Page 2 of Bracing The Storm

“As in…away?” Does he want me to shoo him off like you shoo off an annoying fly, kick him out of his car, maybe pretend that I’m stealing his cab?

Actually, that last part makes little to no sense.

I gawk at him in disbelief. Whywouldhe want me to steal his cab?

Maybe he’s sick of driving me around and charging a fortune in the process. But he seems like a good person who wants to help a damsel in distress. Maybe he’s hoping to make it look like grand theft auto for insurance purposes? I get a car to find my way to my destination without paying an arm and a leg, and he gets a new ride. Sounds like a win-win situation.

Oh, hell no!

“I’m really sorry but I can’t.” I shake my head vehemently. “No, sir. I’m the honest type. As generous as your offer is, in a mobster kind of way, I might add, I’ll have to politely decline.”

He frowns.

I take a sharp breath, realizing I’m not giving him the answer he wants to hear, which in turn might make him angry. I’ll be kicked out in no time. I peer around me as I consider my words carefully. His car looks a little worse for wear and could draw its last drop of gas any second. I’ve seen vehicles in better condition at the automobile graveyard. I know because I got mine from there. He’s not going to dump this on me.

“I’m sure some people would jump at such a generous offer,” I say. “But I couldn’t be involved in any sort of dishonesty.”

“That letter you keep clutching to your chest, like a drowning rat a life raft. Shoo it to me,” the driver says and holds out his hand. I swear there’s a glint in his eyes, like he’s messing with me on purpose while the meter’s still running. “Do you have an address where you need to go?”

That “go” sounds like “goo”.

I laugh because I’m officially an idiot. “Oh, you want me toshowyou the map.” I make sure to overemphasize the word, and he nods. “I?—”

I hesitate, considering my options. The letter is marked as “confidential” and explicitly asks me not to share the information, in particular the whereabouts of the Walsh estate, with anyone. Apparently, the people who lived there valuedtheir privacy. It doesn’t even come with an address, that’s how exclusive it is.

Then again, given that I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere I’m sure the legal firm would understand my predicament and agree to making an exception.

“Just a quick peek.” I rummage through my handbag, past chocolate wrappers, lipstick, and everything that was too precious to pack into my suitcase and risk losing.

Disclosure: I don’t trust airplanes with their crowded cargo holds that could probably hide an entire army of the living dead and no one would suspect a thing; apart from me, that is.

I finally find the letter stashed between a chunk of tissues and a magazine a nice old lady gave me at the airport after she caught me snooping over her shoulder.

“I got this in the mail the other day.” I hand over the letter and wait to catch his expression, convinced that I’m making a mistake. I don’t like breaking the law or rules.

Besides, I really shouldn’t trust a stranger with my personal stuff. But there’s something about him that tells me he might not be out to kill me after all.

It’s the photo dangling on the dashboard, I realize. It depicts a middle-aged woman with her arms wrapped around a boy and a girl. It could be fake for all I know, strategically placed there to induce a false sense of security into unsuspecting victims. But even I realize that sounds a bit out of a Netflix movie.

I clear my throat and wait for him to make whatever he wants of the letter. I chew on my lower lip as his expression changes into a frown.

What’s wrong?

Why is he frowning?

Is the letter nothing but a big hoax and I was stupid enough to fall for it? Maybe the scam is well known in Ireland and he doesn’t want to break my heart by telling me.

“Well?” I prompt, hoping he can’t sense the sudden anxiety that’s sent my stomach into painful knots.

Stomach ulcers, here I come.

“You pronounced it wrong, love. I can’t take you there. Sorry.” He hands me the letter and retrieves a sleek-looking phone. I can’t help but stare. We’re in the middle of nowhere and here’s their newest version I would call “does-the-world-really-need-it?”. Trust the brand manufacturer to know how to sell their products even in an area with cell coverage that is spotty at best.

“What do you mean you can’t take me there?”

He shrugs and points out the window at the setting sun. “It’s getting late. The wife expects me back for dinner. You know the saying ‘happy wife, happy home?’ Can’t keep the old crow waiting.”

I stare at him for a moment, unsure whether he really just called his wife an “old crow” or whether my brain’s just not very good at converting his accent into words that actually make sense.

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