Liberty Begins (The Liberty Series) (15 page)

I
was
practically skipping on my way back to the house; I hadn’t had a movie night with anyone since Sasha moved away. The idea of doing something so normal, while wearing pajamas and having pizza, with John and his dad was so appealing that it was almost overwhelming. For once, in what seemed like forever, I wasn’t alone. It was the complete opposite of earlier today, and I couldn’t be happier to be on the other side. A glimpse of Darius, bleeding and crying, sprung out from my subconscious.
Don’t think about it,
I thought, biting my lip some more.
There will be a time when you can dwell on it, but not yet.

“There she is,” said Ian when I finally got back. He hugged me. “I’m so excited that we’re going to spend some time together. With none of this interrogation nonsense.” He waved me towards the kitchen. “Let’s go have some dinner and then you can pick a movie, my dear.”

“Oh no — you can pick,” I said, laughing. “I brought a book in case John insisted on watching something with lots of guns and tanks and explosions.”

“John’s not allowed to pick,” Mr. Quinn said, setting two slices of delicious, steaming cheese pizza on a plate for me and pushing it towards me.

“I heard that,” said John, sauntering into the room in low-hanging sweatpants and what looked like one of his old, ripped tee shirts from college. He had showered; his hair was wet and rumpled and wild, his feet were bare. He looked completely comfortable and sexy as hell. Fire shot up between my legs when our eyes connected and I had to look away. We were probably going to have to sit on opposite ends of the couch during the movie so we’d behave.

“Sit,” Ia
n
said, gesturing towards a barstool at the kitchen island. I did as I was told, and took a bite of the pizza. It burned my mouth but it was completely delicious. I had always been an eater, but the crazy workouts we’d been doing were making me a shoveler; I had to slow myself down so I didn’t inhale the entire piece of pizza at once and totally horrify myself and everyone else.

John sat across from me and gave me a smile. “You look nice,” he said to me. I beamed at him. He beamed back and then looked down at his empty plate. “Can I have some?” he asked his dad, hopefully.

“Well, you’re an adult! Help yourself!” Mr. Quinn said, in an exasperated tone. He was looking in the refrigerator for something. John pulled a face at me, obviously because of the preferential treatment I was receiving, and served himself.

Mr. Quinn found what he was looking for — a bottle of white wine — and brought it over to the table. He went to pour me a glass. “Oh, no thank you!” I said. “I’m fine with just water.”

He kept pouring anyway, and then he poured glasses for John and myself.

“I think you might need it,” Mr. Quinn said, taking a sip of his and then looking at me. He lowered his glasses a bit. “I need to talk to you about something.”

My stomach dropped. In my brief experience in the company of these men, I had learned that them
needing
to talk about something was probably a bad sign. I bit my lip and looked across the table at John, who was looking at me softly, like he was sad for me. Suddenly I felt very, very tired.

“Do we have to do this tonight?” John asked, taking another bite of pizza followed by a large sip of wine. “We had our asset’s interview this afternoon ... it’s been a long day.”

“She has a right to know,” Mr. Quinn said, shrugging. “And as you’re about to go out on assignment, I’m afraid we’ve run out of time.”

John nodded almost imperceptibly, giving his assent.

“A right to know what?” I said, flatly, not bothering to lilt my voice in the form of a question. I had some of my wine and kept eating my pizza. The wind had been taken out of my sails, but I was still going to enjoy my dinner while I could.

“Liberty, it’s about your case,” Mr. Quinn said, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. He put them back on and looked at me. “I normally don’t get involved in these matters, but in this case, I
am
involved.”

I shook my head at him, not comprehending.

“Liberty,
I
am the client,” Mr. Quinn said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

From the Cradle to the Grave

I spit out the wine in my mouth and it sprayed across the table. My fork clattered, bouncing off the granite island and onto the floor. “Oh my god,” I spluttered, “
please
tell me we’re not blood relatives!” I looked at John desperately.

“No, my dear, nothing of the sort,” Mr. Quinn said, unfazed, and patted my hand. He got up and grabbed a dish towel and started wiping up the mess I’d made.

“
John?
” I asked, begging for an explanation. My hands were shaking.

“Do you think I’d let something like that happen?” John asked me, disbelieving. “Seriously?”

“She’s within her rights to be upset,” Ian said, shooting John a look, “and probably to question our judgment at this point. I’m still seriously questioning
yours
,” he said, pointing his finger accusatorially at John. “Especially after the stunt you pulled this afternoon. Liberty didn’t need to be exposed to the likes of what she witnessed today. Just because she has an interest of the outcome of one of your cases doesn’t mean she needs to know all the violent details of what you do.”

“I’m trying to protect her,” John said quietly, tensely. “I’m trying to show her what she’s really getting into. No surprises. So she can understand, and make her own decisions about me,” he said and looked at me, anxiousness suddenly plain in his face, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“Well, I’m feeling pretty surprised right now,” I said, and my voice sounded totally flat again. My head was spinning. I grabbed my wine glass, hoping it could anchor me.

“I was just worried that this was all going to be too much, at once,” John said, and put his face in his hands. “Remember what I told you.”

“Which thing? That everything happens for a reason, or that I don’t want to know?”

“Both,” said John, helplessly.

“Please,” I said, turning to Mr. Quinn, “explain to me how
you
are the client. I just met you for the first time recently, right? Am I missing something?”

“No, that’s correct,” Mr. Quinn said, sitting back down and fiddling with his silverware. “I took over as the interested party in Ray’s situation. I inherited it, shall we say, from someone that you
do
know.”

“Sasha?” I asked, looking from John to his dad and back again.

“No,” Ian said, “but we
did
speak with her. She’s alive and well, and she wants you to contact her when you’re ready. She said it was going to take a while for you to forgive her, but she helped us find you.”

“How?” I asked, somewhat wildly. I hadn’t spoken with her in forever.

“She got your emails,” John said, looking at me with a gentle, careful expression on his face now.
He knows how much this is going to hurt and he feels sorry for me,
I thought. “She knew where you were. She was worried about you.”

“So why didn’t she
respond
?” I asked now, my voice strangled with tears.
My sister, the one person I had left, had abandoned me and left me alone.

“Honey, she was worried you hated her for leaving you with your mother,” John said, striding across the table and sitting down next to me. He tried to pull me onto his lap but I just shook my head:
no.
I was as alone as I’d ever been, more alone than I’d even thought.
She knew I was in Vegas, she knew I was stripping, she knew about Mom,
I thought, bitterly.
And she was worried about
herself
.

“I’m never going to forgive her,” I said.

“You might,” John said, being as close to me as he could without touching me, which he probably sensed I wouldn’t allow right now.

“She was so upset when we talked to her — she was hysterical, Liberty. At first she was totally incoherent. But she said she’d had a plan. She was trying to save enough money to come down and get you,” he said, finally daring to rest his hand on my hair. I flinched but he didn’t budge.

“Why didn’t she call me?” I asked, turning around to look at him wildly. I could feel the tears streaming down my face. “Or email me back? I wrote her every week,” I said, suddenly sobbing, and buried my head in John’s chest. He wrapped his powerful arms around me tightly, rocking me back and forth.

“She felt terrible about leaving you,” John said, softly, kissing my hair. “She couldn’t forgive herself, and she couldn’t face you.”

I continued to cry and John continued to rub my back. “Is she really okay?” I managed to mumble out.

“She’s okay,” John assured me. “She’s working two jobs and going to school. But she was worried about how this was all going to affect you, with us coming to look for you and go after Ray, after everything you’ve already been through…” He trailed off. I looked up saw him and his father having some sort of silent exchange over my head.

I pulled back and wiped my face with my hands. I picked up my napkin and blew my nose indelicately.

“Well, all right. Just go ahead and tell me the rest of it,” I said, blowing my nose some more. “Just go ahead and tell me. Rip the bandaid off. I can’t take it anymore.”

I watched as John and his father had another silent, intense exchange. I turned around in exasperation.

“I expect more from you at this point,” I said, and Mr. Quinn looked at me sheepishly.

“Your father was the original client, Liberty,” he said, looking at me levelly. “He had hired a private investigator to come out and find you in Oregon, but instead he found out that your mother passed, that you had a half-sister who’d left, that you were gone … and he found out about Ray.”

“My father?” I asked, incredulously. “I’ve never even met my father. I’m 21 years old. Who the hell is he? Where the hell did he come from?”

Mr. Quinn poured me some more wine. I clutched it; I gratefully
sat on John’s lap now.
None of this was his fault,
I thought at last, relieved.
I couldn’t blame him for bringing all of this craziness on me.
He could tell he was forgiven, he felt my body relax into him; he put his arms around me and kissed the side of my face.

On the one hand, I wished he’d told me sooner. On the other, this was all a little bit more than too much.

“Your father was an executive, a successful one, who’d lived in Manhattan for a long time. I’d actually had business dealings with him from time to time,” Mr. Quinn said.

“I know — small world,” he said, taking in my shocked expression.

“When I left finance and started with John’s company, I told him what I was doing. I didn’t know anything about his personal life; I didn’t hear from him for several years and I certainly never thought of him. Then one day, this past year, he called me out of the blue. He told me that he hadn’t stopped thinking about me and what our company did, and that he wanted to meet.

“So we met in a restaurant on a wharf in Boston. Incredible clam chowder. Best little quahogs I ever had.” I watched as John shot him an exasperated look.

“His name was Eric, by the way. Eric Kingston,” Mr. Quinn said. “Nice guy. His hair was curly, like yours.”

My heart stopped. At some point, it had registered with me that Mr. Quinn kept using the word “had.” As in, my father
had
been an executive. He’d
had
curly hair.

“He’s dead. Isn’t he?” I asked, quietly, in a monotone. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. It was like my Vegas lesson all over again — losing something before you’d really had a chance to ever have it. The loss of a possibility.

I wasn’t sure why I was crying. I’d never met him, and I stopped wondering about him when I was a little girl.

John hugged me closer to him. “Yes, he passed,” he said, and gently kissed the side of my face. “I’m so sorry, Liberty. He had a heart attack not long after he hired us.”

“That’s when I took over as the client,” said Mr. Quinn, thoughtfully. “Eric and I weren’t remotely close, but when I heard his story, I knew that there was an innocent girl out there that we had to help. The whole reason John started this business was to protect people like you, Liberty. I just didn’t know that I would grow to care about you like I have, and I
certainly
never expected John to become so attached. But I pushed John to continue this case before we found you, because I knew that innocent people were being hurt by Ray. And I’m
so
glad I did.”

I looked down, tears dropping into my lap. “Thank you. I’ll find some way to pay you back, someday,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous—that is the last thing you need to worry about,” said Mr. Quinn, emphatically. “Besides, Eric paid for everything up front.”

“But speaking of money,” said John, “your father left some for you. As I understand it, he had four other children, but he included you in his estate. You just have to
take a blood
test to prove paternity.”

“I believe that’s correct,” said Mr. Quinn. “We had a written contract, and his estate’s attorney was winding up his affairs. He contacted me after Eric died. That’s how I knew he’d passed. I did ask the attorney some questions and I found out that you were named as an heir. We had done enough research at the outset that Eric had at least your name and date of birth. So he’d gone ahead and included you in his estate. I explained to the attorney the situation, and he instructed me to have you contact him when you’re ready.”

I sat there, stunned. Not only was my father a real person, with a real name and curly hair, but he had looked for me. He had cared about what happened to me, and although it was a little too late, at least it was something.

“How did he know my mother?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“He told me that he had a daughter out of wedlock but he’d never had contact with her. He said that he’d had a brief affair with your mother while he was out on the West coast. He was married to one of his wives — he had several — back when he knew your mother. He said that he knew she had a child, but he’d never met you. I guess he sent her money on a regular basis but that she would never return his calls or have any sort of contact with him. It was his life’s great regret, that he never met you, never had a relationship with you. He felt extraordinarily guilty about it.”

“Well, now I know how she afforded all those extra drugs all the time,” I said shaking my head. “He was helping fund her lifestyle. That makes sense.”

“She never told you anything about him?” Asked John gently, rubbing my back. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“She probably didn’t have much to tell. She didn’t keep great track of all of her ‘boyfriends,’” I said, shaking my head at the thought. Sasha and I used to ask her about our dads, but the questions were never met with a very warm welcome. After a while, to keep her on an even keel, we’d simply stopped asking.

But then I remembered something.
An image from our apartment in Eugene. My mother, ripping up a letter to shreds. She’d looked guilty when I asked her about it.
“You don’t need to know,” she’d told me sharply. “It’s something that has nothing to do with you.”

But maybe it did. Maybe it really did.

I exhaled and shook my head to clear it.
“Okay,” I said, sliding my pizza back over in front of me. “So, you’re the client,” I said, motioning to Mr. Quinn. “Sasha’s alive and okay. My father’s name is Eric Kingston, he had five children, including me, and he actually sent my mother child support on a regular basis. He’s recently deceased,” I said, taking a bite of pizza and continuing to talk though it, “and I’m one of his legal heirs.

“Do I have all that right?” I asked, my mouth half full.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Quinn, taking a sip of wine and putting more pizza on all of our plates. “And you definitely get to pick the movie tonight.”

* * *

I woke up early, extremely early, to the sun streaming through the guest bedroom window, onto my face. John was sound asleep beside me. He’d asked if I wanted to be alone, but I told him I’d been alone for long enough. As long as we were together, we were going to stay side by side.

I couldn’t tell you what I was feeling. It was such a wild mix. Anger and disappointment at my sister. As for my mother, I was inconsolable. How could she keep my father from me? How could she take away the one chance I had at normal? For the first time ever, I felt a rage towards her. It made me shudder.

My father.
The thought of him flooded me with relief and regret. I’d never know him. But he had been real. He had been real and he’d cared about me.

I felt an overwhelming mix of
love, gratitude, embarrassment and confusion for John and for his father. They knew so much, more than I’d known, and they’d decided to save me. I owed them too much.

I loved John too much. I looked at him now, lying with his arms down by his sides, his tanned, bare chest rising and falling rhythmically.
How can I ever thank you for saving me? How can I ever repay you for letting me know the truth, from rescuing me from the din below, and helping me see the bigger picture?