Chapter 1 - The Blood on the LinoleumThe curtain around Bay Six did not rustle when I pushed it aside, but the sudden shift in temperature made both the officer and Maeve look up.
Maeve sat propped against two flat hospital pillows, wearing an oversized paper gown that swallowed her small frame. Her left arm was elevated in a heavy white fiberglass cast, her wrist shattered. But it was her face that turned the blood in my veins to liquid nitrogen. Her left cheekbone was swollen into a deep purple, her split lip held together by butterfly bandages, and dark bruising was already blooming along her jawline.
When her soft hazel eyes met mine, panic—not relief—flashed across her features.
"Mr. Vale..." she gasped, her voice raspy and thin. She tried to sit up, her good hand reaching down to smooth the hospital blanket in an instinctual, ingrained gesture of service. "You... you shouldn't be here, sir. It's midnight."
I did not answer her. I stepped into the cramped cubicle, my broad frame cutting off the harsh glare of the hallway lights.
The police officer, a tired-looking sergeant from the 4th Precinct whose badge read O'Malley, frowned as he took in my black wool coat, my unbuttoned collar, and the quiet, suffocating aura that filled the room.
"Sir, this is a restricted area," O'Malley said, clicking his pen. "I'm in the middle of taking a statement."
I did not look at O'Malley. I kept my eyes on Maeve.
"They didn't take your purse," I said, my voice dropping into a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the narrow room. "They didn't take your money. They didn't take your mother's ring."
Maeve swallowed hard, her chest heaving beneath the thin blanket. "Mr. Vale, please... it was just a robbery gone wrong. They... they panicked when I screamed."
"Muggers in South Boston do not throw a woman's wallet into the gutter while taking the time to break her wrist," I said smoothly, stepping closer to her bed. "And they do not beat a woman's face until her cheekbone fractures unless they were sent to leave a message."
O'Malley stepped between me and the bed, his hand resting casually over his holster. "Look, buddy, I don't know who you are, but you're interfering with a police investigation—"
I finally turned my head. My gray eyes locked onto O'Malley's face.
I did not raise my voice. I did not move a muscle. I simply looked at him the way I looked at men who owed debts they could never pay.
O'Malley's sentence died in his throat. The color slowly drained from his cheeks as recognition dawned on him. He had seen my face on private briefing sheets at the station house. He knew who owned the docks he patrolled.
"Mr. Vale," O'Malley stammered, his hand dropping away from his weapon. "I... I didn't realize she was associated with your estate."
"She isn't associated with my estate, Officer," I said quietly. "She lives under my roof. Which means whoever laid a finger on her just declared war on Callum Vale."
Maeve let out a trembling breath, her fingers clutching the hospital sheet. "Mr. Vale... please. Don't do this. You don't understand."
May you like
I turned back to her, leaning down slightly so only she could hear me over the hum of the heart monitors.
"I understand that for three years, you have quietly swept my house, changed my flowers, and asked for nothing," I murmured, my voice dropping into a rough, fiercely protective register she had never heard from me before. "Now tell me who did this, Maeve. Or I will tear this city apart until I find them myself."
Related Stories
