Chapter 2 - THE NAME THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN IMPOSSIBLE
“The bomber says your nurse paid him eighteen thousand dollars to put the bomb under your car.”
For three seconds, nobody breathed.
Then Desmond Gallagher slowly turned his wheelchair toward me.
“What did you say, Frankie?”
Frankie's face looked almost gray beneath the bedroom lights.
“Dennis Pike. We found him hiding in a repair shop outside Joliet. He gave us the name of the person who hired him.”
Desmond's icy blue eyes settled on mine.
“Tell her.”
Frankie swallowed.
“Nora Walsh.”
My name.
The name printed on my nursing license.
The name my eight-year-old daughter wrote on homemade Mother's Day cards.
I actually laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes your brain hears something so ridiculous that laughter is the only response available.
“That's impossible.”
Desmond didn't blink.
“Is it?”
I stood beside his bed, still holding the bottle of baclofen I'd been about to give him.
“Six months ago, I was working twelve-hour shifts at St. Agnes Community Clinic. I didn't even know you.”
“Apparently,” Frankie said, “someone knew you.”
I looked at him.
“Are you seriously suggesting I planted a bomb and then showed up six months later to wipe this man's backside?”
“Nora,” Desmond warned.
“No. Absolutely not.”
I put the medication on the bedside table.
“You hired me because four other nurses couldn't stand you. I took this job because my car is practically held together with duct tape and I have a daughter to support. I'm not part of some criminal conspiracy.”
Frankie's expression changed slightly.
“A daughter?”
I immediately regretted saying it.
Desmond noticed.
“How old?”
“Eight.”
“Where is she?”
“With my mother.”
“Does she know where you work?”
“She knows I take care of someone who needs help.”
Desmond looked toward Frankie.
“Leave us.”
“Boss—”
“Now.”
Frankie hesitated before stepping outside.
The door closed.
For the first time since I'd arrived at the Gallagher estate, I was genuinely afraid of the man in the wheelchair.
Not because of his reputation.
Because I had seen how quickly he could stop being human when someone threatened him.
“Look at me,” Desmond said.
I did.
“Did you have anything to do with the explosion?”
“No.”
“Did you know Dennis Pike?”
“No.”
“Have you ever taken money from one of my competitors?”
“I wouldn't recognize your competitors if they walked into this room carrying name tags.”
He studied my face.
Then he asked something unexpected.
“Why didn't you run when Frankie said your name?”
I glanced toward the door.
“Because running would make me look guilty. And because you still need your medication.”
His expression shifted.
Just a little.
“You think I'm going to believe you because you care about my pills?”
“I think you should believe evidence. That's what reasonable people do.”
He gave a bitter smile.
“Reasonable people don't survive long in my business.”
“Maybe that's your problem.”
For a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far.
Then Desmond reached toward the bedside table.
His hand trembled again.
I instinctively steadied the glass of water before he could knock it over.
He noticed.
“You really don't know when to be afraid, do you?”
“I'm terrified,” I admitted. “I'm just busy.”
That wiped the smile off his face.
He picked up his phone.
“Frankie. Bring everything Pike gave you. And nobody goes near Nora's family.”
I stared at him.
“You don't get to put guards around my daughter.”
“I wasn't asking permission to hurt her.”
“Then ask permission to protect her.”
He went silent.
Finally, he nodded.
“Fair enough.”
It was the first time Desmond Gallagher had apologized without saying the word.
Twenty minutes later, Frankie returned with a brown evidence envelope.
Inside were three photographs, a folded receipt, and a photocopy of an employee identification badge.
My badge.
My photograph.
My name.
My employee number.
Even the tiny coffee stain near the bottom matched the original.
I felt my stomach drop.
“Where did he get this?”
“Pike says the woman who contacted him carried it,” Frankie answered.
“Did he actually see her face?”
“She wore sunglasses and a medical mask.”
I stared at him.
“So he didn't identify me. He identified a piece of plastic.”
Frankie looked uncomfortable.
Desmond leaned forward.
“There's more, isn't there?”
Frankie placed the receipt on the table.
A payment authorization.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
The payment had been processed through a company called Lakeshore Medical Services.
I recognized the name immediately.
“They supplied equipment to our clinic.”
Frankie nodded.
“Six months ago.”
I remembered something.
Something I'd dismissed at the time.
“During the St. Bridget's Family Day fundraiser, somebody borrowed my staff identification.”
Desmond's eyes sharpened.
“Who?”
“I was helping an elderly man who'd collapsed near the medical tent. A woman from event administration needed access to our supply room. She said she'd bring my badge right back.”
“Describe her.”
“Blonde hair. Cream-colored coat. Maybe forty-five.”
Frankie slowly looked at Desmond.
Desmond's expression became unreadable.
“What?” I demanded.
Neither answered.
“Do you know her?”
Desmond finally spoke.
“My sister, Evelyn, helped organize that fundraiser.”
I shook my head.
“I'm not accusing your sister. I'm telling you what happened.”
“She wears her hair dark,” Frankie said.
“People can wear wigs, Frankie. They can also lie about needing supplies.”
Desmond held out his hand.
“Give me the photographs.”
He studied the first two.
Then stopped at the third.
His fingers tightened around the edges.
“Frankie. Where did this come from?”
“It was folded inside Pike's wallet.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know what it meant.”
Desmond turned the photograph toward me.
It showed the St. Bridget's fundraiser.
Balloons.
A crowded parking lot.
A white medical tent.
And a black Gallagher SUV parked near the entrance.
The photograph had been taken on the afternoon of the bombing.
There was a woman standing beside the SUV.
She wore blue medical scrubs.
Her brown hair was tied in a messy ponytail.
She carried a red child's jacket.
It was me.
My mouth went dry.
Desmond looked at me.
“You told me you didn't know me six months ago.”
“I didn't.”
“Then why were you standing beside my car?”
“I was looking for someone.”
“Who?”
I couldn't answer.
Because I remembered that afternoon.
I remembered the balloons.
The screaming.
The sound that had followed.
And the ten terrible minutes when I couldn't find my daughter.
Frankie stepped closer.
“Nora?”
I pointed at the photograph.
Near the rear passenger door, almost hidden behind another adult, stood a little girl wearing a yellow sweater.
Her brown hair was pulled into two crooked ponytails.
She was holding a red mitten.
My knees nearly gave way.
“That's Maisie.”
Desmond looked down.
“Your daughter?”
I nodded.
Frankie turned the photograph over.
Something had been written on the back in black ink.
Desmond read it first.
Then his face changed.
Not anger.
Something far worse.
Fear.
He handed me the photograph.
The message contained only seven words.
THE LITTLE GIRL SAW WHO DID IT.
May you like
And underneath, in smaller handwriting:
SHE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE.
