“Is that what it was like?” I ask carefully. “In prison?”
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he won’t answer. But then he nods, just once. “Every fucking day, Erin. Every day you wake up,wondering if it’s the day someone decides you’re more useful dead than alive. And you learn quick that the only person you can trust is yourself.”
“That sounds… lonely.”
“It was.” His eyes soften slightly. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be anymore.”
I know. I understand.
I’m lonely, too.
Before I can respond, a voice calls out. “Cavin! There you are.”
We both turn to see an older man approaching, maybe in his early fifties, with graying hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but there’s something about the way he carries himself that seems less predatory than most of the people here. More… genuine, somehow.
“Dr. Rosenberg,” Cavin says, and I hear genuine warmth in his voice. “Good to see you, mate.”
My heart stops.
Dr. Rosenberg.
Oh my god. That’s him. That’s the doctor who could save Bridget.
And he’s here. Right here.
Mam was right.
“And this must be your fiancée,” Dr. Rosenberg says, extending his hand to me with a smile. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Miss Kavanagh.”
I take his hand, trying not to let my shock show. “It’s lovely to meet you, Dr. Rosenberg,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. “Cavin’s told me about you as well.”
I’m stretching the truth, but I know who this man is. I know what he could mean for Bridget.
“Liam’s one of the best doctors in the UK,” Cavin says, his hand warm on my lower back. “Saved my uncle’s life a few years back when no one else could figure out what was wrong with him.”
“Oh, I just did my job,” Dr. Rosenberg says modestly, but there’s pride in his eyes. “Though I must say, it was a challenging case. Took nearly six months to get the diagnosis right.”
Six months. The thought hits me like a punch to the gut, but I force myself to smile.
“Your work must be fascinating,” I say, and I hear the slight tremor in my voice. “I’ve read about some of your research. The work you’re doing with patients who have complex hematological conditions—it’s really remarkable. Groundbreaking, even.”
Dr. Rosenberg’s eyebrows rise, and I see genuine surprise—and interest—flash across his face. I’m guessing most people don’t know the details about the work he does. “You’ve done your homework. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about blood disorders.”
“I know someone,” I start, then stop myself. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people.
But Dr. Rosenberg is watching me with those kind, intelligent eyes.
“Well,” he says carefully, “if you ever want to discuss my work further, Miss Kavanagh, I’d be happy to. Cavin has my number.” He glances at Cavin. “You’ll pass it along?”
“Of course,” Cavin says, but there’s a question in his eyes when he looks at me. Have I said too much?
“Thank you,” I tell Dr. Rosenberg, and I mean it more than he could possibly know. “That would be wonderful.”
He gives me a warm smile, shakes Cavin’s hand again, and melts back into the crowd.
The moment he’s gone, Cavin turns to me. “Alright. What was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
