The ride was far too short, and he grabbed her and pushed her down the hall to her apartment door. Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t get the key into the lock and he gave a low growl of impatience that made her shake harder. Her heart banged in her chest. Maybe if she couldn’t get the door open, someone would come out, her nosy neighbor or the man next door that she hardly ever saw, and barely knew, but hell, he’d help her, wouldn’t he…
“Oh for Chrissake, give me the key.” He shoved it into the lock and the door fell open. Damn, damn, damn.
She had to think, think clearly. What did she have in her apartment that could be a weapon? Her Henckels knives sitting in the block on the counter. All the way across in the kitchen. Maybe she could get there. Her eyes swiveled around the room. The lamp might work. The wrought iron base wasn’t too heavy, but…how was she going to get it?
He pushed her down onto the couch.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering and quaking. And then the first flashback hit. Her, on the floor in the bank, with Gary pointing a gun at her.
She blinked.
She stared at the man before her, who’d taken a step back.
“What do you want?” she asked again, striving for composure. Control.
He sat down on one of her armchairs. She gaped at him.
“Make yourself at home,” she snapped. “What is going on here?”
He leveled the gun at her. She knew nothing about guns, but it looked lethal, the black hole of the barrel staring at her.
She swallowed, her throat tight and dry.
“Tell me what you want,” she said again, stronger. “I’ll see if I can give it to you.”
“You can’t give me what I want,” the man said. His voice sounded young but she still couldn’t see his face well.
And then the second flashback slammed into her. A man walking into Maeve’s shop, a black hoodie pulled over his head. A dark shrouded shape at the bottom of the stairs that Shane tried to grab.
Her mouth fell open. No. It couldn’t be.
“Who are you?”
He gave a sick-sounding laugh.
Frustrated, she pressed her lips together. She started to sit up, but the gun moved. She watched the opening of it, remembering her nightmare, ready to fall apart. But she didn’t. She sat up straighter. She’d gotten through this once before, somehow. She could do it again. If only she knew what he wanted. She remembered the police negotiators talking to Gary in the bank. She could only hear his side of the conversation, but she’d gotten some of what they were doing. Making a connection. Asking him what he wanted. Trying to give it to him.
“What happened to you to make you do this?” she whispered. She had no idea if she was asking the right question.
“What happened to me? How about, what happened to my dad?”
“Your dad?” Bewildered, she squinted at him, still trying to see his face. “Do I know your dad? Do I know you?”
He shoved his hood back. A kid. Early twenties. Dark hair. She didn’t know him.
“My dad was Gary Jarvis.”
Chapter Twenty
Shane stood.
“Gotta go,” he said to his parents, voice raspy. He kissed his mom’s cheek, carried his glass into the kitchen and set it on the counter then strode out.
He drove home, working himself up into a good high dudgeon, as Ma would say. They didn’t need him. Apparently, nobody needed him. He’d wanted to take Maeve to the doctor and she’d gone on her own, goddammit. She didn’t need him either.
Keara didn’t need him. Every time he’d tried to help her with something, she’d protested, gotten annoyed. He knew it. That’s the way he was. But she didn’t need that. She was a strong, independent woman.
Ah hell. The truth was…he needed her.
His gut cramped as he pulled into his driveway. His big house sat empty, black windows like vacant eyes. He sat there in his car, staring at the garage, fingers still holding on to the steering wheel.
He could call her.
He glanced at his watch. She might not be home from work. Or maybe she’d be out partying. What would he say to her? Did he have the guts to ask her if she’d come back. What if she said no?
Her career was important to her. Like Trista’s. Except he had to admit he hadn’t really given a shit about Trista’s career. He’d wanted her to stay, wanted her to turn down that promotion and he’d been mad when she hadn’t.
He couldn’t ask Keara to do that. Wouldn’t ask her to do that. Because if it meant that much to her, he wanted her to have it. The thought slammed into him like a bullet, driving home the realization of the difference between his feelings for Trista and for Keara. Night and day. Black and white. Whiskey compared to water.
So—he’d go to her. He’d go see her and tell her he’d leave Kilkenny for her. Because he would.
He knew it was crazy, impulsive, maybe stupid—but he put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. If she wouldn’t let him into her apartment, he’d be on the street with only the clothes he was wearing. He’d take the chance. A sudden urgency gripped him, and it felt absolutely imperative that he get to Keara as quickly as he could.
* * * * *
Keara stared at the boy across from her. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes defiant. “You’re Gary’s son?” she whispered, clasping her hands tighter.
“Yeah.” His tone was sharp with bitterness and anger. “And thanks to you, my dad is dead.”
A sharp slice of pain stabbed into her. She rubbed one eyebrow, trying to ease the throbbing below it. What
