Page 42 of Blood in the Water

“I’m worried about everyone,” he said.

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry for putting us in this position, Dad.”

He waved away the words. “It doesn’t even need to be said.”

She took a sip of her tea and hunched down into the blanket. “If we had to be on the lam, I guess this is about as good as it gets.”

“Nolan has been very generous,” her father said.

She sensed the reservation in his voice. “What’s on your mind, Dad?”

He looked into the fire. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t take care of you — of your mother and Owen — like this.”

“You take care of us just fine. We’ve never wanted for anything. The number of people who could do something like this — for anyone — is extremely small.”

Her dad scowled. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe him anything.”

“I don’t feel that way, Dad. I love him.” She stuck one of her fingers through a hole in the blanket, thinking about the money she’d taken from Nolan’s mother. “I’ve always loved him.”

“Your mother told me,” he said.

“I figured.”

“If he loves you, he’ll understand.” Her father looked around. “And I think it’s safe to say he loves you.”

She smiled. “You think?”

“I think.”

A gust of wind shook the windows. “Think the storm will be bad?” she asked.

“Hard to say.”

“I’ll help you bring in extra wood in the morning,” she said. “We’ll get out the shortwave radio Nolan said is in the attic and make sure we have the candles and lanterns ready to go, the battery backups charged for Owen’s emergency equipment. We’ll be prepared.”

Her father turned his eyes to the windows, the cold night pressing in, black and fathomless on the other side. “Sometimes the storms you think you’re prepared for are the worst ones of all.”

The words sounded ominous in the dim light of the fire and Bridget had to push away the fear that suddenly swelled in her chest, the feeling that her father was talking about more than the weather.

23

Nolan stood at the window of the room at the Crowne Plaza, his eyes on the steely sky, the few trees in the parking lot bending in the wind.

“Do you get this kind of weather often?”

He turned to find Christophe standing beside him, his gaze following Nolan’s to the storm-dark sky.

“Often enough,” Nolan said.

“You’re worried about Miss Monaghan,” Christophe said. “Will she be all right on the island?”

“I think so.” The house was well-stocked and fortified for storms like this one. They would probably lose power, but the generator was full of gas and would kick on automatically. He’d checked it himself.

There was plenty of wood for the fireplace and the shortwave radio would keep them updated on the weather. As long as they stayed put until it passed, they would be fine. The house had sustained hundreds of nor’easters in the decades it had been standing.

Still, a sense of disquiet had plagued him during the hours they’d spent going over the names of Seamus’s menwho wanted to defect to the Syndicate. Will and Nolan had spent the morning giving their opinions on the reliability and intentions of each while Christophe and Farrell made notes.

Christophe had sent two of the men out for takeout for lunch, and they’d eaten burgers and fries while Nolan and Will went over all the locations scheduled to be part of phase two.