Chapter twelve
The Green of Grief
Cillian
Iwaketoanemptybed and the bitter ghost of her skin on my sheets. The space beside me is still warm, her imprint pressed into the mattress like a brand. Last night rushes back in fragments—her mouth, her thighs, the sound she made when I finally touched her like I was supposed to. Like she was mine again. No blood. No wars. Just skin and sighs.
But she’s not here now.
I throw on the first shirt I find and pad barefoot through the house, heart starting to pound. Kitchen—empty. The piano room—silent. Living room—nothing but shadows. The small study door creaks when I push it open. Still no sign of her. I head for the stairs, my pulse thudding like a drumline. The upper floor is technically the kids’, open and airy, a place I thought might be filled with toys and noise one day. But now—
She’s there.
Standing at the large round window, her back to me. She’s wrapped in that champagne-colored silk nightgown I bought years ago and never had the chance to give her. The matching robe is loose, slipping from one shoulder. Her blonde hair is wet, drying into those tight, wild curls that only show when she lets it down completely. Phantom curls. Opera house tragedy curls.God, she’s beautiful.
Sunlight spills through the glass, gilding her like a saint sculpted in gold. She doesn’t turn around. And something in my chest cracks open. She turns around slowly—like she’s already decided what she’ll say before I even open my mouth.
That red ledger is clutched in her hands. The one I buried years ago. The one that should’ve never seen the light again. Her eyes are colder than the Dublin sea in February. There’s something vicious behind them. Sharp. Betrayed. And it kills me.
My mouth dries out as I take a step forward, hands slightly raised like she’s something wild I can’t afford to spook.
“Dove… Where did you get that?”
I already know. But I need to hear her say it. Her fingers tighten around the cover, creasing the edge of the page. The air between us goes heavy, like the house knows what’s about to happen. Like the ghosts in the beams are holding their breath.
She doesn’t answer. Not yet. Just looks at me like I’m a stranger in the home I built for her. Like everything that passed between us last night was a dream. She blinks slowly. That head tilt that used to mean she was curious. Now? It's fucking surgical. Dissecting me.
“Why,Cillian? Is this something I wasn’t supposed to see?”
Her voice is soft. Almost sweet. But it cuts. Like broken glass laced in honey. I take a step forward, instinct driving me—desperate to explain, to lie, todo something. She lifts one hand.
“No.”
The word is final. A slap in velvet. I stop.
“Where did you get it?” I grind out, jaw tight. “Tell me,a stór. Right now.”
She laughs, but it’s cold. “You don’t get to ask questions. Not until you tell me about my mother.”
That hits harder than a bullet. My ribs ache. “Siobhán—”
“Don’t! Don’t you fucking dare say my name like that! Not after what I just read!”
I shake my head. “You don’t know what you think you know.”
“Then tell me.Go on!Because that ledger hasmy mother’s picturein it, and hername, and a line of fucking code I don’t understand!”
My hands shake.
“Answer me, Cillian! Tell me what happened to Maeve Kelleher, and don’t youdarelie to me!”
I pace. Run a hand through my hair. My throat burns. “It wasn’t me,” I rasp. “I tried to stop it—”
“Stopwhat, exactly?”
She’s radiant in that silk—champagne-colored nightgown clinging to her curves, robe slipping from one shoulder, hair down in wild golden curls like something out of a dream. But her eyes—Those eyes are war.
“Answer the question,” she says.
