“I’m just thinking, maybe… maybe if you got in their good graces, Erin?—”
The words land like a punch.
My heart stutters. Races. I tap my pocket—once, twice, three times, four.
Mam grabs my wrist. “Stop that.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
She wants me to what? Seduce a McCarthy?Befriendthem?
“Mam, what are you on about?” I ask her, trying to ignore the way my voice wobbles. “Did you actually forget how they treated me?”
She waves a hand dismissively—becauseof courseshe does. “Oh, Erin. You were children then. Let itgo.”
I draw in a sharp, shuddering breath and turn back to my sister.
“You don’t have to let it go, Erin,” she says, her voice trembling. She takes another small bite of her sausage roll. “Not on account of me.”
Then it hits—what my mother said.
That Bridget wants this too. That I just refused a choice that could actually give my sister the only thing that might save her.
The McCarthys are friends with Dr. Rosenberg. But the McCarthys…
No.
“Get in their good graces,” I repeat.
Me?
“They don’t like me,” I tell my mother, but it feels like a last-ditch effort. Like I’m trying to convince myself.
“Maybe not,” my mother says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “God, it’s dry in here, isn’t it?”
Because even though she’s mean, superficial, and sometimescruel… it’s breaking her. Watching her youngest girl disappear in slow motion.
We all know the clock’s running out, and it won’t slow down.
“I was just… I was just thinking,” she stammers. “I could… could pay Caitlin McCarthy a visit, couldn’t I?”
This isn’t like her. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her stammer.
There’s no amount of makeup, no filter sharp enough, to hide what’s bleeding through her face right now—the lines, the pain, the regret.
And my heart drops like lead. If anything, my mother showed me how it’s possible to both love and hate someone at the very same time.
But Bridget’s sweet voice echoes:Not on account of me.
“They’re in the news, you know. Sounds like some terrible things have happened.”
“I know,” my mother says quietly. “And the papers don’t even cover the half of it.” She would know. Make someone who’s the Queen of Gossip a mafia wife, and she’ll know more than anyone.
“So doyouknow what happened?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
My mother swallows hard. “They say… after the bombing… Bronwyn McCarthy’s gone missing.”
Oh god.
