Page 125 of Retribution

So when I learned I was dying, I took a risk. I used the money from the house to put out a hit on Eamon Donaghey. Did you wonder where that money went? Why I had none? I used my funds to pay the Volkovs to take him out. I thought they would. They promised me they would. As of now, they’ve done nothing. At some point, I won’t even remember I paid them.

I wanted you to realize I tried. I wanted your father’s death, Chad’s death, to count, to matter, for someone to pay for what happened to them. When I approached the Russians, it seemed like the most important thing, worth my money.

I’m sorry I never told you. You are your father’s daughter. I didn’t want to lose you, too, in this fruitless search for retribution. We were never going to win. The odds were stacked against us.

Maybe now, with your connections, you can finally figure it out. Lay it to rest. Maybe even find a path to justice for our family.

I love you—always, forever, no matter what. Even though none of us are there anymore in body, we’re around you, watching you, loving you from afar. If there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s that. Not even death can sever our love for you.

With all my heart, Mom.

The words blur as I read through the letter again and again. She’s right. I am my father’s daughter. My instinct is to dig, to dig so deep the truth has to surface. Did the Russians take her money and bide their time? Or did something else happen altogether?

Glancing at the clock again, I realize I haven’t eaten dinner, and it’s almost midnight. I’m not hungry, but sitting with these piles of paper, reliving my mother’s anguish and my father’s frustrations won’t get me anywhere.

I toss the letter onto the bed and press the heels of my hands into my forehead. Crying has given me a massive headache. With a sigh, I exit the room and close the door behind me. I fiddle with the handle to make sure it’s locked and then wander the hall to the kitchen. I’ve gotten used to eating in Lorcan’s kitchenette the last few days, and it’s strange to be going to the bigger space.

As I’m heating up milk, someone pauses in the doorway.

“Warm milk?” Finn’s attention rakes over me. “You’re feeling like a cliché tonight, are you?”

“No,” I snap. “I’m feeling like I need a bit of comfort. I’m not in the mood. Go somewhere else for five minutes while I finish up here.”

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“My mother died.” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and my voice catches on the last word. My bottom lip trembles, and I cross my arms and turn away from him.

Finn’s quiet for a moment, but he comes farther into the kitchen to the island. “Saying I’m sorry to hear that makes me feel like an inadequate dick.”

“Well, it’s all about how you feel, I guess.”

Finn snorts. “Still is, actually.” He runs a hand through his hair. “’Cause I understand what it’s like to have your mom die unexpectedly.”

Tears pool in my eyes, but I don’t want his concern.

“Do you want to talk about it? Does Lorcan know?”

“He knows. And no, I don’t have any desire to talk about it with you.”

“Fair enough.” He eases onto a stool.

I lean against the counter. When the microwave pings, I grab my milk then take a long drink.

Anger is coursing through me, chased by grief. I’m so tired of dancing around the things I want to know. Giving him a calculating look, I say, “I want to talk about you.”

Finn raises his eyebrows.

“When your mom died, Lorcan killed the mechanic who screwed with your mom’s brakes.”

With a sigh, he eyes me but stays quiet.

“Why’d you get mad at him?”

“’Cause it wasn’t his fight. I shoulda had that satisfaction.”

“What’d you do instead? You told me once you took care of it or something like that.”

“Why do you care?”