Chapter 5 - The Voice in the Dark
My fingers trembled as I took the phone from Liam's hand. I pressed it to my ear, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Elena?"
The sound of his voice—deep, gravelly, vibrating with an intensity that seemed to fill the sterile hospital corridor—made my knees weaken. It wasn't the voice of the wounded, bitter man who had thrown a desk clock at my feet on my first day. It was the voice of Declan O'Shea, the man who had sat beside my daughter's bed all night holding a cold washcloth to her forehead.
"Declan," I breathed, my tears finally spilling over. "Declan, I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave like that, but your sister—"
"I know what she did," he cut in, his tone dropping into that dark, protective register that made me feel instantly safe, even miles away. "Are the girls safe? Are you okay?"
"We're... we're fine," I stammered, wiping my face with my sleeve. "We're at a motel off the interstate. But my mother—Fiona stopped the payment to the hospice. They're going to move her to county at two o'clock."
There was a brief pause on the line—a silence so cold and heavy I could almost feel the temperature in the corridor drop.
"Liam," Declan's voice came through the speaker, crisp and commanding.
"Sir," Liam answered, stepping closer.
"Put the phone on speaker."
Liam clicked the button. Declan's voice filled the hallway, clear and uncompromising.
"Liam, you are standing in the St. Jude Hospice facility?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Go to the front desk. Settle the entire annual balance for Mrs. Vance's mother out of my personal account. Not the trust account—my private account in Zurich. Write them a check for fifty thousand dollars as a donation to their building fund. And tell the administrator that if I hear another word about moving Clara Vance, I will buy this facility by sunset and fire every person on her board."
I gasped, catching my breath. "Declan, no! You can't spend that kind of money—"
"Elena," he interrupted gently, his voice softening instantly as he spoke to me. "Be quiet for a second and let me take care of you."
I squeezed my eyes shut, my forehead resting against the cool drywall of the corridor. "Declan..."
"Where are my girls?" he asked softly.
"At the motel. On 95th Street."
"Liam will take you back there to pick them up," Declan said. "And then he is bringing you home."
"Declan, your sister said—"
"Fiona does not own that house," Declan said, his tone turning to steel. "Fiona does not own me. And she certainly does not dictate who I choose to keep in my life. Come back to the house, Elena. Please."
The please was small, almost lost under the static of the line. A word that Declan O'Shea—a man who commanded hundreds of men and controlled millions of dollars—rarely, if ever, said to anyone.
May you like
I looked at Liam, who was already walking toward the administration desk with his checkbook pulled from his coat. I looked back down the hall toward my mother's room, where she lay sleeping peacefully under her knitted blanket.
"Okay," I whispered into the phone. "We're coming home."
