Chapter 3 - THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE YELLOW SWEATER
“If someone knew my daughter was there, why did nobody tell me?”
I was already reaching for my phone when Desmond answered.
“Because whoever sent that photograph wanted you frightened.”
I stared at him.
“Congratulations. It's working.”
Frankie moved toward the door.
“I'll send a car to her grandmother's apartment.”
“No.”
“Nora—”
“I said no. My daughter doesn't know your world. I'm not sending armed strangers to her door in the middle of the night.”
Desmond raised one hand.
Frankie stopped.
“She's right,” Desmond said. “Let her make the call.”
I dialed my mother's number.
It rang twice.
“Sweetheart?” Mom answered sleepily. “Everything okay?”
“Is Maisie there?”
“Of course she's here.”
“Can you check?”
A pause.
“Nora, what's wrong?”
“Please, Mom.”
I heard footsteps.
Then a bedroom door.
A moment later, a small, sleepy voice came through the phone.
“Mommy?”
My knees weakened.
“Hey, peanut.”
“Why are you calling so late?”
“I missed you.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“I know.”
“Is your car broken again?”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“Probably.”
She sighed dramatically.
“You need a new one.”
“I'm working on it.”
There was a rustling sound.
Then Maisie whispered, “Grandma says you're being weird.”
“Grandma's right.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
She hung up before I could say anything else.
I pressed the phone against my chest.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Desmond said quietly, “She's safe tonight.”
I looked at him.
“You don't know that.”
“No,” he admitted. “I don't.”
That answer surprised me.
He could have promised anything.
Instead, he told the truth.
By sunrise, I had made two decisions.
First, Maisie and my mother were going somewhere safe.
Second, I was not leaving the Gallagher estate until I understood why my daughter's picture was in a bomber's wallet.
Desmond disagreed with the second decision.
“You're taking the morning off.”
“I don't remember requesting vacation.”
“Your daughter needs you.”
“My daughter needs a mother who knows what's happening.”
He leaned back in his wheelchair.
“You're exhausted.”
“So are you.”
He glanced toward the medication bottle.
“Did you give me the baclofen?”
“One tablet. At three forty.”
“You kept treating me after hearing your name?”
“Your nervous system doesn't care about criminal investigations.”
His jaw tightened.
“Stop making me sound helpless.”
“Then stop confusing needing help with being helpless.”
Frankie appeared carrying coffee.
He looked between us.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” we answered together.
For the first time all morning, Frankie almost smiled.
At nine o'clock, I met Dennis Pike.
Not in some underground torture chamber.
In a secured office behind the Gallagher estate's garage.
I'd refused to speak with him anywhere else.
And I'd made Desmond promise nobody would hurt him while I was present.
Pike was a narrow-faced man in his fifties with trembling hands and a bruise along his cheekbone.
He looked at me once.
Then looked away.
“That's her name,” he whispered.
I sat opposite him.
“Is that my face?”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“Look at me, Mr. Pike. Is this the woman who hired you?”
He studied me.
A long silence followed.
Finally, he shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“Why not?”
“She had a mask.”
“Then why did you give my name?”
“Because that's what was printed on the badge.”
I leaned forward.
“Did she tell you she was Nora Walsh?”
“No.”
Desmond sat beside the door.
His expression never changed.
“Then what did she tell you?” he asked.
Pike swallowed.
“She said she worked for Gallagher security. Said the vehicle was supposed to be disabled before a rival crew could use it.”
Frankie stepped forward.
“Disabled?”
Pike looked miserable.
“I knew what the device could do. I should've refused. But she said nobody would be near the car when it went off.”
My stomach twisted.
“You planted an explosive knowing someone could be killed?”
“I needed the money.”
I wanted to scream at him.
Instead, I thought about Patrick Russo, Frankie's older brother, who had died in the explosion.
Money didn't excuse that.
Nothing did.
“Who gave you the money?” Desmond demanded.
“A man handled the final payment. Expensive suit. Gray hair.”
“Name.”
“He never told me.”
“Describe him.”
Pike closed his eyes.
“He wore a silver watch with a cracked face. Every time he checked it, he tapped the glass twice.”
Frankie went completely still.
I noticed.
So did Desmond.
“What is it?” I asked.
Frankie swallowed.
“Patrick had a watch like that.”
Desmond's voice turned cold.
“Patrick's watch was recovered with his belongings.”
“No,” Frankie said. “The police recovered the strap. The watch itself disappeared.”
I looked from one man to the other.
The bomber had just described a watch belonging to the man killed in the explosion.
And Frankie clearly knew more than he was saying.
An hour later, my mother agreed to take Maisie to my Aunt Linda's house in Wisconsin for several days.
Desmond arranged transportation through a professional driver whose credentials I checked myself.
No weapons in the car.
No surprises.
No orders given over my head.
He accepted every condition.
That frightened me almost as much as his temper.
Men like Desmond Gallagher weren't accustomed to compromise.
But he was learning.
Before Maisie left, she asked to talk to me again.
“Mommy, can I bring my drawing box?”
“Of course.”
“And the red mitten?”
I closed my eyes.
The photograph flashed through my mind.
“What red mitten, baby?”
“The one from the balloon party.”
I gripped the phone.
“Why do you still have that?”
“Because the man said I could keep it.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What man?”
“The one who helped me when everybody was running.”
I remembered that afternoon differently.
I'd spent ten minutes searching for Maisie before the explosion.
Then chaos had swallowed the entire parking lot.
When I finally found her, she was sitting beside an ambulance with a strange man holding her hand.
I hadn't seen his face clearly.
I had only cared that she was alive.
“Maisie, did he tell you his name?”
“No.”
“Can you remember what he looked like?”
She thought about it.
“He had a scratchy voice.”
“Anything else?”
“He said to tell the man in the black car not to go home.”
A chill traveled down my back.
“Why?”
“He said there was something wrong underneath.”
I stopped breathing.
My daughter had been warned before the explosion.
And in my panic, I had never known.
Desmond listened while I repeated everything.
He didn't interrupt.
When I finished, he turned toward Frankie.
“Patrick saw something.”
Frankie nodded slowly.
“Maybe.”
“Find the original parking lot recordings.”
“They were destroyed when the security office caught fire three days after the bombing.”
“Then find whoever serviced the cameras.”
Frankie hesitated.
“Boss, there's something I need to tell you.”
Desmond looked up.
“Not another secret.”
Frankie pulled a folded photograph from his jacket.
“I kept this because I thought the police would misunderstand it.”
He placed it on the table.
The image showed the Gallagher SUV twelve minutes before the explosion.
Someone was kneeling beside the rear wheel.
Someone wearing a dark suit.
A familiar man.
I recognized him immediately.
So did Desmond.
Frankie stood inches from us, looking sick.
Because the man beside the vehicle was Frankie himself.
Desmond lifted his eyes.
“You told me you never went near that car.”
Frankie swallowed.
“I lied.”
Desmond's voice dropped to a whisper.
“Then tell me why my brother's blood is on your hands.”
I stared at him.
Brother?
He had called Patrick Russo his brother.
May you like
And for the first time, I understood that the man who had died wasn't just an employee.
He was family.
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