Chapter 6 - The Empty Chair
Three weeks passed.
Cormac never returned.
June told herself that was what she wanted.
The lie became less convincing every morning.
Federal indictments spread through Chicago.
Mercer was charged with corruption, conspiracy, obstruction, and murder-related offenses. Patrick Doyle's organization fractured after several senior members accepted plea agreements.
Ray's name appeared in newspapers.
Some called him an informant.
Others called him a hero.
June called him complicated.
She kept cooking.
The catering contract remained unsigned in her office drawer.
Then, one rainy Thursday, Cormac's attorney arrived.
He placed documents on the counter.
“What's this?”
“Mr. Riley purchased the note attached to your building.”
June's stomach sank.
“So now he owns me anyway?”
“No.”
The attorney pushed the documents forward.
“Mr. Riley canceled the debt.”
June stared.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Why?”
“He said you'd ask.”
“And?”
“He said to tell you he finally understood that helping someone doesn't give you the right to decide their life for them.”
June looked down.
There was another document.
Ownership papers.
The diner belonged entirely to her.
No lien.
No debt.
Nothing.
“Where is he?”
“I wasn't instructed to say.”
June hated that answer.
That evening, she drove to Lake Forest.
Cormac's mansion was dark.
A caretaker answered.
“Mr. Riley doesn't live here anymore.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don't know.”
June left furious.
For the next month, she heard nothing.
Then a postcard arrived.
No return address.
A photograph of Lake Michigan.
On the back:
Your short ribs remain overrated.
June laughed until she cried.
She framed the postcard.
Life moved forward.
Winter became spring.
The diner grew busier after the publicity.
June hired another cook.
She repainted the walls.
Replaced the broken window.
At fifty-four, her waitress Donna began dating a mailman and spent every shift giving June unsolicited romantic advice.
“You're wasting your good years.”
“My good years?”
“You think there's an expiration date stamped under your foot?”
June nearly dropped a plate.
Those words sounded too familiar.
One Friday afternoon, a young woman entered.
Late twenties.
Pregnant.
Terrified.
“Are you June Holloway?”
“Yes.”
The woman handed her a letter.
“My father told me to give this to you if anything happened.”
“Who's your father?”
“Alan Mercer.”
June froze.
The woman began crying.
“I know what he did. I'm not asking you to forgive him.”
June led her into a booth.
The letter contained coordinates and a warning.
Doyle's organization had not collapsed.
Someone else had taken control.
Someone who wanted Cormac dead.
The coordinates pointed toward an abandoned warehouse near the river.
June called the federal agent handling Ray's case.
Then she called Cormac.
Disconnected.
She tried his attorney.
No answer.
Finally, Donna caught her wrist.
“June.”
“What?”
“You're thinking about going there yourself.”
“No.”
“You have your purse.”
“I always have my purse.”
“You put the skillet in it.”
June looked down.
The cast-iron handle was sticking out.
“Fine.”
She removed it.
Then picked up her car keys.
Donna blocked the door.
“If you go alone, I will personally haunt you while we're both still alive.”
June sighed.
“Call Agent Ramirez.”
“I already did.”
June blinked.
Donna shrugged.
“I've watched television.”
Twenty minutes later, federal agents surrounded the warehouse.
June was supposed to remain in the car.
She didn't.
Inside, they found blood.
A broken chair.
And Cormac's watch.
June recognized it instantly.
Her fear became ice.
Then she heard movement.
A door slammed upstairs.
Agents ran.
Gunfire erupted.
June crouched behind a concrete pillar.
A man stumbled from a stairwell.
Cormac.
Blood covered his shirt.
“Cormac!”
His head snapped toward her.
His expression was almost comical.
“June?”
She ran to him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Apparently rescuing you.”
“I had the situation under control.”
“You're bleeding through your jacket.”
“A temporary inconvenience.”
She touched his face.
For two months she'd imagined what she'd say.
Every angry speech disappeared.
“You left.”
Cormac's eyes softened.
“You told me to.”
“You're supposed to know when I don't mean things.”
“I've discovered women dislike that assumption.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
Then he collapsed.
June caught him.
“Cormac!”
His eyes fluttered.
“June.”
“What?”
He looked up at her.
“If I don't wake up—”
“You will.”
“Listen.”
“No.”
“I love you.”
June stopped breathing.
Cormac smiled faintly.
May you like
“Terrible timing again.”
Then his eyes closed.
