I brought my grandmother’s diamond stud earrings for a special occasion. They’ve sat, nestled in their cushioned case and tucked away with my valuables, for a month now. Today, I’m putting them on.
Because every day between now and Sunday is special. And I’m already sure that I don’t want to leave.
I check the clock. It’s twenty minutes to six. A text from River said he was just showering and then would be over. I’ve basically been counting down the hours since this morning, killing time at the Glasnevin Cemetery and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, my mind and emotions happily drowning in all thoughts River.
I’ve taken extra time getting myself ready. My hair is set in perfect curls, my mascara brushed on thick and smooth, my face contoured in just the right way. The canary-yellow halter dress I brought looks great against my tanned skin, even if it’s not ideal for Dublin’s crisp evening temperatures. My denim jacket will solve that problem, as well as the issue of my bruises, still visible on my right bicep and shoulder.
My cowboy boots—not a smart choice with limited space in my suitcase, but a requirement—finish the outfit perfectly.
I glance in the hallway mirror and smile. I want to steal his breath the second he sees me. I want River still thinking about me when I’m no longer here.
I want him to suggest that I stay.
The doorbell rings, and a rush of nerves and excitement erupts in my stomach.
I throw open the door.
The tall, lanky officer from the Green stands on my front porch, his smile polite and professional, but killing my excitement all the same. “Miss Welles. I’m Garda Duffy, if you remember.”
“Of course. How are you?” What are you doing here? His vehicle sits in the street behind him, his partner in the driver’s seat.
Duffy gestures inside, and it’s then that I notice the tan folder tucked under his arm. “May I come in?”
I’m guessing that I don’t have a choice here. “Of course.” I step back to make room for him, hoping I can get this over with before River arrives. Not that it would matter. As far as Duffy is concerned, he’s a friend I met at a bar.
“You certainly have some nice accommodations while you’re here.” He quietly takes inventory of the space, just like I’ve seen my dad do of any new place—his eyes drifting over the windows and doors and the empty couches. Identifying escape routes and potential threats, my dad would say, half in jest.
“I lucked out. The owner is away for the summer.” I lead him in to the dining room table.
“Were ya on your way out?” Garda Duffy asks. “Ya look all . . .” His eyes drift over my dress and boots. When he catches me watching him, he quickly adjusts his focus to his folder.
“Yeah, I was two minutes from leaving, actually.”
“This won’t take long,” he promises. Then pauses. “How have you been? Ya seem to be fine.”
“I’m okay. The bruising is going away and my lip has almost healed.” The dark spot left after the scab fell off will likely remain.
“Good. You haven’t called, so I imagine ya still don’t remember much about the man who fled the scene?”
“The man who saved my life?” I note his choice of words and I don’t appreciate them. They’re full of accusation. “No.” I swallow hard. It’s a lie, and I know it’s a lie, and yet it’s the only answer I want to give him.
“Right.” The slightest frown shades his gaze. “We’ve been given some information and I was hoping you’d be willing to take a look at these.” He lays a piece of paper out on the table. A mug shot. Duffy taps the face. “Does he look familiar to ya?”
The picture is of a tight-faced man with a mop of bright orange-red hair and a sneer. He looks every bit the part of a criminal—his eyes narrowed, his jaw square, his lips thin and hard, his expression not just unhappy with the circumstance, but generally unpleasant. “No, I’ve never seen him before,” I answer truthfully. I would have remembered a head of hair like that.
“Okay.” Duffy stuffs the photo into his folder and lays down another. “How about this one?”
River’s eyes stare up at me.
I make a conscious effort to breathe, the shock a punch to my lungs. He looks to be a few years younger here, and clean-shaven. But there’s no mistaking him in this photograph.
This mug shot.
River’s been arrested before.
Even as nausea roils in my stomach, I remind myself that this could mean nothing. A fight that went wrong, a drunk-and-disorderly. River’s not exactly a saint. Neither is my brother.
It’s never come up in conversation, so it must not be a big deal, right?
Who did I just sleep with?
A guy who saved my life, who took shrapnel for me, I remind myself. Who has been nothing but kind and generous and sweet to me.
I feel Duffy’s eyes on me. Waiting for my answer.
And I know what that answer should be. I may have lied a minute ago about what I remember—something I can easily get away with because they’ll never see into my brain—but I know this man staring up at me from the picture. In some ways, very well. In too many ways, not at all.
And this is a police officer asking me.
“No.” The lie escapes before I can stop it. I clear my throat, keeping my eyes on River’s picture so Duffy can’t see the guilt. “I’m sorry.”
River’s face disappears into the folder. “Worth a shot, right?” I don’t miss the disappointment in Duffy’s voice. He was hoping for a different answer. “Thank you for being so cooperative, though. I know ya probably want to just forget this happened and move on. Enjoy the rest of your time in Ireland. And here.” He drops a business card on the table. I still have his other one in my purse. “Just in case you remember something. Even down the road.”
I trail behind him as he walks briskly to the front door, my feet made of lead.
“Who are they?” I blurt out. “Those men you just showed me.”
“Two brothers who got mixed up in some bad stuff.”
Brothers. The redhead must be Aengus. “Bad stuff?” My voice is too shaky. I steady it. “What kind of bad stuff?”
“The IRA kind.” He offers me a smile. “But don’t worry. I’ve put them both in prison once. If they were behind this, I’ll put them there again.”
I grip the door for support as I watch him march down the path, closing the black gate behind him.
River said his family walked away from it all in the ’70s because of the violence, so what does this mean?
Don’t be stupid, Amber. It means he’s lying to you.
So, everything I know about River up until now has been an act? I can feel tears threatening to spill over. How could I have been so wrong about him?
And what has he done? What does “the IRA kind” mean? Has he hurt people? Killed them? No, that’s just not possible. I couldn’t have misread him that much. But, then, what did he do that would put him in jail?
I glance at my watch. River is supposed to be here in five minutes.
Beyond the shock and hurt and an inkling of fear, a new sensation bursts.
Anger.
I do the only thing I can think to do.
I grab my purse and Simon’s car keys, and I run.
