Chapter 5 - The Song at Midnight
For the next three days, Clary refused to leave Tommy’s side.
I refused to leave either of them unprotected.
That arrangement made everyone unhappy.
Which meant it was probably the right one.
Tommy was moved to a townhouse in Manhattan registered to one of my legitimate security companies. The building had reinforced windows, private medical staff, and enough surveillance to make paranoia look reasonable.
Clary hated it.
“This place has six cameras in the kitchen.”
“Seven.”
She stared at me.
“I’m joking.”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“You’re not.”
I wasn’t.
By the third night, Tommy could walk without assistance. His humor returned before his strength did.
He looked at me across the dinner table and said, “So, just to be clear, I’m not paying the fifty grand?”
Clary kicked his shin.
“Ow.”
“You are never gambling again.”
“I was asking a financial question.”
“You’re going to need a financial advisor if you keep talking.”
For the first time in days, I laughed.
Clary looked at me as if the sound surprised her.
It surprised me too.
After dinner, Tommy went upstairs.
Clary stayed at the table.
“I owe you money.”
“No.”
“I paid thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
“You’re getting every dollar back.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
I leaned back.
“What do you mean?”
“Medical care. Security. This house. Everything.”
“You don’t owe me for surviving a problem created by my organization.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You keep saying that like you’re responsible for every person who uses your name.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re responsible for what you choose after you know.”
That sentence followed me into the next room.
I had spent ten years believing power meant owning every consequence.
Clary saw it differently.
Responsibility was not the same thing as self-punishment.
Maybe that was why she was still standing after everything that had happened to her.
At 11:47 p.m., I heard singing again.
This time I knew the voice.
I followed it to the townhouse’s small music room.
Clary stood at an old piano near the window.
She wasn’t playing.
She was simply resting one hand on the polished wood while she sang quietly to herself.
I stopped in the doorway.
She noticed me after a few lines.
“You have a habit of listening from hallways.”
“You have a habit of singing where I can hear you.”
“That sounds like an accusation.”
“Maybe it is.”
She smiled faintly.
It changed her whole face.
I walked into the room.
“What song is that?”
“One my mother used to sing.”
“What happened to her?”
“Cancer. I was nineteen. Tommy was sixteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, but her eyes lowered.
“After she died, I became the adult.”
“You were already an adult.”
“Not the kind who knows which bills can wait and which ones get the lights turned off.”
I understood more than I wanted to.
Patrick’s death had made me an adult in a different way.
One morning I had a brother who made the decisions.
Two days later, men twice my age were waiting for mine.
Clary sat on the piano bench.
“Was Patrick like you?”
“No.”
“Better?”
“Different.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
I gave her a look.
She smiled.
“I learned from you.”
I sat beside her, leaving space between us.
“Patrick was charming. People followed him because they liked him. People follow me because they know I finish what I start.”
“Do they fear you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like that?”
I thought about it.
“Sometimes.”
She appreciated the honesty.
I could see it.
“Why?”
“Fear is predictable.”
“Love isn’t?”
“No.”
The word came too fast.
Clary turned slightly toward me.
“Who taught you that?”
I stared at the piano keys.
“Everybody I loved eventually became a weakness somebody could use.”
“Your brother.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
I looked at her.
The room changed.
Not physically.
But the distance between us suddenly felt smaller.
“You should be careful asking questions you already know the answer to.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t know the answer.”
“I think you do.”
Neither of us moved.
Then Clary said, very softly, “I work for you.”
“Not anymore.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“You fired me?”
“I changed your employment status the night we found Tommy.”
“To what?”
“Paid administrative leave.”
She stared at me.
“That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said.”
I laughed again.
She did too.
Then the laughter faded.
I raised a hand slowly.
She didn’t move away.
My fingers touched a loose strand of hair near her cheek.
“Clary.”
Her eyes closed for half a second.
Then she leaned forward.
The kiss was brief.
Soft.
Nothing like the rest of my life.
When we separated, she looked startled by herself.
“So,” she whispered, “that was probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“Are you sorry?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
My phone rang.
Of course it did.
Gideon.
I answered.
“We found Vescari.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“Not him physically. His money. Arthur transferred twelve million into a shipping company tied to Vescari’s nephew.”
“Which company?”
“Northline Freight.”
Clary’s face changed.
“What?” I asked.
She stood.
“Tommy worked there.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Before he lost his job. Six months ago.”
Gideon heard her over the phone.
“Ask him why he was fired.”
We found Tommy halfway down the stairs.
He had heard us.
His face had gone pale.
“I wasn’t fired for being late,” he said.
Clary stared at him.
“You told me you missed shifts.”
“I lied.”
“About what this time?”
Tommy came down slowly.
“I saw containers being relabeled.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of containers?”
“Electronics on the manifest. But the crates were too heavy. One split open. There were guns inside.”
Clary covered her mouth.
I asked, “Who was supervising?”
Tommy looked at me.
“Arthur.”
The pieces locked together.
Fake debts generated cash.
Cash funded Vescari.
Vescari used a freight company to move illegal weapons through territory associated with me.
And when federal investigators eventually found them, the documents would lead back to my signature.
Arthur wasn’t only planning to remove me.
He was planning to bury me under every crime he committed on the way out.
Gideon spoke through the phone.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“Northline has a shipment leaving Port Newark tomorrow night.”
“For where?”
“Boston.”
I looked at Tommy.
He whispered, “That’s the route I used to work.”
Gideon continued.
“And, boss? The manifest was approved under your name yesterday.”
Clary stared at me.
I looked toward the dark window.
Arthur had lost Tommy.
He had lost the first ledger.
So he was speeding up the plan.
Tomorrow night, a truck full of weapons carrying my forged authorization would leave New Jersey.
If we stopped it, Arthur would know exactly how much we had uncovered.
If we didn’t, innocent people could die.
Clary touched my arm.
“What are you going to do?”
I thought about the man I had been four days earlier.
He would have seized the shipment, destroyed the records, and handled Arthur privately.
But Clary’s words returned.
You’re responsible for what you choose after you know.
I called my attorney.
“Wake up the federal prosecutor you told me never to call.”
There was a long silence.
“Declan, are you sure?”
“No.”
I looked at Clary.
“But call her anyway.”
Before Sloan arrived, I made one call I had delayed for years.
Moira did not answer.
I left a message anyway.
“It’s Declan.”
My voice sounded strange in the quiet room.
“I should have called before now.”
I almost stopped there.
Then I looked through the glass and saw Clary asleep at the table with her head on folded arms.
“I found something about Patrick. I don’t know what it means yet. I think Arthur lied to both of us. If you hear this, call me. Even if you hate me. Especially if you hate me.”
I ended the message.
Clary’s voice came from behind me.
“That sounded painful.”
I turned.
“You were asleep.”
“I was pretending so you wouldn’t stop.”
“That is manipulative.”
“I’m learning from professionals.”
She poured herself coffee.
“You think Moira hates you?”
“I gave her reasons.”
“Did you hurt Patrick?”
“No.”
“Did you abandon her intentionally?”
“I stopped answering.”
“That’s not the same question.”
I frowned.
She took a sip.
“You’re very good at accepting blame in ways that keep you from having to ask forgiveness.”
I stared at her.
She shrugged.
“If you decide you’re unforgivable first, nobody else gets a vote.”
I had no response.
Clary walked past me, then paused.
“My mother did that after she got sick. She kept apologizing for being a burden. It made helping her harder because every act of love became proof she thought she had failed us.”
Her eyes glistened, but her voice stayed steady.
“Don’t turn guilt into another way of controlling the room.”
Then she left me alone with the phone in my hand.
When Sloan arrived twenty minutes later, I was still thinking about it.
I had always believed guilt was punishment.
Clary had just shown me it could also be vanity.
A way to keep every story centered on my failure instead of other people’s choices.
May you like
It was an unpleasant lesson.
Which meant I probably needed it.
