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An O’Brien Family Novel
by Cecy Robson
CHAPTER 1
Melissa
I stare at the nameplate perched on my father’s desk: District Attorney Miles Fenske. It proclaims his position, allowing those who read it a glimpse of what he’s accomplished. Yet it’s only a glimpse. It’s not a true representation of all he is, or all he means to me. The nameplate is cheap, unlike the generous soul who stares back at me with the same loving expression he’s held since the first moment I saw him.
What are you thinking, Melissa? He signs to me, moving his hands in beautifully fluid motions.
We’re alone in his office. He doesn’t need to sign to keep our conversation private. He could whisper, and I would still be able to read his lips. But he knows I’m more comfortable communicating with my hands, probably because American Sign Language is one of the many things we learned together. As a child I considered it our very own secret language, something he and I could share away from the hearing world.
That you’re making a mistake, I sign back.
My comment earns me a smile, but I can see his concern, despite the crinkles around his eyes that deepen when he grins. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he says aloud.
I let out a breath. He knows I trust him. How could I not?
I was brought to the Lehigh Valley District Attorney’s office when I was about six years old, after my biological mother had attempted to sell me in exchange for drugs. My mother probably thought it was a brilliant plan. Being born with profound hearing loss, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t communicate, and couldn’t understand. Which meant, I couldn’t tell anyone what was about to take place.
My primal instincts ordered me to run, that I was in danger, so I did―thank God I did. I kicked and fought, dodging the hands trying to grab me, and scurrying out of my window.
To this day, I remember the way the cold metal grating of the fire escape felt against my bare feet, and the way my mouth struggled to form what I thought were words as I banged on my elderly neighbor’s window. Miss Lena, the lady with too many cats and twice as many grandchildren, yanked me into her apartment when she saw me. She called the police, but by the time they arrived, my mother was gone. I never saw her again.
Not that I regret it.
I was placed in foster care, confused and frightened about what was happening and certain I’d eventually return “home”. Instead, I was brought before the young Assistant D.A Miles Fenske. He was supposed to handle my case, dispose of it, and move on. He was never supposed to welcome me into his heart. Yet that’s exactly what he did.
“Melissa,” he says. His words aren’t clear―not as clear as they can be, my hearing aids can only do so much, but I hear enough to sense the emotion in the way he speaks my name. “Why are you so sad?”
I raise my chin. “Declan O’Brien will never be the man you are. He’s not the right D.A. for this position.” I shake my head. “He belongs in the Trial Unit, Arson, Fugitive, anywhere else but where you’ve placed him.”
“I know you don’t like him . . .”
I raise my brows.
“. . . and that your first encounter wasn’t a positive one . . .”
“That’s because he was an asshole,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “I assure you he deeply regrets what he said. But Declan is smart, quick, and kind.”
I don’t agree. Not completely. Is Declan intelligent? Brilliantly so, and absurdly astute in court. With short wavy blond hair and a dashing grin that lights his blue eyes, he’s also gorgeous, and he knows it. But is he kind? I’m not so sure that he is. “He’ll never be the man you are,” I repeat.
“I’m not asking him to be. I simply want the best person for the job, someone who will help the victims who need him most.”
“That’s what you claim. But he doesn’t have experience handling delicate cases where offenders often inflict irreparable trauma.”
“No, but as the head of Victim Services, you do,” he offers with a knowing gleam.
My nails dig into the wooden armrests. “If you’re trying to hook us up, I’m going to be seriously mad at you.”
The edges of his mouth curve. “I’m only asking you to help Declan as he transitions into his new role. This new assignment won’t be easy on him.”
“Because he doesn’t want it. He wants to be the head of Homicide.” I stand with my hands out, pleading. “Daddy, please reassign him. The Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit is not where someone who seeks glory belongs.”
My voice trails as I catch a glimmer of his pain. “Daddy?”
At once, his face scrunches, flushing red only to grow alarmingly pale. I race around his desk, clutching his shoulders to keep him upright as he grips his side and beads of sweat gather along his receding hairline.
It’s only because he lifts his bowed head and a healthier shade of pink returns to his cheeks that I’m not screaming for help and dialing 911. “Daddy?”
He offers me a weak smile and pats my arm. “I’m all right,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
“No, you’re not,” I say, my eyes stinging. His light blue dress shirt clings with sweat along his arms and plump midsection. He’s not well. My father is . . . sick. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His hand slowly eases away from his side. For a moment his eyes search my face, as they’ve done a thousand times throughout my life. “The doctors discovered new tumors along my colon,” he finally says. “They’re planning to resection my bowel and dispose of the affected area with the hope of avoiding chemo this time around.”
Very carefully, I straighten, despite that my heart has all but stopped beating. My father was diagnosed with colon cancer years ago and barely survived the aggressive treatment. If it’s returned, now that he’s older, and not as healthy . . .
“When were you going to tell me?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice clear as it shakes, my fear likely worsening my speech impediment.
He sighs. “Friday, over dinner.”
To give me the weekend to absorb it, no doubt. “And your surgery? When is that?”
“A few weeks.” He frowns as if debating what to say. “I’ll be out of commission for a while. In my absence, Declan will lead the office as acting District Attorney.” He looks at me then. “And I ask that you help him, regardless of your feelings toward him.”
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Declan
“THIS ISN’T WHERE I fucking belong.” I’m beyond pissed, and started typing my resignation letter at least six times today only to delete it. Yet for as much as I don’t want to head the Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit, I’m not a quitter. “Fuck,” I mumble, dragging my hand along my face. “Fuck.”
My brother Curran crosses his arms over his chest, not caring how it creases the shirt of his Philly PD uniform. But then Curran doesn’t care about shit like that. “It’s still a promotion, Deck,” he says. “You got this D.A. spot straight out of law school and have made more of a name for yourself than most douche-bag attorneys ever will.” He holds out a hand. “No offense to the douche-bag attorneys of the world.”
“That’s my point. After all I’ve accomplished, I should be the one leading the Homicide unit.”
I shove away from my desk and pace. When Miles gave me these new digs, I thought it was just the start of all the good things coming my way. When he assigned me a county car and a personal secretary, it only reinforced that my hard work had paid off. I was on my way ...until I wasn’t.
“I spent months dismantling a mafia empire, Curran.”
“I know,” he says. “I was there.”
“I brought down a major crime boss―and his second in command, and his third.”
“Yup. Saw that, too,” he agrees.
“I received international attention―the trial of the century, the media called it―and for what? To be shoved someplace I don’t belong.”
“Why don’t you think you belong there?”
Out of all my five brothers, Curran is probably one of the biggest ball busters. But he’s not messing with me now. He’s being serious.
“Do you want to hear about babies and women being hurt? Day in and day out?” I ask. “These are the cases I’m going to be dealing with.”
“Someone has to do it, Deck. It’s the right thing.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m only saying I may not be the man for the job. This shit’s disgusting, what these low-life assholes are capable of.”
“Is this about Finnie?” He huffs when I straighten and don’t answer. “Christ,” he mutters.
As easy as that, my brother nails it on the head. For all he sometimes pisses me off, my brother isn’t stupid. “Finnie didn’t deserve what happened to him,” I say, feeling my anger burn down to my gut.
“Of course he didn’t,” Curran snaps. “No one does. But as his brother, you owe it to him to put monsters like the guy who hurt him away.”
I sit back in my chair and rub my jaw. “I don’t know if I can.”
Our youngest brother was sexually assaulted by a neighbor when he was ten. It screwed with his mind. What he doesn’t realize is we’ve all suffered, too―not like he has―of course, not like he has. That doesn’t mean we don’t hurt for him or haven’t spent sleepless nights worried about him.
Nothing bad was supposed to happen to Finnie. He was the baby. The one who counted on us. The one we were all supposed to keep safe.
With this new assignment―hearing stories like Finnie’s on a regular basis?—God damn it. “I don’t think I can do this,” I say yet again.
“Deck, you have to, man.”
A knock on the door interrupts us. I know who it is before I even ask. “Come in,” I say, assuming my attorney pose because for now, I have to. For now, I’m a professional. Even though all the Philly boy in me wants to do is rage.
My boss, Miles Fenske walks in, followed by his daughter Melissa. Miles smiles warmly, nodding my way.
Mel? What can I say? She’s the one person who’s never been taken by my charm. Today’s no different. Unlike the other females who work here, from interns to attorneys, she doesn’t meet me with a grin, doesn’t flash me a little leg, doesn’t pretend to flirt. Brown hair, brown eyes, creamy skin, with a steel-hard exterior, she walks in with her hips swinging, her bright red dress hugging her hourglass figure, her full lips pressed into a firm line, and her unyielding stare meeting mine.
She doesn’t like me. Not that I blame her. Too bad this is the one woman I can’t seem to get out of my damn mind . . .
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