Page 90 of Her Irish Savage

I stalk to the gun I forced Fiona to drop. It’s a snub-nosed Ruger, with a textured grip. It could be useful down the road, especially since there’s nothing to connect it to this slaughterhouse. I drop it in the pocket of my trousers.

“Let’s go,” I say to Fiona.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She sounds like she’s twelve, instead of twenty-four.

She squawks when I swoop her into a fireman’s carry. She tries to elbow my face, but she can’t get any leverage. She kicks like a mule, but she can’t make contact with her feet either.

I drop her onto the Land Rover’s passenger seat, hard enough to clack her teeth together because I can’t risk her getting any brilliant ideas about running away. I slam her door closed and don’t waste any time circling around and getting behind the wheel. It’s easy enough to flip the switch that child-locks the doors—great for families, I hear, but better for kidnappers.

Neither of us says a word as I drive across town. I follow the speed limit like I’m a priest taking communion to my elderly granny. I treat yellow lights like they’re red. I count to five at stop signs.

When I get to Beacon Street, I stop in front of the apartment. I ignore my open space at the fire hydrant. I turn on my flashers so I don’t cause an accident.

Flicking the button to release Fiona’s door, I say, “Get out.”

She stares straight ahead, as if she’s been struck deaf.

“I swear to God,” I tell her. “I will throw you over my shoulder and drop you in front of that goddamn door.”

Thatmakes her look at me. “Of course you will,” she says, etching each word with acid. And then she nails my coffin shut: “Daddy.”

She’s not trying to seduce me. She’s not even playing bait and switch.

She’s shoving an ice pick into the base of my brain and dripping in venom after.

As if there could be any doubt, she gets out of the car then, closing the door like she’s cradling a basket of eggs. She walks up the steps like a queen on parade, like she’s reviewing the troops of her own private army.

It takes every last fiber of my shredded self-control to keep from flooring the Land Rover as I turn off the flashers and pull away. Two miles down the road, I turn into a public parking garage. I navigate three levels of the ramp before easing into a space between a twenty-year-old Camry and a sleek BMW sedan.

The Camry owner takes care of his car. He’s made it last, even in Massachusetts, where winter salt and sand eat everything on the road. So I’ll fuck over the Beemer’s owner instead.

Pennsylvania only requires plates on the back of a car, which leaves the BMW’s front looking empty after I swap the plates.Fuck it. The owner will notice. That means I need to make another stop.

I exit the garage and drive a few more well-regulated miles before I pull into another garage. This one’s less crowded. I have to work fast, but I switch the Beemer’s plates with the ones on a family minivan.

That’s good enough for now. I only have to get far enough to sell the fucking car.

Who am I kidding? I’m leaving this one at a chop shop. And the shops I know best are all down in Philadelphia.

I’m nearly at Boston’s city limits when I realize Fiona left her stiletto heels behind.

I toss one out the window as I merge onto the interstate. The other one goes when I cross into Connecticut. After that, it’s a long, mind-numbing haul, sticking to the speed limit every mile of the road.

35

FIONA

The man lived here for two months, but there’s little sign of him around the apartment. There are six hangers in the closet, holding dress shirts, pants, and his plain black suit. There’s one drawer in the dresser, filled with socks and underwear, with solid-color T-shirts folded into perfect dark rectangles. There’s a shelf in the medicine cabinet—a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a toothbrush.

And an amber bottle of pills.

Fuck the pills. Fuck Patrick Moran. He’s a fucking criminal mastermind. He can get more fucking pills whenever he needs them.

I shove all his crap into the duffel bag he carried when we drove up from Philadelphia. While I’m at it, I add my dress. I’ll never be able to look at it again without thinking about this fiasco of a night.

I want to drench it all in lighter fluid and set it on fire in the backyard, but one of my neighbors would probably complainabout the smoke. With my luck, they’d call the cops. And theGlobewould be monitoring the police scanner. Along with every podcaster in the state. Every last one of them would show up on my doorstep, and my face would be spread across the Internet with enough information to let any idiot track me:Beacon Street Bonfire Battle.

Fuck my life.

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