The cover is unmarked, but inside the handwriting is blocky and masculine, each line underlined with military precision.
Names, dates, addresses.
A dossier on every person who has ever stood between my family and the Crowleys.
"Why show me this?" I ask.
"Because you're not here to be just a wife," he says, matter-of-fact. "And I could use your brains."
I close the notebook, place it on the pillow, and return his stare.
He steps forward, closing the distance.
I expect him to reach for me, or to threaten, or perhaps to plead.
Instead, he just stands there, arms at his sides.
"I won't touch you unless you ask me to," he says.
"But if you cross me, I won't raise my voice. I'll bury you quietly."
I nod, the threat landing exactly where he wants it to, but I hold his gaze.
"I believe you," I say.
He smiles, picks up his glass, finishes the last drop, and sits back on the bed, this time further from the edge.
I watch him, waiting for some signal that the conversation is over.
Instead, he looks at me like he is seeing me for the first time.
"Do you know what I admire about your father?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"He never made excuses," Ruairí says. "Not even when he should have."
He lies back, hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling.
For a moment, he looks almost peaceful.
I do not join him on the bed.
Instead, I sit in the chair by the window, notebook balanced on my knees.
I flip through the pages, memorizing the order of the names, the logic of the hierarchy.
I know this game.
I know how to play it, and how to survive the first round.
We do not speak again that night.
He falls asleep quickly, breaths deep and untroubled.
I watch the city lights until my eyes blur, then I close them and imagine the world as it might be if I could win.
4
