“Of course, of course,” Darragh says with obvious sarcasm. “Tell me: does Mr. Murtagh have jurisdiction over unlawful arrests?”
The sergeant’s been expecting this. “The arrest was not unlawful,” he says icily. “Your clients were served warrants.”
“Oh, of course, of course. Speaking of which, I would like to speak to my clients.”
He smirks. “They’re not here.”
I start to take a step forward, but Darragh makes a small gesture with his hand to caution me. I freeze, but my hands ball into fists. I feel the weight of the gun on my hip and the blade at my ankle.
Darragh is right—it’s not time to resort to violence yet. But it’s nice to spend a moment fantasizing about gutting this corrupt bastard like a fish.
“Where are they?” the lawyer asks calmly.
“Not here,” the sergeant repeats with a shrug.
“You don’t mind if I take a look at your holding cells, do you?”
The sergeant shrugs a third time. “Suit yourself.”
I know immediately that he’s telling the truth. My parents aren’t here. He’d never would’ve agreed to show us the holding cells if they were on-site.
But now that Darragh’s asked, we’re obliged to follow.
Everything feels so goddamn familiar as I walk through the police station. This was where I spent my last night in Dublin before leaving for thirteen fucking years.
I’m noticing how woefully understaffed the police department is.
Apart from the sergeant, the woman at the front desk and two or three other cops, the place is practically empty. Maybe not surprising considering the time.
Convenient for me, though.
“Who’s the kid?” the sergeant asks, glancing at me dismissively.
I have to bite back a smile. If only you knew, I laugh to myself. If only you fucking knew.
“My understudy,” Darragh answers without missing a beat.
The sergeant opens the door to the holding cell and gestures us forward. “Take a look,” he offers. “You’ve got five minutes.”
I stay near the door while Darragh walks inside. I know there’s no point searching. My parents are not going to be here.
The Kinahans and Murtaghs would never make things so simple.
Darragh’s eyes graze over the forlorn space. Then, heaving a tired sigh, he turns. “Let’s go. There’s nothing—”
“Wait.”
I freeze for a second. I hear something.
Something eerily familiar.
A song, floating to me from thirteen years in the past.
“..That stands in beautiful vale of Tralee...”
I take a tentative step forward.
Then another.
Then another.
I round the corner.
And that’s when I see her.