fifty-one

Megan sat by herself in a small waiting room down the hall, staring at the blank green wall. Nappa was outside in the hallway speaking to Lieutenant Walker. Uncle Mike and Aunt Maureen rushed down the hall; Nappa had notified them.

“Where is she?” she heard Maureen ask.

“In there.” Nappa pointed to the door. “She’s hasn’t said anything, not to us.”

“Where’s the perp?” Uncle Mike demanded.

“She’s still in surgery,” Nappa answered.

A doctor approached Nappa. “Excuse me. We have Mrs. McGinn intubated. She’s on the eighth floor. I’ve checked her chart. It seems that her son, Brendan, has the power of attorney. We’ll need his signature to proceed.”

Uncle Mike interrupted, “I’ve spoken with him. He’s getting on the next flight possible. He should be here, if not late tonight, first thing in the morning.”

“When will Ms. Daly be out of surgery?” Walker asked the doctor.

“They’ve closed her up and are moving her to recovery now,” he answered.

“I want men posted up and down this entire hospital and on whatever floor she gets moved to. Nappa, I want you there when she wakes up,” Walker said.

“No.” Megan’s voice was loud and clear when she approached the group. “I’m going to be there when she wakes up. Me, not Nappa. Me.” Megan walked down the hall, then turned. “Nothing happens until I get back. Do you hear me?! No one speaks to her until I get back!”

“McGinn! Where are you going?” Walker demanded.

Megan didn’t answer. She slammed her middle finger on the elevator button to go down to the lobby.

_____

Fintan entered the conversation room with a glint in his eye. “I told you, you’d be back. Oh, by the way, shame about that Dacey girl.” He rested his chin on his clasped hands. “Your luck just isn’t changing, is it?”

Megan stood against the wall, arms folded. She stared at him, a nice long, silent, cold gaze waiting for the appropriate moment. Like when a lion pounces on a gazelle. “I killed your sister today.”

It was the first time Fintan didn’t have a witty remark. His eyes filled with rage, then he quickly pulled back. “I don’t have a sister.”

“Joan Breton Daly. Shot her twice in the heart. Slow death. Very painful.”

“I don’t have a sister!”

“When I caught you, the only file we could find on you said your father died in Vietnam and your mother of a drug overdose, and then you were placed in foster care. The family that adopted you, their last name was Worth, but not yours.” Megan walked around to the table so she could look down at him, eye to evil eye. “Now, what didn’t come up in the file was who put you in foster care: Bridget Daly, your grandmother.”

“Fintan D. Worth.” She leaned one hip on the formica table, “Let me see if I can surmise as to why. You had a younger sister and you started to do things to her. Very bad things. Your grandmother caught on and got rid of you.”

Fintan’s face reddened.

“She had you removed because you were a threat.” Megan squinted. “How am I doing so far?”

“I don’t have a sister,” he repeated.

“So, what? You consider her your wife? Lover? Southern cousin,” she said, using a sarcastic drawl. “You both have the AB blood type.”

He clenched his teeth.

“Here, look at this picture.” She held her phone out for Fintan to see the photo of he, Breton, and Erin Quinlan. “Take a good, hard look; it’s the last time you’ll ever see her.” Megan raised two fingers. “Two shots. Right through the heart.” Megan knocked for the guard. “Oh, Fintan.” She turned. “Such a shame about Breton, your luck just hasn’t changed, has it?”

Before Megan left the Hudson Psychiatric Center, she bribed a few of the orderlies for Fintan not to be allowed television privileges for a few days. She wanted him to get a taste of what he’d put the victim’s families through, thinking Breton was dead. Not surprisingly, the orderlies were all accommodating; some didn’t even take the cash.