So Much More - Kim Holden Page 0,42

soul. An evil smile creeps back in. “It seems you’ve been busy, Seamus. Dating a prostitute—”

“She’s not a prostitute. And we’re not dating,” I say angrily through gritted teeth. I don’t know if any of my words are true or not.

She laughs haughtily. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you paying for her services?”

I inhale deeply, and I can’t speak because I want to yell, and I feel like anything I say will dig me deeper into this imaginary hole of doom Miranda has created.

“You have my children spending time with a prostitute and a drug user.” She eyes me disdainfully. “Not to mention, you’re smoking marijuana.”

I roll my eyes because I can’t help it. “I didn’t even take the hit when she offered it to me.”

Bergman speaks up, and his voice carries an air of authority that I’m sure is convincing in the courtroom when he’s defending something that a high-priced fee for his representation has justified into defendable and right. “Seamus, Miranda is only looking out for the children and their best interest. She has hired a caretaker, who’s already moved into their home, and has registered them at a private Catholic school with an excellent reputation as one of Seattle’s finest educational institutions.”

“The kids aren’t even Catholic. Neither are you,” I pronounce in stunned confusion.

“They begin their studies Monday,” Bergman continues as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Monday?” I question. The shock is so heavy I don’t sound like myself. Today is already Friday.

“My flight leaves this evening. I’m picking the children up from school and taking them with me,” Miranda clarifies, sinking the knife in deeper.

“What?” It’s a word released on a punch to the gut, a pained gasp of breath.

Miranda looks at Bergman, who nods, and then returns her gaze to me. “Don’t fight me on this, Seamus.” That was a threat, bold and immoral.

“Why not?” I challenge.

She picks up her cell from the table and looks at it thoughtfully. “It’s hard to parent, even on your limited holiday schedule, from prison.”

“What?” The pounding in my head is all-encompassing, it’s trying to blot out reality, to dampen her words out of existence.

She raises her eyebrows. “There’s enough marijuana in your bottom dresser drawer to put you away for twenty years, my dear. All I need to do is make a call, and the police will have your apartment searched before you can limp out to your piece of shit car.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “You set me up?”

She smiles. It’s broad and bright and toothy, and all I see are rows of shark teeth gleaming razor sharp and deadly back at me.

Anger is rising in me, pure and irrationally dangerous. I picture myself leaning across the table and strangling her with my hands. Delighting in the sensation of life draining out of her beneath my grip. My body is vibrating with an undeniable need to exact retribution. And when the anger is so strong that it’s erased ethics everything goes quiet. Everything goes black.

I wake lying crumpled on the floor like a balled up, discarded piece of trash. Bergman and Miranda are standing over me like royals ruling over a peasant.

“Mr. McIntyre?” Bergman asks.

I side-eye him in response and have the urge to punch them both in the ankles.

“Are you all right, Mr. McIntyre? You passed out. Do you need me to call paramedics?” The amplification of his words hints toward genuine concern.

I heave my body into a sitting position and test out my failing faculties. Everything’s in order though I feel like throwing up again. “Get her out of my sight,” I grind out through gritted teeth.

Miranda leaves the room.

I sign the papers under duress blinking back tears and gather them up into a neat pile. I hold them in my hand and look at Bergman standing across the table from me. “You just handed three precious lives over to the devil herself. I hope your conscience eats you from the inside out, you bastard. This isn’t the last you’ve heard from me. I’ll get them back or die trying.” I throw the papers up into the air and watch them flutter down in a flurry. I look him hard in the eye. “Oh, I almost forgot. One more thing. Fuck you.”

I march out stabbing at the ground with my cane.

I drive straight to the kids’ school and park in the lot in a visitor’s space near the front doors. School doesn’t get out for another forty-five minutes, but I’ll be standing here waiting for them.

When they