won’t come out if he hears you,” she explained. “He thinks you’re a bad man.”
Brendan flinched. It didn’t matter that everyone else thought so; he didn’t want his son to believe the lie, too.
“Is that what you told him?” he asked. It must have been what she’d believed all these years, because no matter how determined a reporter she’d been, she hadn’t learned the truth about him.
“It’s what you showed him,” she said, “when you grabbed me by the elevator.”
Dread and regret clenched his stomach muscles. His own son was afraid of him. How would he ever get close to the boy, ever form a relationship with him, if the kid feared him?
He flashed back so many years ago to his own heart pounding hard with fear as he cowered from his father, from the boom of his harsh voice and the sting of his big hand. Brendan hadn’t just feared Dennis O’Hannigan. He’d been terrified of the man. But then so had everyone else.
“I’ll be quiet,” he whispered his promise. “You find him.”
She called for the boy, her voice rising higher with panic each time she said his name. “CJ? CJ?” Then she sucked in a breath and her voice was steadier as she yelled, in a mother’s no-nonsense tone, what must have been his full name, “Charles Jesse Brandt!”
Brandt? The boy’s last name should have been O’Hannigan. But maybe it was better that it wasn’t. Being an O’Hannigan carried with it so many dangers.
But then danger had found the boy no matter what his mother called him. CJ didn’t respond to that maternal command only the rare child dared to disobey. Brendan certainly never would have disobeyed.
Panic clutched at his chest as worst-case scenarios began to play out in his mind. He had seen so many horrible things in his life that the possibilities kept coming. Had the man from the sixth floor somehow joined them on the roof without Brendan noticing? Had he found the boy already?
Another scenario played through his head, of Josie lying to him again. Still. Had she hidden the child and told him not to come out for Brendan? She’d hidden his son from him for three years—a few more minutes weren’t going to bother her.
“Where is he?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets so that he wouldn’t reach for her again. He had already frightened her, which was probably why she’d hidden their son from him.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” The panic was in her voice, too.
Brendan almost preferred to think that she was lying to him and knew where the boy was, having made certain he was safe.
Her hand slapped against a metal pipe. “I thought he was behind here. CJ! CJ!”
“Then why isn’t he coming out?” Brendan had stayed quiet and now kept his voice to a whisper despite the panic clutching at him.
“No, it can’t be …” she murmured, her voice cracking with fear and dread.
“What?” He demanded to know the thought that occurred to her, that had her trembling now with fear.
“He’s at the edge of the roof,” she said. “He told me there was a short wall behind him. I—I told him not to go over it …”
Because there would have been nothing but the ground, twenty stories below, on the other side. If the boy was still on the roof with them, he would answer his mother. Even if he heard Brendan, he would come out to protect her, as he did before.
Oh, God!
Had Brendan lost his son only moments after finally finding him?
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