Chapter 16

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

On the drive home from the office, Michael Harper curses himself for ever getting involved with Shane O’Leary. But it’s too late for regrets, and it’s not like he had a choice. He’s in the soup and needs to manage it. And he’s been successful managing it so far. It’s in O’Leary’s interest to keep Michael as legit as possible. As far as the world knows, he’s just an accountant for several respectable businesses—many owned by shell companies that it would take a team of experts to trace back to O’Leary.

At the house, he finds Taylor sitting at the kitchen counter doing her homework. As far as he can tell, anyway. Books are open. A notepad nearby. But her phone—that dreadful device—is in her hand.

“Hey, sweetie.”

“Hi, Dad,” Taylor says, not looking up.

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

Fine.A word that seems to be the only descriptor for a day at school or any other experience in his fourteen-year-old’s life. He examines her. She looks so grown-up. When did this happen?

Michael considers broaching the subject of O’Leary’s kid but stops. It’s the hour of Fine, so he won’t get anywhere. He has to catch her in those rare chatty moments.

“Hey, want to go to Kiku for dinner?” Sushi might draw her out.

Taylor pauses, doesn’t look up. “I’ve got a lot of homework, Dad.”

“Ah, come on,” Michael replies. “I’ll let you drive,” he says in singsong.

Taylor’s glance raises from her phone, locks onto the keys Michael’s dangling in the air. He shouldn’t be letting her drive anywhere; she’s too young for even a learner’s permit; it’s against the law. But given that Michael is the moneyman for a criminal enterprise, it’s all relative. And it’s a manipulative way to spend time with her.

Soon, Michael is in the passenger seat on the short—but utterly terrifying—drive to Chestnut Hill. He tries not to instruct as Taylor drives. It only makes her more anxious. At last, she squeezes the sedan into a spot on South Rosewood. He tries not to exhale too loudly as she kills the engine.

In the restaurant, they’re taken to a table in the back. As Taylor considers the menu, Michael finds himself staring at her. She looks more like her mother every day. The dark flowing hair, wide-set eyes. Until her mother lost all her hair, lost all the weight and that glint in her eyes in those final days.

“What?” Taylor says, catching his glance.

“Nothing.”

“Stop, like, staring at me.”

Michael smiles. “So how was school today?” he tries again.

“I told you. Fine.”

“Very descriptive.”

She frowns. “It was like always.”

“Did you learn anything new?”

She shrugs, keeps her eyes on the menu.

He needs to let it be. He picks up his own menu. It’s pointless because he gets the same thing every time they come. “What looks good?”

“I think I’m going with the shrimp tempura roll.”

He nods. “I’ll have the same.”

“Copycat rat.”

That stings his heart. It’s something her mother used to say to her. If both got up to go to the restroom at the same time, copycat rat. If both said they liked the same book, copycat rat. If both were tired. Same. The expression made no sense and he wasn’t sure where it came from. Perhaps that kids’ movie about the rat that moved to Paris to become a chef that Taylor loved so much.

It’s strange having children. As they get older there’re always reminders of when they were small. When they would rush to the door when you got home from the office. When they would hold your hand and wanted to spend every moment with you. The reminders of Taylor as a little girl are bittersweet because the memories include her mom.

The food arrives and Taylor gets more talkative. She shows him a funny TikTok video, rants about how she can’t stand her French teacher, tells him something about a pop singer he’s never heard of.

Michael decides it’s time: “Hey, do you know a kid named Anthony O’Leary?”

Taylor looks up, eyes to the ceiling as if she’s trying to remember. She shakes her head. It’s surprising because the Academy is a small school.

“Remember I told you a client’s son was starting at the Academy?”

Taylor gives him an expression like she hasn’t the foggiest.

“Well, my client’s kid started there a few weeks ago. My client says he’s having a hard time.”

Taylor sips her water like she knows what’s coming and is dreading it.

“Anyway, it would be really great if you could maybe reach out. Introduce him to some kids.”

“Daaad.”

“I know. But he’s an important client to me. To us.” Michael doesn’t add a scary client. “And the universe rewards kindness.”

She gives a half eye roll. Then her gaze returns to his.

He doesn’t break away.

She lets out an exaggerated sigh, then jabs her chopsticks into the bowl. “Fine. But I get the last shrimp roll.”

Later, Michael sits in his home office behind the stack of papers he lugged home with him. He’s tempted to get some work done but decides to take the night off. Nothing here can’t wait. He heads over to the bar cart. Pours himself two—what the hell, three—fingers of Scotch.

He takes the first drink, the booze hitting his sinuses. He takes another, picks up the phone, and makes the call.

“Mr. O’Leary, it’s Michael Harper.”

“Michael… Hold on a sec.” O’Leary tells someone he needs a minute, clearing the room so he can take the call in private.

“I’m back.”

“I spoke to my daughter. I’m sorry I don’t have much to report. She hasn’t met Anthony yet, and hasn’t heard anything.”

Silence.

“But she said she’s going to reach out. She’s been at the Academy for a long time and knows lots of kids. She’ll help him meet some people.”

“That’s kind of her. I owe you both.”

Michael doesn’t protest again about the debt. In O’Leary’s world, he knows, no one does anything for free.

“She’s happy to do it. When my wife died, Taylor had a rough go of it and I felt really powerless.” It’s odd sharing this with O’Leary for so many reasons. “But the good news is that kids are resilient and get through things.”

“I won’t forget this,” O’Leary says. Then the phone goes dead.

Michael takes another pull of the drink. The chore is done. He feels a pang of guilt bringing Taylor into even the periphery of Shane O’Leary’s world. But it’s not like Anthony O’Leary has anything to do with his father’s business. He catches a figure in the doorway.

“Dad…”

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s up?”

She walks slowly to him. Head down.

“Something wrong?”

She bites her lip. “It’s about Anthony O’Leary.”

Michael feels his guts roil. “What about him? I just spoke to his dad. Told him you didn’t—”

He’s interrupted when Taylor thrusts a phone into his hand. It displays a video.

He feels his pulse accelerating as he watches.

“Oh shit.”