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“Do me a favor, Filipe,” I said. “Message the guys and see about arranging an emergency team meeting.”
“Jason’s going to squash that, my dude. As team captain, he calls the shots.”
“He loves throwing that in my face every chance he gets, too,” I said with a groan. Acting like I was better than him didn’t do me any favors.
We passed a sign that said Las Vegas was twenty miles away. Traffic had picked up and I could see the lights in the distance. It was a city that never slept.
Ciaran said, “You’re going to have to tell the team about the blackmailing video, Matty. You can’t expect them to come forward with information without being vulnerable yourself. The best leaders charge from the front line, not the rear. It’s the only way you’ll earn their trust.”
“That’s my boy,” Joan cheered. “Have we told you how much we adore you, Ciaran? I just want to tuck you in my heart and hug you all day long.”
Ciaran’s face went red before he mumbled out, “Um, thanks, I think.”
He caught me smiling at him and I cleared my throat. “Ciaran’s right. Filipe, tell the team I have an announcement. It will do two things. One, Jason and others who want me off the team will hope I’m quitting. And two, those who tolerate me will be curious enough to attend. Either way, we’ll get everyone there.”
Filipe found no fault with my logic, but he still asked, “What will you do if no one else comes forward, even after you tell them Coach has been blackmailing you?”
That was an excellent question. I couldn’t go back to the way things were before that. I was coming forward and accusing the Coach of blackmail. That was serious enough that it might leave our circle and become wider known.
It risked the very thing I was trying to protect: my ability to compete in the upcoming swim trials.
If it got out that I’d partied, got drunk and high, I’d be disqualified. I might be even banned by USA Swimming for a certain amount of time.
But that was if the video evidence surfaced.
No video meant it was hearsay.
“I don’t know, Filipe,” I admitted. “I’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”
After that, we hung up, with me promising to call them once we’d come to some sort of resolution with Asshole Andy.
We were quiet a moment when Ciaran unexpectedly asked, “Do you remember when I asked you what was missing in your life? It was the night you brought me with you to LAX to pick up the statue.”
“I remember.” Strangely, my heart was stuck in my throat just then. It was a simple question but it had felt momentous, like the rest of my life might be defined by this conversation alone.
“Have you given the question more thought since then?”
Had I?
Ever since I met Ciaran, everything felt topsy-turvy. He’d been within reach the entire time and for the most part, I found myself constantly thinking about him.
Or trying to not think about him, as was the case early on.
When I didn’t answer, Ciaran continued, “I’ll turn this into a dare, then. When we confront Asshole Andy tonight, I want you think about your relationship with him. Ask yourself why you’re in the business of stolen antiquities. Ask yourself why you think you’re somehow different from Asshole Andy. What are you trying to achieve, and could those objectives be obtained through more legitimate means? Just think about those things, all right? That’s all I’m asking.”
I nodded. It was a good reminder for me. I’d somehow thought of Andy as separate from me, but he grew up in my world. It didn’t matter that he was our housekeeper’s grandson. Andy was as good as family, as was Miss Paulina.
Andy had profited handsomely and mingled with Dad’s associates as one of his minor partners. Andy had enough wealth that he never needed to work another day in his life. If he asked for the Vaulteneau jet, he’d get access provided my dad wasn’t using it.
“You’ve got a deal, Ciaran,” I said. “You’re wise beyond your years, that’s for sure. You have a way to cutting through the fog and getting to the heart of a situation. Does working in a deli do that to a person? Make them wise?”
Ciaran’s eyes lit up with mirth. “It’s the meat slicer. It makes you pay attention or you’ll slice your fingertips clean off.”
“Yikes,” I said, wincing.
“I’m not, like, macabre or anything. I’m thinking about making the villain in my novel a person without fingerprints. As Badger Detective Inspector Shiremarch investigates the clues, he discovers the villain worked in a deli and sliced off the tips of his fingers so that he wouldn’t leave behind fingerprints.”
“Pretty gruesome, Ciaran. Is this the kind of stuff you’d think about while working at Tommy’s Deli?”
