I’m the only one I can rely on.
Not Pa.
Not Tristan.
Not even Cillian.
Just me. No one else.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “I can give you a description of what he looked like.”
He cracks a fake-warm smile that reminds me weirdly of Brody Murtagh. “That won’t be necessary.”
Of course not.
“If I have more questions,” he adds, “I’ll find you.”
Joy.
I meet his gaze and nod. “And I’ll be happy to give you a full description of the man who shot my father as soon as you’re ready to do your job. You’ll find I have a great memory.”
His eyes are already cold, but they ripple with understanding and an undercurrent of anger. He gives me a curt nod and walks away, leaving me standing in the broad hallway.
Trying my best to stay strong.
* * *
It takes several more minutes before I feel calm enough to walk back into Pa’s room.
To my horror, he’s struggling to sit up. His face is pink and blotchy from exertion.
“What are you doing?” I balk, rushing to his side.
“I can’t get comfortable,” he snaps. “I hate these damn dresses.”
“It’s called a hospital gown.”
“I don’t like ‘em.”
He’s only been truly conscious for about a day and a half, and for most of that time, he’s been griping about something or the other. Not that that’s so unusual for him. But it’s worse than normal. Worse than ever, really.
“Let me adjust your pillows then,” I tell him, doing my best to stay patient.
Once that’s done, Pa huffs and pouts. “I’m hungry.”
I glance up at the clock. “Your next meal should be on its way any minute.”
“I’m hungry now.”
I close my eyes and remember to breathe.
“Pa, what did you tell that detective who was in here just now?” I ask.
He stops struggling for a moment. “I told him what happened,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s okay; he’s a friend of Tristan’s.”
“So he knows that you’re indebted to the O’Sullivans and the Kinahans?” I ask.