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I furrow my brow. “Who’s Mr. O’Donnell?” “The owner of this aircraft.” Ah. My future brother-in-law. An Irishman, by the sound of it. A very rich Irishman, evidently. He’s probably ninety years old with dementia and no teeth. My sister is such a mercenary.
The plane starts to descend for landing. It appears we’re headed for an island off the coast. Watching the ground rise up to meet us, I have a dark, powerful premonition that wherever I’m headed, there’s no going back. Later, I’ll remember that feeling and marvel at its accuracy.
She bites her lower lip, tears spill over the edge of her bottom lids, and what the fuck has happened to my sister? Daddy Declan must be laying some serious pipe to have turned this stone-cold savage into such a sweetheart.
Her voice is flat, but her expression is murderous. Declan looks to me for help. I hold my hands in the air. “If you think I can change her mind, I’m flattered. But once that horse is out of the barn, there’s no putting a saddle on it.” Sloane scowls at me. “Where are you getting these stupid metaphors?”
At the same time, the two of them pronounce, “You’ll stay here.” “Here?” I look around the enormous bedroom in horror. “By myself?” Sloane says, “You like being by yourself, remember?” “Yeah, in my own place with all my own stuff. Not in the Bermuda Triangle Colosseum.”
It’s a good thing we never met Ted Bundy. Charismatic, violent killers are apparently our thing.
He nods. “Aye. Is there anything else you need?” “Clothes. My computer. A frontal lobotomy.” Chuckling, he says, “I can help with the first two, lass. Yer on yer own with the third.”
“I brought you some clothes. Shoes. Other things, too.” He gestures to the bags. Hopefully, my sanity is in there somewhere.
After a long, silent moment, Sloane turns and looks at me. “How fun,” she says drily. “Stockholm syndrome runs in the family.”
