Chapter 1 - THE NAME THE BOMBER GAVE
Desmond turned toward me slowly.
Frankie did not look at me at all.
That was worse.
My hand was still inside the medicine cabinet.
One baclofen tablet sat in my palm.
“What did he say?” Desmond asked.
Frankie swallowed.
“The bomber says Harper Reed paid him.”
For one second, I honestly thought the pain medication had finally made Desmond hallucinate.
Then I realized I was the one holding his pill.
My name.
Harper Reed.
Paid him.
The room went very still.
Desmond’s eyes moved over my face.
Not wild.
Not accusing.
Assessing.
I hated that more.
I set the pill bottle down.
“Say that again.”
Frankie finally looked at me.
“He gave your name.”
“My full name?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Frankie hesitated.
Desmond’s voice sharpened.
“Exactly.”
“He said the woman who arranged the second payment was Harper Reed.”
My stomach dropped.
“Second payment?”
“The first came through a shell account. The second was cash pickup.”
“And he says I handed it to him?”
“No.”
Frankie rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“He says he never met you. He got a photograph, a copy of an Illinois nursing license, and instructions from an encrypted account signed H. Reed.”
I laughed.
It sounded ugly in the dark bedroom.
“You’re joking.”
Nobody joined.
“Okay.”
I looked at Desmond.
“Then call the police.”
Frankie’s eyebrows rose.
Desmond’s expression did not change.
“Police.”
“Yes.”
“You know where you are?”
“I’m aware.”
“Harper—”
“No.”
I stepped away from the medicine cabinet.
“If a man says I paid him to blow up my employer, then I want his statement recorded by someone who doesn’t work for my employer.”
Frankie looked offended.
“Watch it.”
I looked at him.
“You’re the one who walked in at three in the morning and accused me of bombing a man whose catheter I changed yesterday. I’m allowed one sentence.”
Desmond almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his face went cold again.
“Where is the bomber?”
Frankie answered:
“Warehouse on Archer.”
My stomach turned.
Of course.
A warehouse.
“Is he tied to a chair?”
Frankie said nothing.
I looked at Desmond.
“Seriously?”
“He was found by people who don’t usually file paperwork.”
“Then untie him.”
“Harper.”
“Either this is evidence or revenge.”
His icy blue eyes sharpened.
“You think those are separate?”
“Yes.”
I pointed at his legs.
“And unless you want to spend the rest of your life wondering whether the truth was beaten into the shape you preferred, call someone official.”
Frankie muttered something that sounded like a prayer for patience.
Desmond looked at me for several seconds.
Then:
“Frankie.”
“Yes?”
“Call my attorney.”
I crossed my arms.
“And?”
His mouth tightened.
“And Chicago PD.”
Frankie stared.
“Boss.”
“You heard me.”
He did.
Desmond’s hand moved toward the blanket.
Then stopped.
I picked it up from the floor where I had tossed it earlier and laid it lightly across his lower legs.
He noticed.
“I thought blankets were killing me.”
“Thick wool and pressure are bad. One light sheet is not treason.”
“Good to know.”
I handed him the pill.
“Take it.”
He looked at it.
“One.”
“One.”
He swallowed.
Then:
“You’re not leaving.”
I stared.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
“No.”
Frankie stopped dialing.
Desmond’s eyes narrowed.
“Someone just accused you of arranging my bombing.”
“Exactly why I’m not letting you confine me.”
“You work in my house.”
“Not a prison.”
“The man who named you may have accomplices.”
“Then offer me security.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re telling me I can’t leave.”
He leaned back, pain still pale beneath his skin.
“You really do enjoy difficult timing.”
“I enjoy nouns used correctly.”
That did it.
A tiny broken laugh.
Then his leg jerked under the sheet.
He closed his eyes.
I waited.
No hand on him without asking this time.
“Spasm?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Manageable.”
Good.
I looked at Frankie.
“Attorney first. Then police. Then I want my own lawyer.”
Frankie blinked.
“You have a lawyer?”
“No. That’s the point.”
Desmond said:
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m accused of trying to kill you, I’m not letting you own the person advising me.”
He stared.
Then nodded once.
“Fair.”
I almost hated how quickly he could become reasonable after six months of acting impossible.
“You know any employment-criminal defense attorneys who aren’t terrified of you?”
Frankie snorted.
Desmond said:
“Naomi Chen.”
“You pay her?”
“No.”
“She hate you?”
“Professionally.”
“Perfect.”
Frankie made the call.
By four twenty, two detectives, Desmond’s attorney, and Naomi Chen were inside the Gallagher estate.
My life had become a legal thriller before sunrise.
Naomi was forty-something, five foot two, and unimpressed by everyone.
I liked her immediately.
She met me in the kitchen.
“Do not answer questions until I understand what they think they have.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Wonderful. Innocent people are famously never harmed by overexplaining.”
Fair.
She asked basic timeline.
When had I applied to the caregiving agency?
Three months ago.
When assigned to Desmond?
Two weeks ago.
When had bomb happened?
Six months ago.
Where was I?
Working nights at Mercy East rehab.
Proof?
Schedules.
Badge swipes.
Patients.
Good.
“Did you know Desmond Gallagher before this job?”
“Reputation.”
“Personally?”
“No.”
“Any family connection?”
“No.”
“Any reason to want him dead?”
I thought of the last two weeks.
“Several minor reasons.”
She stared.
“Kidding.”
“Stop.”
“Fine.”
The detectives interviewed Desmond first.
Then Frankie.
Then me with Naomi present.
The bomber’s name was Calvin Pike.
Thirty-eight.
Construction demolitions background.
Two prior weapons charges.
He had been picked up after a former associate tipped Frankie that Calvin was drinking in Cicero and bragging about a “Gallagher retirement job.”
Calvin’s recorded statement at the police station—after he was transferred from Frankie’s warehouse—was not clean.
He changed details.
He admitted building the device.
He claimed he had been told Desmond would be alone.
He said his handler used the name H. Reed.
He never met the handler.
Second payment had been left in a locker at Union Station.
Inside envelope:
Thirty thousand dollars.
A photocopy of my nursing license.
A printed photograph of me leaving Mercy East.
And instructions:
IF GALLAGHER SURVIVES, REED BECOMES USEFUL LATER.
Naomi stopped the detective.
“What does that mean?”
“We don’t know.”
Neither did I.
My skin went cold.
The detective slid a copy of the photograph across.
Me.
Blue scrubs.
Coffee.
Hair in a knot.
Taken maybe eight months earlier.
Before the bombing.
Before I applied to Gallagher’s agency.
Someone had been watching me long before I met Desmond.
He looked at the photograph from across the table.
His face changed.
“Harper.”
“What?”
“Where was this?”
I knew the entrance.
“Mercy East.”
“Who had access to your employee file?”
“Hospital. Licensing board. Staffing agencies.”
“Did you apply anywhere around then?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
A home-care company.
Great Lakes Clinical Staffing.
I had uploaded license, driver’s license, references.
Never accepted a shift.
Naomi wrote.
“Why not?”
“They canceled orientation twice.”
Desmond’s attorney looked up.
“What was the recruiter’s name?”
“Monica Pierce.”
Frankie said:
“That’s the agency that sent you here.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Desmond.
“When Mrs. Larkin called the Gallagher house, Great Lakes sent me.”
His face went still.
“Senior nurse was supposed to come.”
“Exactly.”
Frankie checked his phone.
“Senior nurse canceled sick that morning.”
Naomi said:
“Name?”
“Patricia Sloan.”
Another piece.
Maybe coincidence.
Do not fall in love with suspicion.
Naomi ordered preservation letters immediately to Great Lakes and Mercy East.
The detectives requested warrants and subpoenas where necessary.
No one asked me to solve it.
Good.
By seven in the morning, I wanted sleep.
Instead, I noticed Desmond rubbing his thigh.
“Pain?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“Bad habit.”
I looked at detectives.
“Are we done with him?”
“For now.”
“Then he needs to rest.”
One detective raised eyebrow.
Desmond said:
“She’s terrible at hierarchy.”
“Apparently.”
They left.
Frankie lingered.
“Boss, security detail for her?”
Naomi answered before Desmond.
“My client chooses.”
Good.
I said:
“One person outside my apartment. Licensed. Not one of your guys.”
Frankie looked wounded.
“Why?”
“Because if somebody inside Gallagher world set me up, I don’t know who counts as inside.”
Silence.
Desmond nodded.
“Done.”
I looked at him.
“And I’m going home.”
“No.”
I stared.
He corrected:
“I strongly prefer you stay until daylight.”
Better.
“Why?”
“Because someone followed you before the bombing.”
“And?”
“Because now whoever did it knows Calvin is talking.”
That was true.
I hated that.
Naomi said:
“Stay here a few hours if you want. I stay too.”
My choice.
“Fine.”
Desmond’s shoulders loosened.
Then Naomi looked at him.
“Do not mistake that for authority.”
His mouth twitched.
“Everyone in my house has become impossible.”
“Maybe they were always impossible,” I said. “They’re just speaking now.”
His eyes met mine.
For a second, the crime boss disappeared again.
Just a man in pain.
Then he said:
“Harper.”
“What?”
“If you had wanted me dead, you could have skipped the baclofen.”
I stared.
“That is the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still counts.”
He looked toward the photograph of me on the table.
The stranger who had watched me.
The license someone copied.
The name somebody turned into a weapon.
Then Frankie’s phone buzzed.
He read.
“Boss.”
Desmond looked.
“What?”
“Great Lakes says Monica Pierce hasn’t worked there in five months.”
Naomi frowned.
“Before Harper was assigned?”
“Yes.”
I felt cold.
“Then who sent me here?”
May you like
Frankie swallowed.
“According to their scheduling system, Monica did.”
