Trial by Fire Page 5

  “Think that one through, Abigail. What do you truly believe?”

  “My beliefs don’t matter. The facts do.”

  “And the facts are that fingers were pointing to Sloan hours after the bombing. Not via the news but through our own channels. Liam and I didn’t wait around for things to blow over. That boy lived under my roof for six years. He ate my food. He slept in my guest bed. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t father him. He’s my son. If he’s in danger I’ll move heaven and hell for him.”

  Abbey stared at him for a long moment. Then she smiled. “I’d move heaven and hell for him too.”

  “Well, then get stretching, lass. Hell’s about to beat down on him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Liam and I are the only defense witnesses. And we’ve already been deemed not credible. So when the prosecution rests, it’s over. There’s not much time.”

  “There’s no one else?”

  “Nope.”

  Abbey sighed as she slumped on the old sofa. Gordon continued. “Sloan turned an old cellar room into a workshop downstairs when he started designing those bloody triggers. You could sort through his old stuff. Maybe there’s something Liam and I missed.”

  “Sounds like a start.” Abbey stood. “How do I get there?”

  “Follow me.”

  She stood and followed Gordon into the small kitchen. The lemon yellow counters and linoleum floor had to be from the seventies at the earliest. Gordon tugged on an old, weathered door until it flung open. Carefully he descended the old, stone staircase and then opened the door at the bottom of the steps. Abbey poked her head in the room and then laughed a little.

  “It’s a mess,” she remarked.

  “It’s neater than it was.” Gordon yanked on a cord. The light bulb on the ceiling popped on in response. “When I told you Tom Morrison was dead and Sloan O’Riley took his place I wasn’t kidding. They are two entirely different men in the same body. Tom was a typical messy teenager. This would be clean by his standards. You know what it’s like to live with Sloan.”

  “Borderline OCD. So is it split personalities?”

  “He was forced to change, to become the man he is now. The path his life led him demanded nothing less. Lass, just promise me one thing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you are forced to take the same path, which you very may shortly, don’t let it change you. I like you the way you are now.” He motioned to the stacks of paper on the weathered wooden table. “Would you like some help?”

  “I think I’d like a stab at it alone. It’ll give me time to think.”

  “As you wish.” Gordon offered her one last smile before he disappeared around the corner. She listened to his boot steps on the stone stairs. She softly chuckled. He may have left her alone, but he kept both doors open. She settled on the rickety stool and then slipped her phone from her pocket. Finding a playlist from her music, she started it.

  Abbey turned to the chaos in front of her and began to sort. She studied each scrap for clues. Her heart warmed as she followed her husband’s immature scrawl across his homework pages. A photo stopped her work. A teenage boy dressed in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a denim jacket perched on a pile of rocks and smiled back at her. The ice blue eyes were all she recognized. He looked nothing like he used to. But one thing was for certain. Teenage Abbey would have fallen head over heels in love with teenage Sloan. Then would have shyly avoided him.

  Abbey frowned. Other than the photos hanging in his childhood home, she hadn’t seen any photos of Sloan. There weren’t any of him taken until she came along. It was too risky. She thought back to Mount Vernon. He would study every photo of her that her mother had. He and Mary would sit for hours and look through photo albums. When Abbey asked him why, he just grinned. He told her he wanted to know what she was like as she grew up.

  Abbey stared at the photo in her hand. It was priceless. And it was coming with her. She stashed it in her back pocket and kept working.

  She didn’t know how long she had been down there until the scent of roasting chicken wafted downstairs. Her stomach grumbled as she stood and ascended the stairs.

  “Find anything?” Gordon questioned.

  “How did my billionaire genius husband nearly flunk math three years in a row?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Go wash up. Dinner is almost ready.”

  “All right.” Abbey hurried up to the second floor in search of the bathroom. As grimy as she felt, she would need a shower. She found her bag in the first bedroom she came to. The bathroom was across the hall. She gathered some clothes from her carry-on and then rushed to shower.

  Dinner was already set on the table when she returned to the kitchen. Gordon pulled her chair out for her. She grinned as she took her seat. They helped themselves to the food and began to eat.

  “Thank you for taking my bag upstairs,” she told him between bites.

  “You’re welcome. You can sleep there. It was Sloan’s room,” Gordon replied.

  “Oh.”

  “I have to go into town tomorrow for court. You can keep up what you’re doing in the cellar if you wish. Just stay close to the house.”

  “All right.” Abbey pushed her potato around her plate. “I didn’t realize how much Sloan liked flowers. There has to be over a hundred receipts down there from the same florist.”

  Gordon took a bite of chicken and swallowed. “He used the allowance Liam and I gave him to buy a bouquet for his mother to show her how much he loved her. He did it every Wednesday until we left. He still sends flowers to you, doesn’t he?”

  “Every week.” Abbey frowned. “You said he did this every Wednesday. The bombing was on a Thursday, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye.”

  “If I found the receipt, couldn’t it be submitted as evidence? There’s no way he could get from Belfast to London that quickly.”

  “Compared to DNA evidence? Nay. It’s a start but it wouldn’t do much.”

  Abbey bit her lower lip as she thought. “Is that florist still there?”

  “Aye. It was over twenty years ago. I’m not sure if he’ll remember anything.”

  “Can I tag along with you tomorrow?”

  “People will recognize you.”

  “I have my wig. Please? I’d like to talk to the florist.”

  Gordon stared at her. “All right. We’ll go together. Maybe the old gent will recognize me. I have to go to the prison first thing in the morning, then I’ll come back for you.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “You’d better finish up and get to bed. We’re getting up early.”

  “I will.” Abbey turned her attention to her food, gnawing at the remaining stalk of broccoli. Her heart pounded in her chest. She knew she wouldn’t get much sleep. That’s fine. It gives me plenty of time to plan for tomorrow.

  »»•««

  Sloan paced irritably in his tiny cell. He hadn’t been confined to his new quarters for more than fifteen minutes, but he was already going stark raving mad. The bandage taped over the wound on his abdomen wasn’t helping his already thin patience. Now I know how those poor tigers in the zoo feel. Those poor, savage beasts, forced to spend their lives trapped in such a small space.

  Logan and Ashleigh had been true to their word. They visited every day, twice a day. They went over what they could of the trial. They discussed Sloan Enterprises. They even talked about the weather and rugby scores and anything that kept Sloan from the real topic he wanted answers to. Abbey. Has anyone heard from her? Is she coming to Belfast?

  Sloan slumped on the thin mattress as he huffed a heavy sigh. The answer was no. He rubbed his eyes to stop the tears that threatened to escape. What the hell got me to this point? He laughed miserably to himself. “Everything. My life is a bloody mess from beginning to end. Except for her. For Abbey. She was the only thing that made sense.”

  He lay back on the bed and pinched his eyes closed. His mind wandered to the bombing.
The IRA had rushed him and Gordon from Northern Ireland. People were already pointing fingers at him, even though the government wasn’t listening at the time. The IRA wasn’t going to give them the opportunity to change their minds. His last memory was of his ma and Maggie struggling against Liam to reach him, their sobbing bodies giving the older man a fight he clearly hadn’t expected. Sloan had been sick with guilt. It was a guilt he carried to this day.

  He and Gordon had jumped on the first cargo plane leaving Belfast, unsure of where it was landing. A couple of hours of pure torture later, they’d had their answer.

  Sloan hissed at the memory. Prague.

  Being near penniless in a strange city, Gordon had quickly found both of them jobs. Sloan had spent his days bussing tables at a café not far from their tiny apartment. Gordon had taken a job with a delivery service. Their evenings had been spent in silent tension. Sloan had gotten up frequently to pace and to growl that he needed freedom. All Gordon ever did was chuckle. And call Liam to plead for help with the boy.

  One afternoon, Gordon had brought home a gift—paints and paper. He had reminded the young man that constructing ignition triggers wasn’t his only talent. He was also a decent artist. Sloan had spent every day after work glaring at the art supplies. He had hated the older Irishman for demeaning him and treating him as a child who needed a coloring book and crayons to keep him busy.

  Slowly, he had warmed up to the idea. Opening a tube of paint, he had squirted a glob of it on a plate. He had picked up a brush and dabbed the bristles in the color. Slowly, methodically, he had dragged the tip across the paper before poking it back into the shade and applying more. Before he knew it, Gordon had been calling him for supper.

  Sloan had found his job at the café the most mundane activity he had ever done. There were days he had wanted to sneak away, to blow off the menial tasks. However, Gordon had expected his paycheck. Without their combined income, they wouldn’t have had a place to sleep or food to eat.

  Maria, a plump, rich woman as old as his mother, had dined there every day for lunch. He had never known if her hair was blonde or gray. He had known that she watched every move he made, and when he took her dishes, she would tuck a wad of bills into his pocket. He had thought it was strange—a woman he didn’t know touching him so intimately—but had brushed it off. Besides, she had always given him far more than he deserved in a tip.

  He had thought nothing of it when she had asked him to come to the penthouse she shared with her husband so that he could keep her company. He had actually looked forward to spending time with someone other than Gordon—maybe being with someone his mother’s age would remedy his homesickness.

  Sloan had been baffled when he arrived, prepared for a day of games and conversation, but found Maria sprawled on a lounge in nothing but a silk bathrobe. She had giggled when she found he was a virgin. At that time, he hadn’t even kissed a girl yet. Sloan had scuttled to the door in retreat. He may have had a violent past, but in the realm of sex, he had still been a good boy.

  He had stopped when she offered him forty-five thousand Czech crowns to sleep with her. That was more money than he had ever seen in his young life. He could send most of it to his ma and Maggie. But was providing for those he loved worth selling his soul?

  Sloan had clenched his eyes shut. The answer had been yes. He had reluctantly agreed to her offer. With a squeal of delight, Maria had planted a kiss on his lips. His first one. He had shuddered.

  He had fought back the revulsion of his first time. Even though his blood had run cold and his brain had screamed in protest, his traitorous body had played along.

  Afterward, he had pulled his clothes on quickly to escape. Maria had stopped him, kissed him deeply, given him his money in cash, and demanded that he return the next day. She had offered to double the fee. She had been that enamored with her new toy. With a groan, he had agreed and slipped out her door. He hadn’t reached the ground floor of her building before he had vomited.

  She had molded him like clay into the lover she wanted. She had taught him things he didn’t know were possible. He had felt pleasure he never imagined. It was too bad he had hated his lover. Each time she was through with him, he had hurried to wire the money to his Ma. Even though he despised what he was doing, he had loved the idea that he was providing for his family.

  One day, Sloan had been puzzled when Maria had asked him to stay dressed in his black slacks from the café for their afternoon rendezvous. When he had arrived, she had instructed him to strip down to his pants only and then had led him to the kitchen. She had explained that he would be her personal butler for the day when her friends arrived.

  It hadn’t taken long to figure out the circle of friends as the chatter and laughter of the five women echoed through the penthouse while he poured the wine. Like Maria, they were the wives of noblemen and those who governed. They loved to play while their husbands were away.

  And they had been very impressed as Maria’s new pet shuffled out with their beverages. The chorus of moans and sighs had signified their approval. None of them had been afraid to touch. Their fingertips had grazed his flesh as he set the glasses on the table. They had praised Maria for her find as if he had been an antique vase, not a man of flesh and blood. He had been humiliated as Maria bragged of their time in bed.

  Then one of the women had asked to borrow him once a week. Another had followed with her own plea. Sloan had opened his mouth to protest, but Maria’s icy stare silenced him. He had closed his eyes in defeat as the planning began, their hands roaming him the entire time. He had known one thing. He couldn’t do all this and work at the café too. He would have to resign first thing in the morning.

  His new routine with the five women had taken very little getting used to. Like Maria, Sophia and Catherine had wanted pure, raw sex. Agatha, the spindly black-haired countess, had shied away from an intimate encounter. She had loved her husband, but he had been away a lot. She had just wanted company, and Sloan had been more than happy to oblige. They played chess. They watched movies.

  Agatha loved watching him paint and had bought him all the supplies he wanted. She had even volunteered to speak to her husband to get him his first art showing.

  Then, there was Angelique. Sloan bit back a growl as he readjusted the thin pillow beneath his head.

  While the rest had been in their forties and fifties, Angelique was just a year or two older than him. She had been married to a man three times her age whom she did not love.

  Their relationship had quickly changed from a business transaction into a love affair. Between their lovemaking, they had talked about their dreams. They had made plans to run away together, to leave Gordon and her husband far behind. He had confided in her about his past. When she had tried to pay him, he would tuck it back under her pillow. He had been falling in love with her.

  For three months, Sloan had kept up this rotation of women, loathing himself for selling his body for their pleasure, but proud of himself for taking care of his family. Through it all, Gordon had never caught on to what he was doing.

  Then, it had all come crashing apart.

  It had been Monday, the day he spent with Maria. The afternoon had been getting late. He had just slipped from beneath the covers and tugged his jeans on. He had heard Maria fumbling in her bedside table like she normally did to stow away the condoms.

  But his heart had jumped in his throat when he had seen her holding a gun. Her smile had been pure evil. She had revealed that she knew exactly who he was. She already had found and contacted those who were looking for him. She was ready to reveal where he was.

  Of course, she wouldn’t…if he killed her husband. Her directions had been simple—kill her husband, dispose of the gun, and then return to her. She had set the weapon in his hand and then ushered him out of the penthouse with a sweet smile.

  He had shuffled through the street toward the courthouse where Maria’s husband presided. He had climbed the fire escape to the rooftop of the
grocery store across the road and waited. Tears had burned his eyes. He had never killed someone before. He was just an errand boy. As the man had stepped out, Sloan had dropped his gun. He just couldn’t do it. He quickly slipped down the ladder and ran, not stopping until he reached Angelique’s apartment.

  Sloan had begged her to run with him. His life was over if they didn’t leave that moment. They could start over together. But Angelique had backed away from him, shaking her head. She couldn’t leave her husband. He bought her jewels, clothes, shoes, cars. She couldn’t be with a man who was poor.

  His heart had turned to ice as he glared at her. She had been the one who told Maria who he was. What else had she shared with the others? He had turned away without a word and walked home. Then he had locked himself in his bedroom. As the truth of his situation had sunk in, the tears had started.

  He had ignored Gordon’s demands to open the door as he watched out his window for someone to come for him. He had been able to hear the old man shouting on the phone with Liam. He had disappointed both of them. He had disappointed everyone. How much more could he foul things up?

  He had awakened well after sunrise the next day. Still no cars, no men with guns. There had been no sound anywhere. The silence had been broken by the front door of the apartment slamming closed. He had heard rummaging. Then a spoon had appeared under his door.

  Admittedly, curiosity had gotten the best of him. He had opened to find Gordon standing there with a carton of ice cream and jar of hot fudge sauce. His favorite dessert. Sloan hadn’t been able to stop the tears from starting again. Gordon had set the items down and pulled him into a bear hug.

  Sloan had spilled everything he had been doing to his adopted da. Gordon’s face had darkened as he had discovered what the young man had been doing for money. Once the story was over, Gordon had excused himself and stepped out of the apartment. As Sloan dug into his treat, he had turned on the television. His mouth had gaped open at the news story.

  The scandal of five of Prague’s most prominent noblewomen having an affair with the same man had been plastered all over the screen. As he watched, he learned that Maria’s husband had arrived at the time Sloan was supposed to return after the murder. She had called him Tom. He had interrogated her for hours and then thrown her out. He then had rung the husbands of the other four women, who all confessed.