talked, implicating his father and uncle in any way after they’d delivered their brand of justice, they’d have her killed.

He didn’t think he’d be able to turn Denis away from his chosen course, but for Etaín, he had to risk trying. He glanced down at the sketchpad. “There’s her father to consider. Her brother. They would be willing to take action.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“I’m going to see her again. I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”

“Then be careful. And make sure she is. Everybody knows this Harlequin Rapist is going to take another woman.”

A chill swept through Cathal. Fear for Etaín, that his uncle might already be thinking of a way to cover her disappearance. Meanings within meanings or just the usual paranoia, he couldn’t be certain what was behind Denis’s warning.

Sean’s assertion that sharing Etaín with Eamon might be necessary to keep her safe sliced through Cathal’s chest like talons and dug into his heart. “If that’s all, I need to get to Saoirse.”

Denis clapped his nephew on the back. “Go. Your father’s proud of what you’ve accomplished. So am I.”

He turned from the door after Cathal’s departure, mind seizing with the sight of Matt coming to an abrupt halt at the top of the staircase. “Clara said come quick.”

He took the steps at a run. His heart pounding the way it had when he’d raced to the pool.

The hallway telescoped into a kaleidoscope of images from the past. Of the dead.

He braced himself. Prepared for the worst, his throat clogging as he stepped into Brianna’s room, then clogging further at discovering her awake, her eyes clear and comprehending, seeming huge in a face that was still gaunt and pale from her attempts to starve herself.

“Dad? I want to get out of bed but she says I can’t. What’s going on? Why do I have catheters in my arms and this thing my stomach?”

Tears streamed down his cheeks then, and he didn’t care they were witnessed. He rushed to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed and gathering her into a hug, trying to be gentle in spite of the fierce, wild emotions boiling inside him.

“You’re crushing me,” she said, the laughter in her voice and the way she hugged him making the tears fall harder.

“Some privacy, Clara.”

The nurse left them.

“Dad, what’s going on?”

Fear now in her voice. Worry. And it was intolerable to him.

“What do you remember?” he asked, aware of the sketchpad he’d dropped on the floor in his haste to get to Brianna, the hair on his arms and neck rising again because of Etaín.

“I . . . I went to Caitlyn’s house.” It ended in a whisper. “What happened, Dad? Please tell me what happened.”

Nothing. Nothing.
Everything inside him wanted to shield her from the truth. How could he tell his baby girl that she’d been raped, violated?

He closed his eyes, willing the tears to stop and praying for answers. He couldn’t go through what he’d just gone through. He couldn’t lose her again.

Her arms tightened on him. “Did Caitlyn and I go somewhere?”

Her question helped him find his way, like a man in an abyss following a faint, faint light out of it. “Yes, but I don’t know where.” Not the full truth but enough for now. “You were found in her mother’s car, overdosed. Caitlyn died without regaining consciousness.”

Sobs wracked Brianna, so violent he opened his mouth, ready to call for Clara only to shut it when he imagined the nurse drawing a syringe. He couldn’t stand the thought of having Brianna sedated again.

Her cries ripped through him, but as bad as they made him feel, this was better than before. She was clinging to him, her tears wetting his neck and soaking his shirt.

“You’re going to be okay,” he told her, over and over again, rubbing her back, rocking her until exhaustion left her limp and her sobs became tiny gasps of sound.

He leaned forward, settling her onto the mattress and pulling the covers up to her chin. There was bruising beneath her eyes and he cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the dark stain of undeserved suffering. “Sleep, Brianna. Clara will come back and sit with you.”

She grabbed his hand before he could stand. “We wouldn’t have taken drugs on purpose.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“I don’t remember any of it, Daddy.”

“It’s better that way. You’ve been . . . lost in your own mind. Now all that matters is what happens from this day forward.”

He reached down, picking up the sketch pad before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep now. I’ve got some business I need to attend to.”

E
taín blended easily into the streams of people heading toward the church DaWanda attended. She’d been there a couple of times before, for a client’s wedding and then to listen to one of Jamaal’s cousins sing.

It sat on the corner, a building originating as a church rather than a converted storefront as several others on the block had. The people making their way toward it were a mix of races, some dressed up and some dressed down.

The media waited in force. Policemen were visible, too, officers in uniforms and a few others she recognized in plain clothes.

She’d braided her hair and tucked it under a ball cap blocks away where she’d left the Harley. Still, as she neared the front doors, she ducked her head and hunched her shoulders, attaching herself to a cluster of people to pass unnoticed into the church.

It was already standing room only inside.

The sight of the casket at the front made her shiver. In the pockets of her jacket, she curled her hands into fists, the vines along her arms seeming to whisper as she fought to keep Tyra’s reality from overwhelming her.

Looking away from the dark box, she pushed further into the packed church, searching for Jamaal. Sweat clinging to her skin from the growing heat of so many people crammed into one room.

Finally she spotted him, seated near the front next to DaWanda and impossible to get to. She maneuvered to a place where she thought she’d be able to intercept him at the end of the service.

He felt her stare and turned his head. Their eyes met.
Are you fucking insane?
he mouthed.

She used hand signals to indicate she needed to talk to him. He held up his phone but she shook her head.

The music grew louder, blanketing the hushed murmur of hundreds of conversations before ebbing into silence.

The service began.

A homegoing, they called it.

It became harder and harder to hold back Tyra’s stolen reality as they talked about her life. Her struggles with addiction and victory over it. Her hopes and dreams and her faith.

Etaín dug her fingernails into her palms as if she would blind the eyes there. Tears flowed down her cheeks as around her she saw the same on other faces.

The urge to escape built. Only sheer determination kept her standing until the final hymn and the dismissal.

The pressure lessened as the church began emptying.

It disappeared completely when Jamaal and DaWanda reached her.

“Hey girl,” DaWanda said, embracing her in a bone crushing hug. “They’re talking some crazy stuff about you on the radio.”

“I know. Mind if I talk to Jamaal privately for a few minutes?”

“He’ll take you through the church so you can leave out the kitchen door.”

Another hug and DaWanda joined the flow of people exiting the building.

Etaín followed Jamaal into a hallway crowded by robed choir members. As soon as they got clear of them he pulled her into a room that looked like it was used for Sunday school.

Jamaal’s smooth features turned fierce. “Bryce said your brother
and another Fed came around the other day. Tell me you’re not letting Parker put a big fucking bull’s-eye on your back.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what’s all this shit the news people are talking? Why are you here?”

“Later, okay? Right now I need you to look at a tat and tell me if you know whose work it is or if you remember seeing it on anyone.”

Pulling the picture from her pocket she held it out to him. He crossed his arms, his face hardening into a mask of refusal. “This involve the Harlequin Rapist?”

Nobody did
impasse
better than Jamaal. “Yes.”

“Your brother put you up to this? Doing the job for the PO-lice now? When he knows this twisted motherfucker might go for you?”

“All the more reason to catch him, don’t you think?”

Jamaal cursed and unfolded his arms. He took the paper and opened it.

She saw the answer on his face. “You recognize it.”

“Looks like Deon Gold’s work. Pass that name on to your brother, then leave town for a while. Take Ladell up on his invite to do work on the rich and stoned down in LA.”

“You know where they can find Deon?”

“Jail or dead. Dropped off the face of the earth a while back. Did some bad shit and got the FBI wanting him. Easy enough for your brother to get the details.”

There was more, something in his voice alerted her to it. He started to turn and the hand she had on his suit-jacketed arm slid downward, toward bare skin.

Insidious temptation crept into her. The touch of the eye to his hand and she could know what he was hiding.

She tightened her fingers, to stop herself instead of him, horror rolling through her at having evidence that if she wasn’t careful, her gift might control her, might take where she would ask.

“Please, Jamaal. You know more than you’re saying. Tell me. For Tyra, if you won’t do it because I’m asking.”

Against her palm she felt him deflate, the air going out on a long-suffering sigh. “Friends don’t let friends do crazy shit by themselves. But if I skip out on DaWanda now to go with you—because I know you’re not going to wait—there’ll be trouble at home until I get back on her good side.”