1
MAEVE
The cold wind whips at my face, drowning out the drone of the priest’s voice reciting words that I would rather not know as well as I do.
I know Father McCleary himself very well. He baptized me and my brother, and my sister. Helped me choose my saint’s name at my confirmation. Presided over my sister’s wedding.
He buried my sister. Buried my father. And now, on the bleakest, rainiest day of February so far, he’s burying my brother.
There are only a handful of mourners at the gravesite. Anyone important who once knew Desmond, who did business with him, wouldn’t dare be seen here. Not after what they say he did.
Not after how he died.
Ronan O’Malley isn’t here today. Neither is his brother, Tristan. His father is dead, too, executed by order of the Council. His sister, Annie, is nowhere to be seen. But of course, if what everyone is saying is true, she wouldn’t be.
The thought rips at my already tattered heart.
I never thought I’d be grateful for how my father died. No violence; just illness. But Boston has been soaked in blood these past six months, and it’s put a lot in perspective for me.
Hidden under the wide black edge of my oversized umbrella, I look at the stones next to Desmond’s grave. Our father, Joel Connelly, is on one side of him, gone a month after my sister died, without ever letting us know he was sick before it was too late. On the other side, a stone with my sister’s name—bearing her maiden name, at Desmond’s insistence, not her married one. Siobhan Connelly, resting in peace, perhaps, even though nothing about her was peaceful—not her life or the woman herself.
My sister was a difficult person to live with, to know, to be related to, or bound to in any capacity. But I would never have wanted her dead. Especially not the way she went, just a few months ago: murdered, while she was in bed with her lover. A man who wasn’t her husband. Not Ronan O’Malley, who was safe in his mansion while my sister looked for comfort elsewhere.
At least, that last was how Desmond talked about it. I’m not so sure. I didn’t have the blind spot he did where Siobhan was concerned. I doubt she was looking for comfort in the man she slept with; more likely, she wanted a way to hurt the husband she was talked into marrying and didn’t like in the slightest.
Or she was just acting with no thought for anyone else. That wouldn’t surprise me, either.
There’s no spot for our mother—she left when I was ten, so she won’t join us here when all of the Connelly family is finally laid to rest. Just one space left, where I’ll be, eventually.
If the pattern of the way things are going is any indication, maybe that won’t be so far in the future. Right now, I don’t know that I’d mind it. It sounds peaceful, honestly. Quiet. Like I wouldn’t have to be afraid any longer.
Life wasn’t good, exactly, when the rest of my family was alive. But now it’s so much worse.
My father, dead. Siobhan, murdered. And Desmond…
If this is all true, then my brother was a villain. A stalker, an attempted rapist, and a murderer. And while he was arrogant and cold and sometimes cruel to me, I never thought he was capable of that.
I’m realizing that people are capable of a lot that they hide from others. It makes me wonder if anyone is really who they seem. If anyone can be trusted.
Not that it matters. I don’t have anyone, any longer. Only myself.
And myself isn’t enough to keep me safe in this world.
As Father McCleary finishes up, the mourners start to toss handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. Numbly, I do the same, watching it collide with the gleaming, rain-spattered black of the coffin lid. It feels unthinkable that my brother is in there. That the same man who brought me home a kitten shortly after our father died doesn’t exist anymore. That what’s in there is just a body, and Desmond is gone.
He wasn’t always kind, but he could be, sometimes—unlike Siobhan, who never was. And still, somehow, I grieved her, too. She was still my sister. I never knew how to untangle that from the kind of person she was, and now, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to.
It feels like I’ve been grieving forever. There’s no end in sight.
People dressed in black walk past, murmuring condolences, hurrying away. There will be no wake for Desmond. I’m the only one who could arrange it, and even though I feel like I’ve failed him, failed my family by not doing so, I just… couldn’t. Who would come, anyway, after what it’s said that he did? A wake with only a few people there feels worse than nothing at all. What life is there to celebrate, when it ended the way it did?
I saw the bullet hole in his forehead. I sat with Ronan and Annie O’Malley as they explained to me what happened. As they told me everything.
I should stop thinking about it aswhat they said he did. He did it. I don’t think they were lying. Ronan, I could have disbelieved, but not Annie. Not when I saw her face—the regret there, the grief, the hurt, the wishing that she didn’t have to be the one to tell me who my brother was. But Ronan was right to bring her along, because I wouldn’t have believed him.
I couldn’tnotbelieve her.
Father McCleary is the last one to leave. He comes to stand next to me as I stare at the grave blankly, unable to make my feet move. Somewhere behind me, on the road that runs past the cemetery, a car is waiting for me with a driver and security. There are quite a few guards watching me, considering what’s happened over the last six months.
