Beth Kery - Because We Belong

“They want me?” Francesca asked numbly.

“Yeah. They want you to identify the body, see if it’s the same guy who tried to run you off the road yesterday.”

A cold wave ran over her making her shudder. Mrs. Hanson put her arm around her and hugged her tight.

Francesca sprang up from her chair a while later when she heard Ian’s rough voice in the corridor, identifying himself to Officer Inez. He crossed the threshold of the staff dining room a second later, his face rigid with tension, his eyes blazing when he saw Francesca racing toward him. Her legs felt weak with relief at seeing him alive and well, looking so tall and solid and wonderful to her in his dark suit and an ice-blue tie. Her arms flew around his neck. He held her tight against him, his hands moving over her back, rubbing her almost frantically, as if he wanted to make sure her flesh was real. She, too, needed that reassurance, gripping his shoulders, inhaling his clean, spicy scent deeply, as if she wanted to absorb it and store it for a lifetime.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he said, his breath hitting her neck in warm, pressured puffs of air.

“Thank God you are,” she muttered feelingly. She backed up enough to look into his face, needing to see him. His dark brows were slanted as his blue-eyed gaze ran over her face. He seemed just as eager to soak in every detail of her. “When I heard that shot, all I could imagine was you in front of that crowd of people. I kept thinking—”

“Shhh, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine,” Ian said quietly, brushing back her hair with his hand and palming her skull.

“Ian,” Mrs. Hanson said weakly from just behind Francesca.

“Mrs. Hanson,” Ian broke free sufficiently to give Mrs. Hanson a hug. “We’re all okay,” he assured the older lady. He glanced around at the rest of the gathered staff’s pale, worried faces. “No one from the family or staff has been hurt. The police are evacuating the press and securing the area.”

“Lucien.”

Ian, Francesca, and Mrs. Hanson started and looked around at the sound of Elise’s anxious cry. Officer Inez was obviously not as familiar with Elise’s appearance as he was Ian’s. He was holding her in the corridor, and having more than a little difficulty doing so despite the fact that he had about hundred pounds on Elise.

“It’s all right,” Lucien said sharply, striding out of the room toward her. “That’s my wife!”

Another wave of relief went through her at seeing Lucien lift Elise into his arms. Francesca caught a glimpse of her friend over Lucien’s shoulder, her eyelids closed tight, an intense, grateful expression on her beautiful face. She knew precisely how Elise felt.

“Everyone is really all right?” Francesca whispered to Ian shakily, needing confirmation of Officer Inez’s report “Anne? James? Gerard?”

“Yes, we’re all fine,” Ian assured. “None of the press were hurt, either. Only the intruder was shot. Detective Markov has the family waiting in the sitting room,” Ian said, his mouth pressing into a hard line. “He wants you up there. He’d like you to identify the man’s body.”

“Okay,” Francesca said, nodding. “Where . . . where is it . . . Him, I mean?” she muttered, flustered. It seemed surreal that she was talking about a dead man . . . a corpse. She’d never seen a dead person in her life.

“In Grandfather’s office.”

She nodded. Ian studied her intently.

“Francesca, I said that the police want you to do it, but . . . it’s not a pretty sight. You’re not obligated. I was able to identify him as the man who tried to run us off the road yesterday.”

“But don’t they want me to confirm if he was the man in Chicago, as well?”

“Yes,” Ian said, a frown shaping his lips. “But you told me yesterday the man in the car was the same man in Chicago. Perhaps the coroner’s photos would be sufficient for identification. I could speak to Markov about it.”

She realized he was trying to protect her and caressed his jaw. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly. “Just . . . come with me?”

“Of course,” he replied, as if there had never been any doubt of that.

Ian opened the dining room door to the Great Hall for her a moment later. Sunlight flooded into her eyes, temporarily blinding her and only adding to the surreal sensation plaguing her. She realized the sun streamed in from the open front door. Police personnel stood around the hall, a couple of them talking intently into their cell phones. Through the open door, she saw several cars parked in the circular driveway and heard the distant squawk and mechanical voices from police radios.

She started to walk toward the door where she thought James’s office was, but Ian halted her with his hold on her hand. He pulled her over to the shadowed edge of the hall.

“Francesca, there’s something you should know first if you do plan to go in there,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Gerard shot him. The intruder came upon Gerard unexpectedly while he was working in Grandfather’s office. The man drew a gun on Gerard. Grandfather keeps a gun in his desk, where Gerard was working. It’s usually not loaded. According to Gerard, he thought to load it when the press conference got started. It seems he was spooked by what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse. Rightfully so, it seems. If he hadn’t thought to load the gun, he’d be the one lying in there dead right now instead of the man. And who knows what would have happened if the intruder ever found you.”

“Oh my God,” Francesca mumbled, icy shivers clawing at her back and shoulders. “Are you sure Gerard is all right?”

“Physically, yes. But he’s in a state of shock. The police are still questioning him.” She saw doubt in his blue eyes as he studied her face. “Are you certain you want to go in there?”

She nodded, inhaling slowly to steady herself. “Yes. I’d like to get this ugliness over with and in the past.”

He didn’t look thrilled about her decision, but he led her to his grandfather’s study nevertheless, staying close by her side.

Everybody stayed up late that night, the fading adrenaline in their blood making sleep difficult. Anne seemed especially concerned about Gerard, who was quiet and subdued by the time the police eventually concluded their investigation that evening, leaving two men behind to keep watch at Belford. For the second night in a row, they sat down to dinner without dressing, everyone rehashing the day’s events. Ian was waiting for a call from Markov that might shed light on the intruder’s identity and possible motive.

By the time they gathered in the sitting room after dinner, Anne seemed to be of the opinion that they’d discussed the alarming events of the day sufficiently. Francesca guessed from her worried glances at Gerard and her subtle altering of the topic of conversation that she worried her nephew had experienced quite enough for the time being. Francesca couldn’t have agreed more. The image of that man’s lifeless face covered in a shocking amount of blood kept flashing before her mind’s eye. That was a real hole in his head and real blood. Her consciousness couldn’t quite grasp it, even yet. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Gerard was experiencing.

Something about the jarring events of the day seemed to melt away her reserve about the family knowing she and Ian were involved again. All afternoon and evening, he’d been by her side, her hand in his or his arm around her. It’d seemed entirely natural to Francesca, so much so that she didn’t even think about it until that evening at around eleven when Ian’s phone began to ring. She’d been sitting in the circle of his arm on one of the couches in the sitting room, her cheek resting on his chest, lulled by the comfort of his steady heartbeat and the warmth of the fire. He dug into his pocket and checked his phone.

“I’m going to take this,” he said gruffly, kissing her on the temple before he stood. Everyone’s gaze seemed to follow him out of the room as he stepped out into the Great Hall to take the call. A strained silence ensued while they waited for him to return, only broken by Anne asking if anyone wanted anything else to drink.

“That was Markov,” Ian said, stating what they all had suspected. “They’ve discovered the identity of the man,” he said, his gaze on Gerard. “His name is Anton Brodsik. He has a record with the Chicago area police that goes back almost thirty years—assault, minor drug convictions, robbery. He’s suspected of having mob connections. He had a passport on him with a fake name.”

“Is there any clue as to his motive?” Gerard asked, sitting forward in his chair.

“Not anything concrete. But for the past ten years or so, Brodsik has been associated in his crimes a lot with a man named Shell Stern. They were both arrested in a high-profile case three years ago—an attempted kidnapping of a sixteen-year-old boy in Winnetka, Illinois.” Ian glanced at Francesca. “The police didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute, though. No one was ever convicted for the crime. The boy was Sheridan Henes’s son.”

“Henes? The oil company heir?” James asked.

Ian nodded. “The FBI couldn’t convincingly link the two to the case, but there was a strong suspicion against Stern and Brodsik. So they have been connected to kidnapping in the past. And they did try to take Francesca,” Ian said, his eyes gleaming in the firelight as he looked at Francesca.

An involuntary shiver went through her. Anne inhaled raggedly.

“What of this other man, Stern?” James asked worriedly.

“They’ve found him. He’s dead, too,” Ian said.