I’m guessing Sean has about a minute before his shoes are covered in fear-induced piss.
“Pa?”
I freeze.
So does Sean.
I didn’t say that. Neither did he.
Which means…
The voice floats down again. “Pa, is someone here?”
A girl’s voice. From up the staircase.
We thought the house would be empty. Sean had mentioned on the way over that Padraig was once married, but that his wife died a long time ago. Cancer or some shit like that.
Sean steps back, concealing the broken vase in his hand.
I know my brother. He’s not sadistic. He doesn’t like unnecessary violence.
He especially doesn’t like involving the people he considers innocent in the ugliness of our business.
People like her.
She appears at the top of the short staircase.
I see the white t-shirt and the old worn in jeans with holes and rips around the knees. The kind of holes and rips that have been created through wear and tear rather than an intentional fashion choice.
Then my eyes scale upwards to her face.
She’s got the reddest hair I’ve ever seen.
Not ginger. Not strawberry blond. Not auburn.
But pure, bloody red, like the last gasp of the sunset before it vanishes beneath the horizon.
It snakes around her shoulders in a mess of wild curls. Gives her the kind of Old World beauty that you don’t see often.
And the bluest eyes. A deep, velvety, aquamarine blue.
I was born in Ireland.
Raised in Ireland.
I thought I’d seen Ireland through and through. Thought I knew every single nook and cranny.
But this girl… she is the country come to life. The land itself, if it could live and breathe and speak.
“Who are you?” she demands of us. The aquamarine in her eyes turns dark and stormy.
Sean is about to speak, but for some reason, I can’t let his be the first voice she hears.
“We’re just here to have a conversation with your father,” I cut in, stepping forward.
She frowns in suspicion and walks down the steps slowly.
“It doesn’t look like either one of you came here to talk.”