Authors: Erica O'Rourke

Tangled (6 page)

BOOK: Tangled

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Warily, I brushed a finger over my wrist, wondering if she could sense my connection to Luc. If so, maybe she wouldn’t attack straight-out, not when I could summon him so quickly.

I pointed to my plastic nametag. “Looks like it, huh?”

“Mo Fitzgerald.”

I set the coffeepot down on the counter. “I didn’t catch your name.”

She brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. “Jenny Kowalski,” she said, lifting her chin and trying for brave. “I think you knew my dad.”

Oh, hell. Not magic, but trouble just the same.

C
HAPTER
9

“Y
ou’re Jenny?” I could see it now, in the shape of her nose, in her coloring. A little bit around the eyes, too. She had the taut, lean look of a distance runner. Maybe she got that from her mom, because Joseph Kowalski had been a big guy, muscle softened to fat over his twenty years with the Chicago Police Department.

I swallowed, looked down at the counter. “I’m really sorry about your dad. He was a good cop.”

“He was a great cop. He was a great dad. Did you know he was retiring soon?”

“He mentioned it.” He’d talked about sending his youngest daughter off to college, then taking his wife to Florida and doing some fishing in the Gulf. No fishing for Kowalski. No watching Jenny cross the stage for her diploma. He’d never do any of those things now.

Because Joseph Kowalski had died trying to save me.

And nobody knew it.

The official story was that he’d gone to investigate a report of a gas leak at the Chicago Water Tower. Nobody made mention of the fact it wasn’t his district or that he’d been off duty for the night. He’d been nearby when the call came across the radio, and he’d checked it out. And been caught inside when the Water Tower exploded.

The real story was that he’d followed me there, trying to piece together the truth of Verity’s death. Evangeline had tricked me into releasing the raw magic, triggering the Torrent. When Kowalski had seen me in danger, he’d braved the magic and the Darklings anyway, trying to bring me out safely. The magic had caught him. He’d never stood a chance.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “How are you doing? Your family?”

I’d seen them huddled together at the funeral, Kowalski’s wife and four daughters, surrounded by a sea of navy blue dress uniforms. The story had been splashed all over the papers, but I was careful not to read the articles. There was nothing left for me to learn about that night.

“Pretty crappy. How’s yours?”

“Mine?”

“Your family. My dad was really interested in your family, did you know that? He talked about you guys all the time.”

“My family didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Verity.”

Elsa told me once that Kowalski had specifically asked for Verity’s case. It must have seemed like a great way to gather evidence against the Chicago Mob. Everyone assumed Verity had been killed by a rival crime organization, probably Russians. They thought she’d been either a mistake—that they were actually supposed to come after me—or a warning, like, “Turn over your territory or your niece is next.” So Kowalski had followed me, looked into Colin’s history, harassed my uncle, and all for nothing. The Outfit wasn’t responsible for Verity’s death. It was magic, and in the end, it killed Kowalski, too.

“You think it was coincidence? A random twist of fate?” I stared at her. Her hands were still trembling, and she pressed them against the counter. I knew that look in her eye, the bewildering grief and rage, the deafening need to make some sense of what had happened. She’d fixed on me as the key to it all.

“Not fate. Awful,” I said. “And unfair. Like what happened to your dad, wrong place, wrong time.”

“No!” Heads turned, and she lowered her voice. “My dad was there because of you. Because you went into that lineup and said you didn’t recognize the perps.”

“I didn’t.”

“They turned up dead a week later.” I must have looked genuinely surprised, because she continued, a bitter twist to her mouth. “Didn’t your uncle tell you? Both of them, execution style. Found in a Dumpster over in Back of the Yards. I saw the pictures.”

My mouth tasted sour. “Pictures?”

She shrugged. “The detectives who caught that case used to play poker with my dad. They don’t like sharing that stuff, but they can’t say no, either.”

“Jenny.” I chose my words carefully. I knew from experience how much people lied to you when you were grieving, thinking they were doing you some sort of favor, protecting you from ugliness. “My family didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your dad. Or Verity. I know he thought otherwise, but he was wrong.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t. Not about this. My uncle didn’t kill your dad.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t. Not himself, that’s not his style. He always makes other people do the dirty work. Someone else takes the fall, pulls the trigger. Like your dad. And ...” She spun around on the cracked vinyl stool, stopping to peer at Colin’s truck. “Your bodyguard. Or is it boyfriend? Dad was never quite sure. Dangerous game, he said, for both of you.”

I stepped back from the counter.

“You don’t even realize, do you? The things your uncle’s done, the things your family’s done ... don’t you ever wonder about the cost? Don’t you think it might be too high? Or are you so happy being ignorant, you don’t even want to know?”

No wonder Luc had thought I was crazy when Verity died, raving about justice and revenge. I must have sounded like this. Except I’d been perfectly sane, and so was Jenny. Witnessing her grief was like falling through a mirror. “What do you want?”

I already knew.

She started to answer, and then her face transformed. In an instant, her eyes turned cheerful and a pleasant, impersonal smile rounded her cheeks. A second later, a hand clapped my shoulder. “Time for Mass. Who’s this?”

Billy. Jenny must have known who he was. Did he know her? My brain scattered, unable to reply.

Jenny stood and slipped on her coat. “Jen,” she said. “A friend, from school.”

“Lovely to meet you, Jen. You’ll have to excuse us, but we’ve got church. If we’re late, my sister will have our heads.” So charming, my uncle, with his snow white hair and neatly groomed beard, eyes creasing in amusement. Like a really deadly garden gnome. In church clothes. Looking at him, you could almost forget how quickly his cheery expression would fall away if you crossed him, replaced with something ruthless and steely.

Almost, but not quite. I’d seen firsthand how tightly Billy clung to power. It seemed wiser to keep myself out of his range.

“Sure. See you around, Mo.”

She tucked some money under her plate, which I still hadn’t cleared, and left without another word.

“We’re already late,” Billy said, glancing around the nearly empty Slice. “Best to clean up your friend’s mess quickly.”

C
HAPTER
10

H
ere’s something you should know about my school. St. Brigid’s, while being one of the most expensive and prestigious girls’ schools in the city, is also a regular neighborhood church. This has its benefits—after all, few schools with such a sterling reputation to uphold would accept the daughter of a convicted felon, unless the family was a member of the parish. A family who was happy to make sizeable donations every time the kitchen needed repairs or the air conditioning went out or the rectory was being remodeled.

There are also drawbacks. In my case, it meant an increased chance of my family running into my teachers, or at least the ones who wore white collars or black habits. A year ago, it wouldn’t have been a problem—they would have sung my praises, all about how nice and hardworking and responsible I was. These days, it was a different tune.

After the service, we joined the crowd in the parish hall, everyone clutching cups of weak coffee and pumpkin loaf on paper plates. The kids my age—some who went to school with us, a lot who didn’t—stood in a circle, talking and texting at the same time. Their language was as foreign to me as the Arcs’. I’d never be fluent in such carefree chatter.

Slumping against the wall, exhausted and suddenly, throat-tighteningly lonely, I watched as my uncle worked the room. He was in rare form, jovial and expansive. Maybe it had something to do with Elsa’s visit. He shook hands, inquired about people’s families, made sure everything in his little empire was running as it should. It was only recently that I’d started to notice what had been there all along—the thin coat of fear that overlaid the respect everyone treated him with.

Fresh anger surged through me. He’d cost me so much, and he didn’t even care, because he still got what he wanted, and I got ... nothing. A guy who wouldn’t be with me, a school full of people who thought I was a freak and a criminal, an absentee father. My fingers curled into fists. I needed to escape before I created a scene that would only confirm everyone’s belief I was losing my mind.

Ducking my head, I started for the exit, only to stop as someone grabbed my arm. I stumbled at the unexpected change of direction.

“Who’s got you lookin’ so fierce?” Luc asked.

“I’m not—” The words were automatic, and totally untrue. I shook off Luc’s hold and glared at him. “What are you doing here? Did Orla change her mind?”

“We need to talk.”

“I’m at church. It’s kind of a bad time.”

“Can’t be helped.” Even casually dressed, in a black sweater and dark jeans, he still managed to look more elegant and appealing than anyone else in the room. His eyes swept the clusters of people. “Where’s Cujo?”

“His place, I guess.” I didn’t want to talk about Colin. It was too raw and Luc was too perceptive.

“Doesn’t seem like him, letting you out of his sight. Sloppy.”

I’d forgotten how quickly Luc could make me bristle. “We’re here with my uncle.”

“No need for your own personal guard dog, hmn?”

“Billy takes care of us.” And better care of himself. I scanned the room. No one had noticed Luc, and when I concentrated, I could detect the faint hum of magic coming off him. He’d cloaked himself. Everyone probably thought I was talking to myself. Great.

Luc could talk if he wanted. I didn’t have to say anything. Instead, I watched the people, like I always did. They were so predictable—the same groups, week after week, taking up their same positions, having the same discussions. But something seemed off, like the camera didn’t quite have the right angle. Something was different, more than Luc’s presence at my shoulder, a centimeter too close, like always. I listened to the ebb and flow of conversations, the way voices rose up in excitement and dropped off to a hush, the lulls that sometimes overtook the whole room. When I heard the quiet burble of my mom’s laughter, I zeroed in on it. That was the difference: my mom.

Usually, she drifted around the room, stopping to visit with acquaintances. It was the opposite of my uncle, who let everyone come to him. He moved, and the room moved with him, another reminder of who held the power. In contrast, my mom always approached each little group, like she was seeking admission. Tonight, people were flocking to her side. Clusters of women around the room murmured to each other, eyeing my mother discreetly. One of them would break away, oh-so casually, and sidle up to Mom, who glowed under their attention.

I thought back to Elsa’s visit, Mom’s hasty exit. If there was one thing my family excelled at, it was keeping secrets. “I’ll be right back,” I murmured to Luc, barely moving my lips.

He frowned, fingers brushing my sleeve. “Mouse, I’m serious. Let’s go someplace we can talk.”

I waved him off, starting across the room at the same time I spotted Sister Donna making her way toward my mom like a black-sailed ship. The crowd scattered once Sister’s intentions were clear, but I edged closer.

A brisk greeting, and Sister launched right in. “I have concerns,” she said. Forget the nurturing nun who passed out cups of Earl Grey in her office—that was an act reserved for college recruiters. The real Sister Donna was as ruthless as one of the traders at the Board of Trade. “Grave concerns.”

“Is Mo acting up?” Mom asked, worry settling over her like a damp wool blanket. It was her greatest fear—I might be causing trouble, bringing shame on the family. Because we didn’t have enough already.

“She’s distracted. The quality of her work is merely adequate, not at all what we’re accustomed to. Her class participation has subsided. Several of her teachers are rethinking their decisions to write letters of recommendation.”

My legs went numb. I hadn’t known.

Sister continued, folding her hands at her waist. “We’re sympathetic, of course, and I have tried to help, but she’s making it quite difficult. She refuses to speak with her guidance counselor since the incident.” Verity’s murder. Which was apparently now referred to as “The Incident.”

My mother frowned, twisting her fingers together. “She said everything was going well.”

Sister Donna shook her head. “She lied, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“She wouldn’t do that. Not my Mo.”

“She cut class today.”

Damn. I ducked behind a group of young moms and squabbling preschoolers as my mom said, “There must be some mistake. Mo doesn’t cut class. She’s never cut class.”

“Earlier this fall,” Sister reminded her. “During her meeting with the representative from NYU.”

“That was stress,” Mom protested, head swiveling back and forth as she searched the room for me. “She’s not serious about going to New York, you know. It’s just a phase. It didn’t hurt anything for her to leave.”

Sister Donna’s forehead crinkled slightly, incredulous. “Perhaps there’s something else going on?” she said, dropping her voice to a near whisper. “Something at home that might trigger this sort of behavior?”

There it was: the real reason Sister Donna had sought out my mom. She wanted the gossip as much as anyone—she was simply more direct about it. I inched toward them, hoping to catch my mother’s reply, when Luc’s hand cupped my elbow.

“When you gonna learn, Mouse? You ain’t invisible anymore.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” I said. “Can we do this later?”

He sighed dramatically, cutting his eyes to where his fingers pressed against the crook of my elbow. The faint hum of magic I had sensed before was now encircling me, too.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’re on a schedule.”

“—about her father,” Mom was saying as we approached. “But she hasn’t even heard the good news yet.”

I went still so abruptly, Luc almost let go.

“Oh?” Sister Donna asked.

“He’s coming home soon. We’d thought it would be late spring or summer, but he’s been a model ... citizen. They’re releasing him early. February.”

A buzzing sounded in my ears, a hum that was more misery than magic, and my vision narrowed, the rest of the room falling away. All I could see was my mom, so delighted with her news, practically radiant. My father was coming home.

Early.
Months
early.

No matter where I went to school, we’d be under the same roof for almost six months before I could escape.

My entire body went hot, then cold, and I swayed, suddenly grateful for Luc’s hand at my elbow. Even though I knew his spell hid us, it felt like everyone in the room was staring, the intensity of their interest in our little family drama suffocating me.

“Let’s go,” I said to Luc.

“What?”

“You wanted to talk? Let’s talk. Just get me away from here.”

His mouth curved upward, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thought you’d never ask,” he said, and ushered me out into the biting November night.

BOOK: Tangled

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