MORNING CAME WITH the subtlety of a jackhammer. Jason Donnelly rolled over, covered his head with a pillow, and groaned. The blinds. He forgot to close the blinds before he went to bed and the sunrise off the lake was brighter than a military grade laser.

That's what you get for moving into an apartment with a nearly 360° view.

He reached around futilely for the remote control. The blinds were remote-controlled... where was it? His fingers brushed against something plastic. Thank God. He pressed a button.

The 65-inch flat screen came to life. "It's a beautiful day here in Chicago land. Not a cloud in the sky, and we're looking a a low humidity day... I know! What are chances of that happening in August? Get out there and enjoy! Traffic cam's already over Oak Street and the beaches are showing signs of life..."

Donnelly cursed and turned off the television. Clearly, the universe wanted him out of bed. F'ing universe, he thought, but sat up anyway and rubbed his head.

Whelp.  No one broke in overnight and cleaned it up his apartment for him. Boxes were scattered everywhere, some half open, most still taped shut. Two empty pizza boxes sat on the kitchen counter a stone's throw from where he lay.

He lived in 390 square feet of squalor.

He could hear his hippy mother in his head, snipping at him like she was standing there. Oh, Jason, don't be so negative.

His flipflops-in-winter wearing, kombucha-drinking, coop-shopping mom, with her eternal positiveness and relentless smile... okay, mom. Here are some positives. The kitchen was nice size. The view was amazing. The living room area, on the other hand, barely fit his king sized bed, his flat screen television, his Peloton bike, and an IKEA nightstand. And the boxes. Maybe there'd be more space, if he would unpack.

Eh, why bother? It's not like he needed more space, since it was only him, anyway.

His mind flashed back to his ex-fiancé, Ainsley. She'd have loved this place for its address and view, and how she could use it to make all her followers think her life was better than theirs. That was the worst part about her, the constant pretense. It had gotten to a point he couldn't even take her anymore.

The last time they saw each other... it had been bad.

"Get out! Jason!" she screamed, throwing a t-shirt at him. "Just take your shit, and get out."

"Well if that's how you really feel—" he picked up the t-shirt "—hey, this isn't mine."

"It's not?" She pulled it out of his hands, frowned, then tossed in with her stuff. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, now wait a minute." He picked up the shirt and read the tag. A. B. Andrew "Andy" Boyd. Andy was one of his closest friends. "Why do you have Andy's shirt?"

She suddenly got all tight lipped. "I don't know. Maybe you borrowed it."

"Nope. Andy's fun-sized." He held up the shirt. "This would fit my arm."

"Don't make fun of him!" She ripped the shirt out of his hand. "Andy's wonderful..."

"And you're sleeping with him, aren't you?" He started laughing. "Ainsley and Andy, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G..."

The memory made him rub his jaw. Ainsley was 98-pounds soaking wet, but she could pack a punch. Note to self. Never taunt an enraged woman.

Ainsley, he didn't miss, but Andy had been a good buddy.

Apparently, Andy must have thought so, too, because a fancy envelope with Andy's address as the return address sat on the kitchen counter, unopened. It was too small for a wedding invitation. It was probably a Save-the-Date. His oldest sister sent those out before she got married. Either that, or Ainsley was conscious uncoupling in love and friendship, or whatever crap she was reading on GOOP.

Shit. How long had Ainsley been cheating on him? Why didn't he notice?

Why didn't he care?

Ain't love grand? Donnelly stood up, stretched, and for the third day straight, made it into the bathroom without stubbing his toe. After taking his comfort break, he weaved around a group of boxes--again without smashing a toe--and made a tally on a chart he was keeping next to a 12 pack of toilet paper that needed a better place than the kitchen counter. Four days, Stubbed Toe Free. He started the coffee pot. As it brewed, he considered moving the coffee maker to the nightstand by his bed. That way, all he'd have to do is roll over and make the coffee.

But then, he'd have to get water when its reservoir ran out. Better where it was.

The red light went out, indicating his brew was finished. He gulped it down, and brewed another.

Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, so he reached in the refrigerator and pulled out a cold slice of pepperoni, anchovy, and jalapeno pepper pizza. He picked up his phone. Instagram sent him a notification. Ainsley was already at Oak Street Beach, wearing a #whitebikini from #H&M, and staring off into the distance.

"Just thinking about Jesus," she wrote. #Blessed #LakeMichigan #SavetheGreatLakes #Summer

#Hashtag

He reached to take another bite of pizza, but it was already gone. Great. He was anger eating. If he kept up, he'd be law school fat again. He deleted Instagram and took his coffee back into the living room... this time, stubbing his toe, hellfire damnation... and dug around for his biking shorts.

It took a moment to find them... how long had he lived here? Four, no five months, and he was still living out of boxes. One of these days, he'd unpack. Eventually.

He found the bikeshorts halfway under the bed, in the middle of a stack of underwear he wasn't sure were dirty or clean. He picked up a pair of underwear, gave them a whiff, and cringed. Dirty. Definitely dirty. He tossed them a box he used for trash.

He really should do laundry sometime. He couldn't just keep buying underwear just because none were clean.

He picked up the biking shorts, then the newspaper, then some old Chinese food takeout containers. He could straighten up a bit. He picked up another newspaper, only to find a surveillance photograph underneath.

He picked it up and studied it. It was a picture from the summer before last, back when he and would-be informant Siobhan McIver were up on the Navy Pier Ferris Wheel. Before he'd breached protocol, and they'd gotten... too close.

So close, he'd damn near lost his job over it. Sometimes he wondered if that would have been a bad thing.

Her smile as he pushed as stray lock of hair from her face was everything. "You know, we could get stuck," he said. "We could be up here all night."

"Are you freaking out?" she countered. "Scared of heights?"

"No," he replied a little too quickly. It wasn't like he could admit it. "Things break, you know."

"Well, if it does, I'll climb down." She winked. "Don't you worry. I'll save you, big boy."

Her bravado amused the crap out of him. She was a 19-year-old debutante, for God's sake. "Oh, you will, will you?"

"Yep." She leaned up against the metal grate, her face thoughtful, while he had to restrain himself from physically pulling her back. "It's not that far, really."

"It's far," he replied, slipping an arm around her protectively. "I'd advocate waiting for help."

She raised an eyebrow. "Look who's a chicken! B'wak, b'wak," she clucked. "Chicken. Ch-ch-chicken!"

His mouth thinned. A young 19-year-old. "It's prudent to wait."

"Yeah, well, what if nobody came?" Something flickered in her face. "What if you waited and waited, but nobody showed up."

He took her hand, squeezed it. These little nothing talks revealed more about her than any serious conversation ever would. "That's what faith is for. It's the hope in..."

"Things unseen," she finished, a dark look on her face. "Yeah, yeah. A lot of people died holding out hope."

"That's a little bitter," he chided. "A lot of people lived because of it, too." He raised her hand and kissed it. "For what it's worth, I'd save you, Siobhan McIver."

The moonlight didn't hide her flushing cheeks. "But... what if you were stuck with me?"

"Then I wouldn't call it stuck. And I'd still save you."

She tore her eyes away, but not so fast that he didn't see her eyes glistening in the moonlight. "Yeah, whatever." She sniffed and cleared her throat. "You're saying that to get laid."

He was, too, but also, he wasn't.

She is 19!

What are you thinking?

Do you know how this could impact the Bureau?

He had no choice. Leaving her was the right thing to do. She was too young, and he had his career... they would both move on. Eventually. He traced her picture with his finger, then tossed the picture in a nearby box. God. Taking shit from files... he sighed.

Get over it.

Get over her.

Get busy. Get exercising. Stop thinking. He put on the shorts and logged into his Peloton account. An hour ride should cleanse his mind.

Just as he was about to hit start, his phone rang. Caller ID said Unknown. Normally, he'd let it go to voicemail, but thinking of Ainsley, Siobhan, and the strange social mores of life in this shiny new century had made him angsty. Better to take it out on a telemarketer than someone at work.

"Good morning," he answered cheerfully. "Donnelly residence. Jason Donnelly speaking."

"Good morning, Mr. Donnelly," an unfamiliar male voice replied with just a touch of sarcasm to make it interesting. "My name is Patrick McIver. We have not had the opportunity to meet in person."

Donnelly sat heavily down on the bed. The Patrick McIver? Senior partner of one of the oldest—and according to the people in the organized crime unit, mobbed up—law firms in the country? Oh, and Siobhan's big brother?

Well, shit. Play it cool, he told himself. "What can I do for you, counselor?"

McIver's tone was dry as dust. "I believe you know my sister, Siobhan."

Oh, God, she's pregnant, and she's saying it's mine. Donnelly took a moment to collect himself. This was bound to happen. You can't try to tap... no, no, not tap, that's the wrong word... recruit. Recruit as an informant the youngest daughter of the House of McIver without pissing off some powerful people. Like Patrick McIver.

"Knew," Donnelly corrected. "I knew your sister." He looked on his chest, then on the wall behind him to see if there were any laser pointers aimed at him. "I assure you; I have had no contact with her in over a year." He paused, then added, "That's twelve months, you know. Nine plus three equals twelve."

"I know how long it is been since you've been in contact with my sister," McIver replied, clearly amused. "Your math is flawed. It's been somewhat less than twelve months. More like eight, in fact, but that's not the reason I'm calling."

Donnelly frowned. "Are you sure? I could have sworn—"

"Do you know a man named Alexander Livingston?" McIver interrupted.

"No," Donnelly replied automatically, still doing the math in his head. Maybe it had only been eight months. Maybe it only felt like a year. "Should I?"

McIver paused for a moment. "The Livingstons are among the most private families in the country. But the name should ring a bell, especially if you buy things." When his joke fell flat, he continued. "Alexander is the youngest son of the Livingston family and an heir to the Livingston Industries fortune. He's also a bona fide billionaire."

"Good for him. What's this got to do with me?"

McIver ignored the question. "I'm sending you a picture."

Donnelly's phone signaled a text. He opened it. At first, he wondered why McIver sent him a man's cologne ad. Some young, maybe 30ish, good-looking blonde guy with a too-white smile sat on a polo pony, mallet in one hand, trophy in the other. "I take it this is Livingston?" Donnelly asked. "Still don't know why I should care."

"Livingston met my sister several years ago, when our families crossed paths," McIver continued. "He developed a fascination for her, which, unfortunately has since evolved... into what can best be described as an obsession."

McIver sent another picture. This one was of the blonde man and Siobhan walking down a city street. Three things stood out. The first was the fact that the blonde's grip on Siobhan's arm was tight enough to make his knuckles white. The second and third were Siobhan's clenched fists and her stark glare. "Are you sure they like each other?" Donnelly asked.

"It's complicated." McIver sighed. "It's hard to be young. Harder to be young and rich."

"Yeah. It must suck. There should be a law." Donnelly stood up and stretched. "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. McIver, but what does this have to do with me?"

"Understand that my sister was never seriously interested in Alexander Livingston. Unfortunately, after your... breakup... last year, she allowed herself to indulge in a harmless flirtation. To Livingston, however, it was neither harmless nor a flirtation." McIver's tone grew hard. "This summer, Livingston proposed. Siobhan refused. He flew into a rage that ended with her suffering serious physical injuries, including a concussion and a broken arm."

His phone notification chimed. Another picture. Siobhan, in a hospital bed, eyes black, arm in a cast, clearly out-of-it. Donnelly was glad his service pistol was in his gun safe. "I assume you pressed charges."

"The Livingstons are clients," McIver replied humorlessly, "so, no, I did not. Alexander has paid, and is paying for her medical expenses. I did what I could do, which was to file a restraining order and remove her from his presence," McIver paused again, and Donnelly heard the sound of ice being dropped into a glass. "The thing is, Livingston is... persistent. And undeterred."

"I'm unclear on what you want me to do with this information," Donnelly replied evenly. "Doesn't the McIver Group have internal security?"

"Did you miss the part where I said he was a client?"

Donnelly rubbed his forehead. "Mr. McIver, I am a federal agent. I am not a hit man. I don't know what I can do to help you."

"I know what you do, Mr. Donnelly," McIver replied. "My sister will be arriving into Millennium Station approximately one hour and ten minutes. What I'm asking is that you would meet with her?" McIver's voice changed. Donnelly switched the phone to his other ear. He sounded... sad? "Mr. Donnelly, things are... precarious right now, and I am gravely worried about her. I fear... there is little I can do to help."

"What can I do?" Donnelly asked.

"Show her that she's not alone. Currently, my sister is under the misconception that she has no one in her corner." Was McIver fighting back tears? Donnelly listened harder. "Your presence might prove to her that she's wrong about that." He cleared his throat. "I would ask your discretion. It would not be prudent to tell her that I asked you to meet her."

Donnelly picked up his mug and pushed a couple of boxes aside so he could stand next to the window. "Mr. McIver, has Livingston continued to threaten her?"

"What do you think, Mr. Donnelly?"

A sailboat was heading towards harbor. The morning sun reflected like a mirror off its masthead. "I think you should go to the state police."

One last text. This one was a large file. Too large to open on his phone.

"Perhaps this will help explain things. It's Livingston's file." McIver lowered his voice. "I will warn you to not let anyone know you have it. It belongs to the firm. There would be... repercussions if it were discovered that you had it, or knew of its contents."

"Like, my phone would blow up," Donnelly replied.

"No. Your car would blow up." McIver cleared his throat. "Keep in mind, Mr. Donnelly, that people of a certain income strata operate under different rules than the rest of us. They have their secrets, and they will kill to keep them."

"Us?" Donnelly asked. "Aren't you a part of them?"

McIver chuckled. "Mr. Donnelly, to these people, I am the hired help."

Patrick McIver was an American aristocrat. If Livingston thought he was the hired help... Donnelly flipped back to the picture of the arrogant blonde polo player. McIver had done his homework, he had to admit. Donnelly's expertise was white collar crime, and nothing burned him more than the privileged taking advantage of people who couldn't fight back.

Nothing worse than an elitist domestic abuser. "Fine. I'll do it. But I think you knew that, didn't you?"

"You are a man of character," McIver replied. "I expected no less." He ended the call without even a thank you.

Donnelly stared out at the lake, motionless. The panoramic view of Lake Michigan was the only reason he leased this shoebox. Don't get your hopes up. There was probably nothing you can do. She won't listen. Don't be surprised when she kicks you in the balls.

But still. He made a promise. He said he would save her. He meant it then. He would do it now.

Even if it meant a kick in the nuts. It was no less than he deserved.

___ *** ___ *** ___ *** ___ *** ___

Sorry this chapter is longer than usual. Jason has a lot of details. :)

Thank you so much for staying with the story. I would love to hear from you, so please feel free to leave a comment. Also, if you liked it, please remember to vote.

©Copyright Liz Charnes February 2020

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