In the dreams, he never dies.
He just disappears, the chair still warm, the ledger open to the last page.
On the seventh day, I find a thin, battered volumed wedged between two obsolete tax codes titled,Import/Export Compliance, 1978.
The Donnelly crest is stamped on the flyleaf, and inside is a folded sheet of paper, so old the edges have browned to transparency.
I slide it out, careful not to tear, and read:
Broker—Cesare Rizzo.
Date—March 17, 1998.
Cargo—Sealed per previous arrangement.
Contact—See attached.
There is no attached.
But the name—Rizzo—leaps out at me.
It's the same name from my father's files.
The same name in Ruairí's records, circled twice.
The same name the Italian broker used when he came to the house the nightbefore my father was shot.
My hands shake, but only a little.
I refold the paper, tucking it into my sleeve, and close the book with a soft thud.
A minute later, a sudden, swift wave of a nausea rolls over me, so absolute that I have to run, and almost trip, to the nearest bathroom.
I barely make it before my stomach turns inside out, and only then can I look at myself in the mirror.
12
KEIRA
That night, I undress slowly, brush my hair with methodical care, and light the bedside candle as if the act might coax peace into the room.
It does not.
When the door opens and Ruairí enters, I am already sitting at the edge of the bed, spine straight, hands folded in my lap.
He does not speak at first.
He closes the door behind him and shrugs off his jacket, laying it over the chair near the window.
His sleeves are still rolled from brunch, and the faintest stain of fig syrup lingers at the cuff.
"You looked well at brunch today," he says, his voice quiet.
"I do what's expected," I reply, and when I meet his eyes, I see something in him tighten.
He crosses the room and sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
His thigh brushes mine, and for a moment we sit like that, unspeaking.
