“Someone, somehow, had to set them up at Knitted Hearts, and I can’t find him.” Trouble knits my brows at Liam’s grumble, but my silence must speak for itself when he scoffs. “It means that in all likelihood, these are all shell companies associated with worldwide organized crime, and that means Cormac is stealing from some very bad people.”
“Keenan?” Delilah’s voice startles me, and I look over as she wanders groggily into the kitchen. Immediately hanging up the phone, I hum softly while she rubs her eyes. “Come back to bed?”
“I was just getting a drink, yeah. You wore me out.” Wrapping my arms around her, I bury my face against the nape of her neck, pressing soft kisses against her skin.
Delilah sighs happily. “Let’s go back upstairs.”
“Who was that? On the phone?”
“Liam,” I answer, unsure if I want to tell Delilah at this moment. “He was giving me an update.”
“On the guy who shot you?” she asks. I don’t answer, only grimacing as sleepy, questioning eyes lock on my face. Delilah rests her head against my shoulder, rubbing her forehead where the scar is. “It’ll be okay. You’ll get him eventually. It might take a while, but you will, Keenan.”
I don’t know how in the bloody hell Liam got all this information, but I’ll bet he has some hacker looking into this shite too. I may not act like it, but it means a lot that he’s doing so much. It’s affecting Delilah, which in turn affects me. This is what family is about.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE
DELILAH
Ilift my mug with one hand as I scroll through the news on my phone with the other, and Keenan puts a hand on my shoulder. The smell of eggs and sausage wafts around me as he sets my plate in front of me. “Fried, just the way you like.”
“That’s how you like it, Keenan,” I snipe jokingly as I set my phone down, and Keenan chuckles while seating himself next to me. “You just didn’t want to make two servings of eggs.”
“You think I’m so lazy I wouldn’t make your eggs how you like?” I shove him with my elbow, and he puffs out his lips in mock hurt as he rubs the spot. I don’t say it enough, but these are the little things I love about him. He has a habit of making me forget everything horrible about the world. “Sometimes, I wonder if you just like me because I make the best fried eggs. Even if they’re not your favorite, you still clean your plate.”
“Oh, yes. Our relationship is purely based on your egg cooking abilities, and not a bit for your incredible charm, kind heart, or that dick of yours.” I giggle, rolling my eyes as I pick up my fork and point at Keenan. “Though, we’re engaged now, and you should cook more often. What’s the saying, happy wife, happy life?”
“I will if that’s what it takes, shite.” He cackles, swatting my fork away with a lighthearted grin. The atmosphere in the dining room is fresh, and I pick up a piece of toast to work my egg onto it. “I’m sorry about the other morning. Liam called, and I didn’t want to wake you up. Conversations with him can get . . . loud. He didn’t have anything good to say, either. It was frustrating.”
“You said it was an update. I’m—” I start, but my phone begins to ring on the table above my plate. Pursing my lips thinly, I grab it and furrow my brows when I see who it is. “It’s my mom. I forgot to call her. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t even realize.”
“Don’t answer it, eat, and call back in an hour. She’s in America, right? So, it’s like two in the morning there right now?” Keenan suggests with a shrug, and I shake my head. “I wonder why she bothers around the holidays.”
“Because Americans realize the true weight of their mistakes around the holidays, or at least my mom does,” I grumble unhappily as my phone continues to ring. “My mom always wants me to come to America, but she never wants to come here. I even offer to pay for it, and she still declines. Why would I want to be around someone who puts so little effort into me? She’s constantly telling me stories about things that happened between her and my father, but it doesn’t matter. Their issues are their own, what they’re not is my responsibility. Fuck, she’s the one who chose to leave. I didn’t make her go anywhere. If she wanted a relationship with me, she could’ve at least stayed here in Belfast.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When I would go to America, like right after they separated, she barely spent any time with me,” I confess sourly. “I’m partly to blame, of course. My mom just never seemed interested in me. So, despite wanting to have a relationship, I just didn’t put effort into it after a while. And then, as I grew up, things got worse. The more I think about it, the more it seems like all I am to her is a stranger she’s obligated to call on Christmas or my birthday hoping I don’t pick up.”
“I don’t know. I think, as someone on the outside, it’s more complicated than that,” Keenan speaks up, and I look over at him questioningly. Lifting my toast, I take a big bite and groan softly in pleasure. Briefly, the weight of this conversation dissipates. Keenan smirks knowingly before opening his mouth. “Maybe, she just knew that bouncing between Northern Ireland and America would be worse than stepping back and keeping you in one place. Or, because you thought she didn’t want to spend time with you, she thought you didn’t want to spend time with her. Either way, I think it’s something you should talk to her about, not contemplate on your own. You’ll never get an answer that way. Assuming isn’t factual, love.”
My phone stops ringing briefly before my mom calls again, and I stare at the flickering screen intently. “I don’t know, Keenan . . . there’s been plenty of times in the past when she could’ve told me. I was the kid. She was the adult. Fostering a relationship when I was little was entirely on her.”
“Maybe, but you’re an adult now, Delilah. Tell her you want answers. Demand them. Go to America if she asks and tell her to her face that you want to knowwhy. If you still don’t like the answer, or she doesn’t give you one at all, then you can be bitter.”
“If she calls back a third time,” I compromise, secretly hoping my mom doesn’t call again. Or not so secretly, judging by the exasperated look Keenan shoots me. My phone calms down once again, and I lean over my plate to take another bite of my egg and toast.
“You’re dad’s still ignoring you, and there’s a very real possibility he’ll end up in shite up to his ears. I don’t know if becoming an effective orphan is what you want, but,” Keenan’s voice is plastered with irritation and seriousness, and I pause my chewing to stare through my plate, “you never really considered what you would do if your father gets caught, Delilah. If Knitted Hearts goes up in flames. If your father gets arrested and sent to jail.”
“I did think about it, that’s what I spent the last week preparing for.” My admission earns me a surprised look, and I swallow my toast. “If he gets caught. I spent days going through everything Haisley gave me. I went through all the documents she could dig up from before the meeting. From before my dad found out I knew something big was going on. The disclosures from Penelope, the accountant, that I never signed, the screenshots of document histories.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Keenan points out. I scowl. “You know that’s not what I mean. I’m glad you’re choosing to be proactive about it, but what are you going to do when your dad is gone? Either in jail or dead . . . I mean, who knows what kind of people he’s been stealing from for decades. If he pisses off the wrong people, he won’t have to worry about his greed anymore. He won’t have to worry about anything at all.”
“I know that,” I snap harshly, turning away from him. I know he means well, but throwing this possibility in my face isn’t easy for me to accept. “If my dad does end up in either of those positions, this whole ignoring me scheme will have been good practice. Shit, Keenan. I’m not stupid. My mom cannot replace my dad. Even if we have a cordial relationship, she’s still in America.”
“You,” he shakes his head in pure aggravation, “nevermind. I’m not saying anything else when you’re choosing to deliberately misinterpret what I said. But I do find it funny how you’ve grown up in Northern Ireland for most of your life and yet speak like your mum does. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you do it because of her. But what do I know? I’ll shut up now.”
“Good.” My heart hammers hard in my chest as the silence stretches into discomfort. I know Keenan is right, but it hurts. My father, gone? No! And my mother, who only does the bare minimum to avoid feeling guilty about lack of effort . . . I can’t see how I can have a relationship with her. I tense as Keenan grabs my hand, but he doesn’t look at me. His palm is warm, dry, and feels faintly of soap.
