Page 63 of Dirty Legacy

“The baby. Remember?”

“It’s natural, won’t hurt her.”

I turn away, feeling sick. “I’ll check on you later.”

“Love you, darling.”

I expected to find my mother in a bad state. Getting kidnapped and thrown into a creepy, crumbling mansion is usually traumatic, and I figured we’d have a lot to talk about.

Instead, she’s baked as hell.

I shouldn’t be surprised. A part of me is frustrated, but what was Connor supposed to do? Refuse to supply her with what she wants? No, he’s a crime lord, of course he’s got easy access to weed. Not to mention it’s legal now. He’ll keep my mother high as a kite and smiling like an idiot for as long as she’ll let him, which is probably until the day she dies.

At least one of us is happy.

Ever since last night, I’ve had this strange, nagging sensation. How did he know about NYU? I keep trying to figure it out, but it makes no sense. Even if he did research me the way he said, why would that come up? Would a school keep those kinds of records? Would they share them with outsiders?

I hate being reminded of college. That was the hardest choice I’ve ever made. NYU was my dream school, it’s right here in the city, and it made total sense; but the second I read the letter and started to do the tuition math, I knew it was impossible. Even if I lived at home, there was no way I could’ve graduated with a degree that might pay off the astronomical debt I’d have to take on.

Not to mention taking care of my mother. Trying to juggle housework and homework felt too daunting, and so I left it off, ignored it, until eventually the world moved on.

Instead, I took night classes at Kingsborough Community and earned a two-year degree, and ended up working at WashCo a week after graduating.

He’d know all about that.

But the NYU letter?

It nags at me as I step out of Mom’s room and into the hall, breathing in the fresh air. I can’t spend too much time around her while I’m pregnant. Maybe that’ll be a good thing. I pause, leaning against the wall, and look right⁠—

Only to find the doors to the wing are open and Colm isn’t blocking them.

That’s odd. Bizarre, even. I haven’t seen them sitting wide like that before, especially not without a guard. A bad feeling jitters down my spine and I start thinking about crime families, about wars, about my husband covered in blood.

I take a few steps toward them. My heart’s beating quickly. “Colm? Connor?” Nobody answers. I can see the landing, the stairs, and another set of doors leading to the wing on the far side of the house. Straight through, nothing in the way. It’s strange, after the last few days of house arrest. “Lisa? Anyone?”

No answers. Deadly quiet. I drift closer, heart thudding now. One hand moves protectively to my stomach. I don’t even notice I’m doing it until I’m right at the frame, peering toward the steps.

I could run. Right now. Nobody’s watching. They won’t hurt me. The guards are probably too terrified that they’d injure the boss’s new pregnant bride. If I’m smart and fast, I could make it to the road, flag someone down, scream for help⁠—

And then what?

Connor has enemies. I know it’s serious. I saw the blood. I felt the tension in him, the stress, the worry and fear. What’ll happen to him if I go out there? If I really do escape? He’ll go wild with panic for me. Am I really that selfish?

I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to marry him, never wanted to come here, but he needs me. Connor talks big, acts hard, carries so much, but who’s there for him? Who’s there waiting to wash him clean when he comes back from hell?

“Oh, hey! There you are!”

It’s a young girl’s voice coming from behind me. I turn, flinching, guilt flushing my cheeks. I open my mouth to say, don’t worry I wasn’t going to run, I want to be here for Connor, he’s the father of my child, but the words get caught in my throat.

She’s a teenager. Skinny, lots of knees and elbows, not much of a figure on her. Cute though, adorable, with bleached hair, dark eyebrows, bright eyes. She’s smiling big, and I know that face. I know the voice too even if it’s different now that she’s older. I recognize the scars, right where I last saw the nasty, ugly wounds sliced down the side of her cheek⁠—

And I’m in the bus again. Eyes closed listening to music on the way home from my shift at Rite Aid. Ignoring the world around me until the impact threw me sideways against the window, the grind and screech of metal, the screams of pain as everything went sideways. The stink of burning plastic. Moans of pain. I remember dragging myself toward the back exit, the fire getting hotter and brighter, but that’s when I first heard her.

She was young back then. I always wondered what she was doing on the bus. I never knew if she was with someone or not. I never had the chance to ask. She was trapped under a body though, a big man who wasn’t moving, her fingers reaching out, her mouth moving, tears running down her face mixing with the blood leaking from her mangled cheek. I could smell fresh air from the back, but I went for her instead. I got you. Hold on. I got you. The guy was so heavy and it took all my strength to roll him off enough to drag her out. She was shaking and so small in my arms. I got you. We’re okay, we’re okay.

What’s your name?

“Rowan?” I take a step toward her. It can’t be the same girl. “Is that you?”