Carla Neggers - The Mist

“There’s one thing you can do for me. If Norman finds out what I’ve done and comes after my family-”

“We’ll protect them, Lizzie. You have my word.”

“You know you don’t need to protect my father, don’t you?”

March didn’t answer.

“He’s mad right now as it is. If he sees a bunch of FBI agents coming at him-” Lizzie didn’t finish her thought. “He’s not retired. He just pretends to be. He’s the reason I was able to lead you to believe I was a professional.”

“We can protect you, too.”

“I hope you find your daughter. More than anything.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice strangled now. “Lizzie-”

But she hung up on the director of the FBI, moved to the far right-hand lane and tossed her cell phone out the window. It was an inconvenience, but she didn’t want the feds, the BPD or a bunch of spies pinging the number and finding her.

Boston, Massachusetts

6:02 p.m., EDT

August 26

Will kept his emotions in check, as much for his own sake as Fiona O’Reilly’s, but there was no longer any question. Myles Fletcher was alive. Near. In Boston. Perhaps watching the police arrive at the murder scene.

Will had asked Fiona to repeat everything Myles had said to her. “It’s important,” he’d told her. “I can help in a way the police can’t.”

Fiona had complied. She was calmer now, hugging her arms to her chest as police cruisers descended on Beacon Street. “Your friend killed the man in the alley, didn’t he?”

“Your father and his detectives will determine who is responsible. What you must do now is to be sure you’ve told me all you know.”

She stared down at the pavement as if looking for ants.

Will knew he couldn’t let her off the hook. “You’ve had a terrible scare, Fiona. It’s understandable you don’t want to do anything to distract investigators and send them in the wrong direction.”

“Abigail’s missing. Every minute…” She squinted up at him. “Every second counts.”

On his cab ride into Boston from the airport, Will had called both Simon and Josie for updates, but there was still no sign of Abigail Browning, Norman Estabrook or his plane. He couldn’t give Fiona false comfort. She was the daughter of an experienced detective and would see right through it.

“Good detectives prefer to have as much information as possible,” he said. “They want to rely on their own experience and training to decide what’s worthwhile and what isn’t.”

“I know,” Fiona said, not combative, just stating the facts. As traumatized as she was, Will could see a similar inner strength he had observed in her cousin, Keira.

“What are you holding back?”

“Abigail…” Fiona curled her fingers into tight fists. “She stopped by the pub at the Whitcomb Hotel the night before last. Morrigan’s. My friends and I were performing. We were wrapping up our final set. I could see she was uptight about something. She pulled me aside after we finished and told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to be there.”

“At the hotel?”

Fiona nodded. “She said she’d explain later but I should just…” The teenager sucked in a breath, fighting her own emotions. “She said I should trust her.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I didn’t argue with her. I ignored her. I thought she didn’t want me there because Morrigan’s is a bar and I’m under twenty-one and a cop’s daughter. When I saw her-” Fiona again stared down at the pavement. “I avoided her yesterday. Before the bomb went off. I was snotty. I didn’t want to talk to her. Now…”

“You feel guilty,” Will said.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she sobbed silently as two police cruisers screeched to a halt at the alley, followed immediately by an unmarked police car. A redheaded man who had to be Fiona’s father leaped out and trotted straight for her.

“Dad,” Fiona whispered, using both hands now to wipe her tears.

A stiff, serious younger man got out from behind the wheel, joined uniformed officers and headed into the alley.

Bob O’Reilly was apoplectic when he reached his daughter. “I thought you played the damn harp so you wouldn’t get yourself mixed up in a murder investigation.” He sighed, his blue eyes-the same shade as Fiona’s, as Keira’s-filled with fear and guilt. “Fi…hell. You okay?”

She brushed her tears with the back of her wrist and nodded.

O’Reilly turned to Will. “Lord Davenport, I presume.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such difficult circumstances.”

“Yeah, so am I. Simon’s on his way.” O’Reilly shifted back to his daughter. “Tell me what happened.”

Fiona repeated her story. Will listened for additional details but heard nothing that made him doubt it was Myles who’d sat across from a nineteen-year-old musician and told her how to find a man he knew to be dead, presumably whom he’d killed himself. Possibly he was in fact Abigail Browning’s only hope, but that didn’t mean he was on her side.

Will let the questions come at him. Why was Myles Fletcher involved with Norman Estabrook? Had the man Will had once trusted and considered a friend become a cutthroat mercenary? Was Myles now on no one’s side but his own?

Had he never been on anyone’s side but his own?

When Fiona finished, Bob O’Reilly had the look of the veteran detective he was. “Where’s Lizzie Rush now?”

“She left.” Fiona gave Will a sideways glance before turning back to her father. “She stayed cool. The whole time, Dad. She tried to keep me from seeing…the man.”

“She a friend of yours?”

“I only…no.”

He narrowed his eyes on his daughter. “What were you doing at the Whitcomb Hotel, Fi?”

“My ensemble performs there. I didn’t tell you-” A touch of combativeness sparked in her blue eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

“I don’t,” her father said bluntly. He nodded to the unmarked car. “Go sit in the air-conditioning. Get off your feet.”

“Dad-”

“Go on, kid.” He touched a thumb to a stray tear on her cheek. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That man…the one who was killed…”

“We’ll figure out what happened to him. Go.” O’Reilly struggled for a smile. “See if you can find some harp music on the radio.”

Will noticed her reluctance as she headed for the unmarked car, but he decided it had more to do with her desire not to miss anything than to remain with her father.

O’Reilly took a pack of gum from his pocket and tapped out a piece. He unwrapped it, balled up the paper in one hand and shoved it into his pocket with the rest of the pack. A ritual, Will realized.

The detective chewed the gum as he studied Will. “You know this guy, our killer Brit?”

“I didn’t see him, Lieutenant O’Reilly.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Will said nothing. He wasn’t in a position to explain his history with Myles Fletcher to this American detective. At the same time, Will didn’t want to do anything that would impede the investigation into the murder in the alley and any connection the dead man or Myles had to Abigail Browning’s disappearance.

“Here’s the thing,” O’Reilly said. “After thirty years as a cop, I often know when someone’s lying or not telling me everything-unless it’s one of my daughters. Want me to ask again?”

Will shook his head. “There’s no need. Your daughter described a man I thought I knew.”

“But now that he’s put a bullet in some guy’s brain, you’re thinking maybe you didn’t know him after all. His name?”

Will looked back at the car where Fiona sat alone in the back seat, the door still open. “Myles Fletcher.”