What in God’s name is wrong with you? Belle McBain blurted across the table, not caring one iota if everyone in the restaurant heard her. Osmond Banks, her best friend and business associate, was testing her patience and Irish temper.

“You’re making it seem like we’re plotting against you, but he just wants to know how you are. Perhaps if you answered his calls, he wouldn’t need to contact me.” She bit back a comment she might later regret.

Forget about a relaxing Sunday afternoon.

The Green Tree restaurant, situated near the Cloister Museum in northern Manhattan’s Washington Heights, was crowded. Not an empty table or lone stool at the bar. Despite the mix of tourists and locals, the atmosphere was consistent. Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” among other ’80s hits, played loudly overhead as the smells of fried onion rings, grilled meats, and seafood filled the air. The sound of clinking glasses and happy chatter filled the room as patrons enjoyed themselves. A three-hour tour of the museum’s medieval exhibits left Belle and Osmond famished. Their hunger pangs led them to skip the trip to Emmet’s, Osmond’s favorite pizza place in SoHo, and eat at the restaurant instead.

Two business partners had planned a relaxing day to unwind after a grueling three-month investigation for a prestigious Midtown Manhattan law firm. Despite the long hours, justice ultimately prevailed. A billionaire client was found not guilty on all counts of child pornography thanks to McBain and Banks Investigation. Despite her disgust at the man—a reaction intensified each time she saw him—Belle believed in his innocence, blaming his business partner for the Asian-based, multimillion-dollar child pornography ring.

The day’s start was ideal. Learning about the art and culture of the medieval ages and enjoying carefree laughter and jokes without any work worries was essential. Unburdened minds, vacant of anything significant. However, their laughter stopped abruptly; the mood soured when she mentioned her previous day’s coffee date with Osmond’s father.

The nature of the disagreement between Osmond and his dad was still a mystery to her. For years, she’d envied Osmond and Tom Banks’ close bond, believing Tom’s elevated position in Osmond’s eyes was unbreakable. However, a serious incident occurred. A growing distance and tension between them caused her to worry constantly about her friend. Uncertain of the events leading to their estrangement, Belle had observed the start of the conflict between father and son. It began two years ago, during the Victor Simone debacle. The ruthless and soulless professional assassin—now dead— had kidnapped her, intending to kill her, but not before he ever so proudly revealed the ultimate damaging truth about her father, Ethan McBain. This was all part of Victor Simone’s long-awaited payback for her father’s actions over two decades prior.

Osmond’s words were as sharp as his look: “Just because we’ve known each other since childhood doesn’t mean I owe you explanations.”

Osmond Banks possessed wavy brown hair, captivating blue eyes that women found irresistible, and a physique honed by weekly aqua therapy and wheelchair basketball. He suffered a horseback riding accident at fifteen years old that left him without leg function, but this didn’t stop him from succeeding. Paralysis fueled his resolve to defy limitations.

With a chortle, she said, “Oh, I suppose it’s alright for you to meddle in every detail of my life, then?”

Osmond’s stare was firm. “I’ve saved you from overdosing and suicide multiple times,” he retorted. “That’s not interfering with your life, that’s saving it.”

The harsh, sudden attack caused her to violently push her chair back, abandoning her half-eaten caprese salad. “Fuck you, Os.” She got to her feet. “Fine, don’t tell me what the hell happened with Tom. Grow up, stop ignoring him, and work through—” she threw her hands up, “—whatever’s going on between you. You, more than anyone, know that failing to make peace will one day bring regret. Consider yourself lucky to have a father you can argue with.” She yanked her messenger bag and scarf from the back of the chair. “I need some air.”

The rain had stopped falling outside since their arrival. From a heavy downpour, it had changed to a light drizzle. She descended the stone steps and along a path in Fort Tyron Park, umbrella open. Chain-link ropes hung loosely along both sides of the path, creating a low barrier to safeguard the flowerbeds and abundant plants. Every few yards, glimpses of the Hudson River and the New Jersey Palisades peeked through the thick gardens—enough to make one stop and marvel at the grand, peaceful view.

Low-hanging clouds made the sky a depressing gray, and the temperature was colder than usual for this time of year. Mother Nature appeared to skip autumn and go straight to winter. Relentless rain had lashed the states, a lingering effect of hurricane bands from the East Coast. To add neck coverage, she wrapped the scarf around her head, zipped her leather jacket, and raised its collar. A strong north wind blew, whipping strands of her auburn hair across her face. She was relieved to be wearing her flat boots on the rain-slicked pavement instead of her unworn Kate Spades.

She shoved her free hand into her leather coat pocket, attempting to dodge Os’ poisonous strike. He had never once thrown her self-inflicted troubles in her face. Disagreements with Os were nothing unusual. It was more like intense, humorous banter between friends—reminiscent of an old married couple—which amused family and friends. However, when Os’ father became the subject, their playful arguing escalated into chaos. Their loud, heated arguments visibly strained their friendship and business partnership. Healing was supposed to come with time, not increased emotional pain. It’s true, she hadn’t long ago allowed her intense emotional pain to fester, leading to a reliance on drugs and alcohol to numb the suffering. Such actions were typical of her, according to those who knew her. Os, an optimist who didn’t hold grudges, surprisingly bottled up his anger instead of addressing it directly.

Honestly, she was deeply wounded by his lack of trust. He’d never been despondent before. His habit of brushing off problems and hiding his emotions told her this time was different—whatever was eating at him ran deep. Her persistent nagging eventually stopped; she hoped he would eventually confide in her the reason for the estrangement from his father. Six months had passed since then.


The sound of her cell phone chirping in her bag disrupted her thoughts. She dug it out and checked the screen. The number was unfamiliar.

“Hello?”

“Hey, stranger.”

An unexpected voice caused her to stop instantly. “EJ!” she said excitedly, her foul mood forgotten. “How’s everything? Is everything alright?” she rambled out in one breath. She strolled toward a chain-link fence, pausing to admire the New Jersey skyline partly visible through bare branches.

Her nephew emitted a chuckle. “All is great.”

The sound of her nephew’s voice only made her miss him more, increasing her hopes of one day spending time as a family. But hearing his voice now, she recognized the difference immediately. Instead of guarded and placid, he was chipper, which made her smile.

“Is that so? What’s her name?”

EJ chuckled. “Nothing like that.”

Belle was certain EJ had many girls competing for his attention. However, she thought it would be a challenge for the nineteen-year-old to commit to one girl because of their transient lifestyle.

“Okay, if it’s not a girl, then tell me what’s going on.” The drizzling rain had turned into large raindrops. Laughter could be heard from behind her. She watched as a couple, hand in hand, scurried past, looking for protection. In the distance, a woman in dark workout clothes plodded along the path, panting with hands on her hips. Even from a distance, she noticed the woman’s strikingly bright cherry red lipstick. Seriously, red lipstick while jogging? It struck her as odd—something about it lingered in her mind. It seemed that she and the woman were the only ones braving the gloomy outdoors.

EJ said, “Why don’t I tell you face-to-face?”

That left her stunned. EJ, along with his dad Joseph (her brother), were in the witness protection program. But then Joseph defied authority, disappearing from government protection and hiding his son and himself. Shortly after fleeing, Joseph contacted her. “I know Victor’s men,” Joseph had said. “I’m one of them, and know the government can’t protect my son, but I can—my way.” Belle couldn’t argue the fact. Hiding was something Joseph was trained to do. Yet, a doubt lingered in her mind; was Joseph withholding information? Had he already faced danger or been located? Accepting Joseph as a brother had taken time—accepting that he was a killer had taken even longer. Still, he was EJ’s only true protector.

“What exactly do you mean by face-to-face?”

“When you get home, I’ll explain everything,” EJ said.

“Home?” she said, puzzled, staring at a cargo ship cruising along the Hudson River.
“Wait. You’re at the Victorian?” Her voice held both confusion and excitement.

“Soaked to the bone on your front porch.”

Her last conversation with EJ and her brother occurred four months ago. Though EJ never disclosed their whereabouts, conversations with him revealed his frequent global travels and relocations. Joseph’s way of ensuring they remained hidden and alive.

Then why did her brother expose them so openly—right back in Jersey City, where the order for their assassination was given and likely still in effect?

“Joseph is with you, right?” she questioned.

“No. I mean yes,” EJ said. “He dropped me off just now and left to meet with Agent Cartwright. . . to help him with something. He’ll be away for a couple of days and wants me to stay with you. That’s cool, right?”

Overwhelmed by curiosity, questions erupted in her mind like fireworks. Despite the difficulty, she decided to wait and ask her nephew in person. She was in a mad rush to get home.


“It’s fantastic, actually!” she beamed. She gave him the code to her home security system. “Make yourself at home. Os is with me in upper Manhattan. We’re wrapping up a late lunch. We’ll be home within the hour. Os’ gonna be so thrilled to see—”

Her phone and umbrella dropped as a gloved hand muffled her, and a powerful arm encircled her waist. Panic and adrenaline surged, causing her to blink rapidly. She tried to pull the hand from her mouth to no avail. Desperate to get free, she reared back, struggling against the person’s ever-tightening grip, her overheated lungs begging for air. The person dragged her toward the chain-linked rope and the thicket. Using all her strength and the leverage of her heels, she pushed back, throwing both herself and her attacker off balance. A cracking sound from her skull was deafening. Fresh, wet air filled her lungs as she gasped. Get up, damn it! Get up! She attempted to raise her head, but the pain was excruciating as her vision blurred and her mind felt foggy. As she inhaled, the mounting pain caused her to close her eyes.

With a death grip tightening her neck, her final breath escaped. In a reflexive action, she batted away the hands strangling her, but they held fast. She was losing consciousness; her lungs felt like they were exploding.

Fight, damn it! Open your eyes!

Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to open her eyes. A dark shadow hovered over her.

Damn it! Focus!


But it was no use. She closed her eyes, her mind fogging and slowing.

Inches from her face, the shadow’s stale, heavy breath whispered, “Circundederunt me dolores mortis. It ends with you.”

French and English. But the voice—it sounded. . .

Damn it! Look!

She willed her eyes open, but they were heavy like sandbags that her strength couldn’t compete with.


Please God, anyone, help me!

Her head spun, white, shiny specks floating in blackness.

The weather shifted; rain poured out of the sky. She welcomed it, hoping it would wash away this horrible dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. Wait. Is that a dog barking?

Could the dog’s owner be found close by?

With a moment of hope, strength tumbled out from her, and she managed to open her eyes for the briefest of seconds. Through the pelting rain, she stared at her killer—

Wearing cherry red lipstick.

In another second, everything went black.