My admiration grows with every step.
On the far side of the house, we emerge back into the sunlight.
There’s a table set out on the deck, made of bulky wood that clashes horribly with the sleek modernity of the rest of the house. It’s the most Irish piece I have seen so far.
“Sit,” Ronan instructs me.
I see him nod to one of his guards posted at the doorway. The man disappears into the house. The rest of them seem to disappear as well, but I can still sense them around us. Watchful and waiting for their don’s next command.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Ronan asks.
“I don’t drink anymore.”
He sighs like I’m an idiot and holds up three fingers to another of the guards lingering around the perimeter of the garden.
“Today, you do.”
Shortly afterwards, one of his men appears with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.
Ronan grabs the green neck of the Jamison Irish whiskey that Cillian used to favor and fills up all three glasses.
“Is someone else joining us?” I ask.
As if in answer, I clear the click of heels on wood. Then, an older blonde woman steps out onto the deck.
She’s striking. Beautiful, really. She wears a gray turtleneck and black pants with silver diagonal zips that mark each pocket. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head and her makeup is expertly applied to hide the age lines around her mouth and eyes.
I hadn’t expected Cillian’s mother to be quite so… glamorous. She must have been in her fifties, but youth still clung to her delicate features.
Cillian hadn’t inherited much from her in the way of looks. He had his dad’s masculine, rough-hewn features.
But there was still a resemblance to his mother, however subtle. A sort of kindness in the eyes, maybe.
She zones in on me.
Her mouth is relaxed, her lips turned up as though she’s about to smile, but I can see that her eyes are tense.
Then she looks at her husband and moves to sit down beside him. She doesn’t say a word as she reaches for the third class of whiskey on the table. She takes it and gulps it down in a matter of seconds.
Her mannerisms remind me so much of Cillian that I can’t take my eyes off her. She puts down the empty glance and looks at me while she addresses her husband.
“Another.”
He pours more whiskey into her glass, but this time she doesn’t move to take it. She just keeps looking at me.
“I was told you were with my son when he died,” she says.
I can hear the tenor of emotion running like a fine edge underneath her tone. She is desperate for information.
But she’s terrified of what she’s about to hear, too.
“I was with him when he was shot,” I clarify. “As I told your husband, he put himself in front of the bullet that was meant for me.”
“And why would he do that?” Ronan asks before she can.
“Because I was his family.”
Ronan’s frown deepens at my reply. “Cillian has a family.”