Several minutes of attempting to calm and organize my snarled thoughts pass before I remember the call waiting beep. When I use the call return feature on the phone, though, the number the recorded voice recites to me is completely unfamiliar. I press the button to call the number back and let it ring several times before hanging up in defeat.
It might have been the boys, maybe calling from a payphone, but have no way of knowing since no one answered. I have no idea where they even are right now. I know the best way to get in touch with them is to stay put and wait for them to call me back, but my temper is flaring over my confusion and worry again. There is no way in hell I'm going to sit around my apartment all day in the hopes those assholes will call and explain this mess.
I finally settle on grocery shopping as an acceptable distraction, as my fridge is completely bare of anything resembling real food. I jot down a quick list of necessities and grab my purse, thoroughly distracted and not at all realizing my bag is both open and upside down. I shut and lock my door, but my purse snags on the doorknob, jerking and spilling its entire contents all over the hallway. I glare daggers at the mess for a long moment, wondering if steam is actually coming from my nose like the bulls in the cartoons I watched when I was a kid.
The ridiculous mental image I get from that thought calms me enough to shake off my anger for a moment. I crouch down with a resigned exhalation and begin stuffing the multitude of items back in my back. I have so much junk in my bag, it's not even funny, and I don't understand how it gets so cluttered in there since I keep my apartment and work desk so spartanly bare. I guess all the mess just ends up in my purse instead of everywhere else.
As I'm picking up an empty tube of chapstick I've been meaning to toss for about a month, I hear the phone ring in my apartment. I shove everything haphazardly back in my purse and look around for my keys, which, predictably, are nowhere to be seen. I look all over the floor, dig quickly through the jumbled detritus in my purse, and pat down all my pockets, and still I can't find them. The phone is on its fifth ring when I glance up at the door and see my keys hanging cheerfully from the lock.
Oh, for the love of God.
I turn them quickly, shaking my head in exasperation, and leap inside as the phone rings for the seventh time. My hand is on the receiver as the answering machine clicks over, and I hear muffled voices and what sounds like Rocco yelling something in the background.
I snatch up the phone in time to hear Connor say, "She ain't dere," just before he hangs up.
"Goddammit, I'm here!" I yell at the dial tone. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
Beyond pissed, I let out a scream of sheer frustration and jerk the entire phone and answering machine system out of the wall, chucking it across the room before I come to my senses. They crash into the opposite wall and drop into a broken, useless heap on the floor. As the frenzied haze of momentary insanity begins to dissipate, I realize just how crazy and ridiculous that scene must have actually looked. I am so glad no one was here to see me do that.
I stand there, staring at the ruined machine, my chest heaving, my face burning with shame and vexation, listening to my pounding heart slowly calm. I shouldn't have done that; I know it was stupid, and now I'm going to have to add a new phone and answering machine to my grocery list. I glance at the wall and am relieved to see no damage there.
"Enjoy your little temper tantrum, diaper baby?" I mutter, crossing the room to gather up the broken phone. "Good job, Grace. Real good job."
I dump the cracked pieces into the garbage can in the kitchen, making a pit stop by the sink to splash some water on my face in a feeble attempt to relax before venturing out in public. I'd like to be able to make it to the store and back without being mistaken for an asylum escapee.
I would probably be more successful in that venture if I could stop muttering angrily to myself every few minutes.
The electronics store a couple of subway stops down is my first destination, and afterwards I feel foolish and more than a little ashamed to be carrying a phone and answering machine around with me in the grocery store. I know that no one in the store knows what I did, but the tantrum is still fresh in my mind, as is the confusion, worry, and anger from this baffling situation with Connor and Murphy, not to mention that scene with Rocco a little while ago.
I shop in a bit of a daze, my temper receding a little in the wake of a vast ocean of doubt, uncertainty, and insecurity. Thoughts and ideas are spinning so quickly through my head, I barely have time to register them, much less think them over.
Where was Rocco going? Why was he so serious and grim when he left? Who was he going to talk to that made him act like that? Where the hell are Connor and Murphy? Why won't they tell me what happened with them? Why can I not catch up with them today? Why can't I remember my dream even though I feel this horrible twist of foreboding in my stomach every time I think of it? And why the hell was Donna yammering on about guns and somebody killing her cat?
As distracted as I am, I don't pay very close attention to what I'm grabbing from the shelves. I glance down at the shopping cart about twenty minutes in and realize I've grabbed far more than I could possibly carry home by myself. That's what comes of being used to shopping for three people and having four extra hands to help tote everything home.
Breathing slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth, I force myself to calm down and focus on one task at a time. I retrace my steps through the small grocery store, replacing about half of my basket's contents on the shelves. Once I'm down to a manageable amount, I head to the checkout line and load my food onto the counter.
As the clerk starts to scan my groceries, the headline of yesterday's Boston Herald catches my eye: "Saints of South Boston: Brothers' case discovered to be self-defense." I don't know how long I stand there, gazing numbly at the newspaper with a growing ball of dread whirling frantically in the pit of my stomach before the annoyed cashier's voice cuts sharply through my haze of shock.
"Is that all for you, miss?" From the sound of it, it's not the first time he's asked.
"Let me get this paper, too." The clerk scans the newspaper, indifferently reciting my total, and I pay and leave quickly, making my way numbly down to the subway station. I force myself not to read the paper on the train, to wait until I'm home. Without any confirmation whatsoever, I just know that this article is about Connor and Murphy, and I have this feeling that I'm not going to handle what I read very well. I'd like to be somewhere comfortable and safe when I read the article, just in case.
Like if I decide to have another fit or something.
I put away my groceries like a good adult and force a glass of water down my rebelling throat and churning stomach before I finally allow myself to sit down at my kitchen table and spread the newspaper out in front of me.
The paper is dated for yesterday, Friday, March 19th. I start to read, and a cold wave of panic creeps through me, sending tendrils of fear rooting deeper and deeper into my limbs the further I get into the article.
"In what is surely to be one of the most legendary cases in Boston's history, two brothers will be released from Police Custody after it was determined that the deaths of two men earlier this week were simply instances of self-defense. Connor and Murphy MacManus surrendered themselves to police yesterday."
My brain flickers out for a second, and I don't process anything I'm reading again until I get to "...brutal deaths of Ivan Checkov and Vladimir had been discovered. They reported to the police unescorted and voluntarily."
I read on, my paralyzed brain barely absorbing phrases like "what they really are is a pair of remorseless killers" and "where deaths results as the actions of an individual acting in self defense." I know somewhere deep in my mind where the rational part of me lives that I desperately need to hear what Connor and Murphy have been trying to tell me all day, that I need to hear their side of the story. But that part of me is far, far away right now, at the other end of a long tunnel that I can't see the end of. A distressed wheezing noise fills my ears, and it takes me a second to realize that I can barely breathe, I'm so freaked out.
The unexpected knock on my front door jars me so badly I let out a ridiculously loud shriek, knocking the newspaper off the table and toppling over backwards, sending my drinking glass crashing loudly into the kitchen cabinets.
"Lass? Are ye alright?"
What the hell do they have to sound worried about? I think wildly, clambering to my feet as I try desperately to calm my rapid heartbeat. My shoe slips on the newspaper, and I drop like a stone, landing on my ass with my hands planted on the floor. I scramble up again, panting like I've run a marathon, and I have the strangest sensation of being somehow detached from my body, like I'm that rational part of my mind watching everything from far away through my tunnel. I can't even make myself take the few steps over to the door.
"Heard ye yell, girl, say somethin'! Are ye okay?"
I open my mouth, but my throat is constricted like I'm in the middle of a panic attack, and I can't get any sound out.
"Murph, gimme t'key, somethin's wrong." There's muffled cursing, then a key slides into the lock from the other side, and my front door is flung open. Connor and Murphy come barreling into my apartment, they're heads turning wildly as they look around. Their arms are outstretched in front of them, gripping guns like they know exactly what to do with them. Their faces are half-covered by sunglasses, their expressions grim and a little frantic, and in that moment they are complete strangers to me.
In a dim memory that floats through my foggy brain, I remember Murphy telling me something about how he and Connor knowing how to handle a gun, but somehow that just doesn't seem like the most important detail right now. I don't know how I even thought of it except I can't seem to think of anything that would actually helpful right now. If I thought I was panicking before, that's nothing to how I feel now.
Unlike my brain, my feet suddenly remember how to react in a situation where someone charges into your space with a weapon. I find myself scrabbling backwards, my hand inexplicably slipping off when I grab at the counter, until I feel the wall at my back. Glancing around, I see my knife block a few feet away, and I lunge towards it, ducking away from the direction of the boys' swinging weapons.
Again, rational me knows neither of them would ever hurt me. Irrational me, however, has the controls, and all I see are guns pointed at me in my own home.
Just as my fingers close around the handle of my chef's knife, a gloved hand grips my wrist firmly. Without thinking, I react to what feels like nothing so much as an attack and swing back hard with my elbow, landing a hit square in the middle of someone's solar plexus. My assailant staggers backwards with a gasp of pain, dropping to his knee on the floor next to me with a sharp curse.
"Grace! Calm down, girl, it's us! Drop th'knife; we ain't gonna hurt ye!"
I turn wild eyes to Connor, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I watching him hastily holster his weapon. He rips his sunglasses off so I can see his eyes and steps towards me slowly, his hands held up palms outward where I can see them.
I look down at my feet where Murphy is kneeling on the floor, grimacing and rubbing his chest. His shades have fallen off and he's watching me intently, his eyes focused on my right hand. I finally notice that I managed to get a hold of my chef's knife after all. Also, for some strange reason, my hand is streaked with red. Funny, I can't feel either the knife in my palm or the blood on my skin.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe.
"Dose self-defense classes seem t'be workin' out fer ye," Connor offers, a tentative smile lifting a corner of his mouth. I nod, registering his words from miles away, as I stare blankly down at my bloodied hand. I still don't feel a wound of any sort. Maybe I nicked Murphy? But there's blood on the knife handle, bloody handprints on the counter, and blood on the floor next to where I fell.
There's blood on Murphy's knee where he's kneeling, too. Where did the shards of glass littering the floor come from? My thoughts are whirling at top speed again, trying to force my brain to make sense of the situation, and all I manage to come up with is that I probably need to stop threatening Connor and Murphy with a kitchen knife.
I take a step towards the table, intending to lay the knife down, when I'm hit by a crashing wave of dizziness. There's a rushing sound in my ears, and the kitchen goes blurry. All the remaining sensation drains from my frozen limbs, and I hope to God that I didn't just drop the knife on Murphy. I mean, I've already somehow inadvertently injured him with broken glass, but I'm sure a chef's knife to the thigh wouldn't do him any good, and-
I'm being propelled swiftly across the floor, but I can't feel my feet moving. I have a moment of severe disorientation where I think I might even be floating. Something pushes me gently downwards. The backs of my knees hit something soft, forcing me back and down into a sitting position. My head is pressed forward, and a faraway voice tells me, "Breathe, girl. Keep yer head down and breathe."
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe.
There's a tugging sensation in my palm, and suddenly feeling in the form of stinging pain rushes down my arm and concentrates in my right hand.
"Son of a bitch! What the hell was that for?"
My head snaps towards Connor, who is still grasping my palm in one hand. In his other hand, he holds a thin sliver of crimson-stained glass towards me.
The rest of the room slides back into focus around us, the pain in my hand clearing my head a little by giving me something to fixate on. The rushing noise fades as the sounds of Boston filter back in. I keep my eyes focused on my hand, intently watching Connor clean the tiny wound and place a band-aid over it. It's not even large enough to warrant gauze, but the tiny injury is the only thing keeping me anchored to this plane of consciousness right now.
The fingers of my other hand tingle and prickle as if I've been leaning on them and they've fallen asleep, and I shake them nervously, getting blood flowing back to them. After another minute or so, I notice the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Since I'm shivering uncontrollably, I decide that whoever placed said blanket on me had the right idea. I don't think I've ever felt this cold in my entire life.
Shuddering, I start to straighten up, only to have Connor's hands on my shoulders slow my progress.
"Easy, dere, girl. Ye nearly went out from shock. Take it slow, or swear t'Christ I'm takin' ye t'the hospital. Should take ye anyway, get yer hand looked at t'see if dere's anymore glass."
"Wouldn't be your first trip this week," I say through chattering teeth. "They've probably got a room reserved for the two of you by now. Why is it so freakin' cold in here?"
"Shock," Murphy answers me from the kitchen, echoing his brother. I hear tinkling sounds, and assume he's taking care of the broken glass. Connor chafes my arms through the blanket, and my immediate response is to simply melt into his side. I'm still pissed, though, a surprisingly energizing emotion that helps bring my thoughts back into sharper focus.
I fight against the urge to throw myself at Connor with every bit of strength I have. Now is not the time for melting; now is the time to get some freaking answers. I continue sitting up, albeit slowly, until I'm upright once more. Then their words register.
"Can you blame me for going into shock?!" I turn a burning, incredulous glare on them both, twisting on the sofa so I can see them at the same time. "What the hell is the matter with you two, busting in here with your fucking guns drawn?! Did you not consider for a second that might freak me out just a little after what happened in December?"
"You're right, lass, we didn't think," Murphy agrees, his expression strained as he dumps the pile of glass from the dustpan into the garbage can. To his credit, he does sound genuinely sorry before he turns to rinse his hands in the sink. "We heard ye shout, an' then ye didn't answer us. We've called ye prob'ly seven or eight times t'day, an' ye never picked up. Den yer phone had a busy signal fer near two hours, an' after th'last few days, we couldn't take th'chance dat somethin' had happened to ye."
My jaw clamps shut before I can say something obnoxious in reply. They were worried about me, they thought I was in trouble. It's been a much larger game of phone tag all day than I realized. Okay, okay...I can deal with that. I mean, yeah, they could have left me a fucking message, but…
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe.
I close my eyes, feeling a small muscle in my eyelid begin to twitch repeatedly in agitation. A particularly nasty throb of pain lances through my head, and I press my fingertips into my throbbing temples. I think for a long moment about what I want to say next and exactly how I want to phrase it.
"I need you to...do you still have your guns on you?" I finally ask.
"Hung 'em up wit' our coats," Connor answers slowly, as if he's apprehensive of why I'm asking. I nod, taking that information in and turning it over in my mind. It sounds so normal, so everyday. Hung them up with our coats.
Where are your instruments of death, darlings?
Hung them up on the coat rack with our coats and scarves, dear. Now how about a tumbler of Jameson and some of that lovely dinner you prepared?
Totally understandable and normal, right? Nothing to be upset or concerned about. Yeah.
So why does the world feel completely upside down?
I don't say anything aloud, but Connor must read some of the questions running through my head from the expression on my face. Still watching me with unconcealed worry and a little frustration, Connor says, "We got inta...bit of a mess St. Patty's Day night dat spilled over t'th'next day. Some Russian fellas came in t'Doc's, tryin' t'close down t'place. One t'ing led t'anudder, an' dere was a bit of a fight."
I hold up a hand, my eyes still closed, stopping him before he can go further in his narration. I force myself to think back to the article I read and what Rocco told me, remembering as much of the details as I can.
"Okay, I get trying to defend your second home and Doc's honor. But after this fight, for some reason you decide the best thing to do is to set a man's ass on fire? How the hell do you even get someone to hold still for that? Did you knock him out first?"
There's a moment of silence, and I'm pretty sure Connor and Murphy are having one of their unspoken conversations.
"So help me, if you even think about not telling me the entire truth," I begin. I am thoroughly fed up with stalling and half-conversations. I desperately want to give them an ultimatum, an all or nothing to tell me the whole story right the fuck now, but my throat shivers violently, and my stomach feels distinctly uneasy. I clamp my lips together instead, swallowing hard and willing myself to stay silent and listen with every fiber of my being.
"I tied 'im down."
I blink, my eyes opening as I look slowly and uncomprehendingly up at Connor. I stare at him, feeling eerily calm as he impassively returns my gaze.
"You...tied him down?" My voice comes out a lot calmer and more controlled than I thought it would. I sound interested but nonchalant, as if we're discussing what the weather will be like when we go out later.
"Tied 'im t'th'bar an' lit 'im up," Connor replies just as neutrally.
"Why in God's name would you do that?" The nonchalance is definitely gone now, though. I know this is not the most important part of our conversation, but I'm stuck on this point. Seriously, what could possibly be justification for setting someone's ass on fire?
Connor scratches the back of his neck, frowning and squinting at the floor before looking back at me with a genuinely perplexed expression on his face. "Don't rightly know, lass. Seemed like th' t'ing t'do at t'time."
I can't help the sudden eruption of delirious laughter that bursts from my mouth. I haven't slept since night before last, I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday, and I don't think I can physically handle much more of this conversation. My arms are shaking, my throat is shaking, my stomach is shaking, my whole damn body is shaking with exhaustion and anxiety and more than just the beginnings of hysteria. I mean, I'm sitting here laughing because my boyfriends set a man on fire and later killed him and his friend.
They killed them. Two men are dead. Because of something Connor and Murphy did. To defend themselves. From being killed by the same men.
Connor and Murphy were almost murdered while I was gone.
Oh, God.
My stomach roils violently, and I bolt from the couch to the bathroom. I just make it to the toilet, trembling legs be damned, as the lack of everything I've eaten today comes rushing out in a surge of bile. I gag, coughing and spitting into the bowl as gentle hands gather my hair up from my face.
I moan miserably and lean my throbbing head over to rest on the blessedly cool rim of the bathtub. I close my eyes, willing none of this to be reality with all my might.
"This is a nightmare. I'm asleep, and this is a fucking nightmare."
Connor and Murphy wisely refrain from answering as one of them wipes down my face with a cold, wet washcloth while the other presses a cup of water into my hand.