Chapter 7 - Proof in a Dead Woman’s Name
Belle did not sleep in the safe house either.
The bed was softer than anything she had touched in years, which somehow made it worse. Her body did not trust comfort. It lay rigid beneath clean sheets while Micah slept across the room under a mobile of painted birds.
At 3:12 a.m., she heard voices downstairs.
Renick’s voice. Low.
Another man’s. Angry.
Belle slipped out of bed, pulled on her sweater, and cracked the door.
“I told you to bury this years ago,” the other man hissed.
“I buried my wife,” Renick replied. “Not the truth.”
Belle froze.
The other man lowered his voice, but the house was old, and old houses carried secrets through vents and stairwells.
“Vivienne is family.”
“She put my daughter on a balcony.”
“You don’t know that.”
“A seven-year-old boy saw her.”
“A maid’s son.”
The insult traveled up the stairs and wrapped around Belle’s throat.
Renick’s answer came quiet.
“That maid’s son has more honor than most men at my table.”
Silence.
Belle’s fingers loosened on the doorframe.
The other man spoke again. “If this gets out, the North End fractures. The Callahans move. The unions panic. The docks shut down. We lose everything.”
“No,” Renick said. “You lose everything.”
A pause.
Then the man laughed without humor. “You always did think grief made you holy.”
A door opened downstairs.
Renick said, “Leave before I remember how much I dislike you.”
The front door closed.
Belle shut her bedroom door quickly and leaned against it, heart beating hard.
“Mom?”
Micah was awake.
Of course he was.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Who’s yelling?”
“No one.”
“Grown-up no one or real no one?”
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
“Grown-up no one.”
Micah sat up. “Did I get us in trouble?”
Belle crossed the room and sat beside him. “No.”
“If I didn’t follow the bird—”
“Brinley might have fallen.”
He looked at the mobile. Moonlight touched the painted wings.
“Maybe the bird knew.”
Belle brushed hair off his forehead. “Maybe.”
He hesitated. “Mr. Kavanaugh is scary.”
“Yes.”
“But he loves her.”
Belle looked toward the door.
“Yes.”
Micah leaned against her. “That makes him less scary.”
“No, baby,” Belle whispered. “Sometimes that makes men more scary.”
Downstairs, Renick stood alone in Aisling’s kitchen with a whiskey he did not drink.
Belle found him there at 6:00 a.m.
He looked up when she entered, but did not seem surprised. Men like him probably heard everything. Or expected everyone to listen.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“No.”
He poured her one anyway, black, and slid it across the counter.
Belle took it because pride was easier before dawn.
“Who was here?”
“My uncle Cormac.”
“Does he know about Micah?”
“Everyone who matters knows by now.”
Belle’s stomach twisted.
Renick saw it. “That is not meant to frighten you.”
“Then you should practice saying frightening things differently.”
He leaned back against the counter. “Fair.”
Belle hated that word from him. Fair. Right. Apologize. He kept using reasonable words while standing in the center of an unreasonable life.
“You said your wife left proof,” Belle said. “Proof of what?”
Renick looked at the covered windows.
“Aisling believed my family was moving money through a children’s foundation.”
Belle frowned. “Charity money?”
“Children’s hospital funds. Foster placement grants. School renovation contracts.”
Belle’s disgust came fast. “They stole from kids?”
“That was the beginning.”
“What was the end?”
Renick’s eyes met hers.
“She believed children were being moved through foundation programs into private homes that paid for silence.”
Belle went still.
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
“Are you saying trafficking?”
“I am saying my wife died before she could prove it.”
Belle gripped the coffee mug.
“And your aunt?”
“Vivienne chaired the foundation.”
Belle thought of blue gloves. Silver hair. A child lured by a bird.
“Why hurt Brinley now?”
Renick’s face hardened.
“Because last week, Brinley started drawing pictures of a blue door.”
Belle’s fingers went cold around the mug.
“What blue door?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did she see it?”
“That’s what I need to find out.”
Belle looked toward the stairs, where Micah slept under dead woman’s birds.
“You don’t need my son for that.”
“No,” Renick said. “But Brinley may.”
The doorbell rang.
Belle flinched.
Renick moved before the sound finished. He checked a small screen hidden under the cabinet.
“It’s Maribel’s daughter.”
Belle set down the mug.
A woman stood on the doorstep with red eyes, a winter coat thrown over pajamas, and a plastic grocery bag clutched in one fist.
The second she stepped inside, she looked at Renick and said, “My mother left this for you.”
She held out the bag.
Inside was a child’s shoe.
Tiny. Black. Scuffed at the toe.
May you like
Belle recognized it instantly.
It matched Brinley’s.
