Idohate them.
Well, notallof them.
But I hate Cavin McCarthy, even after I saw him at the funeral. “Pay your respects,” my father told me. “It’s the right thing to do.” But I balked when I saw all the heads of the mafia there and pretended I was putting flowers on a grave.
He didn’t try to save me, no, despite how it may’ve looked.
He was wondering why I was there.
Ihatedthe way the girls at St. Albert’s threw themselves at him just for a glance and a nod.
I hate his blue-eyed beauty and perfect body.
I hate the way he ruled everything.
I can still hear him call me a snitch, still see the curled lip and bared teeth. Still see that narrowed-eyed glare and hear his voice, low and venomous, whispering that he hated me too.
But I’mnotthat girl anymore.
“Let’s get back to Bridget,” I say, my head held high as I walk away from the McCarthy worshippers of Ballyhock.
I glance at the time, and my stomach sinks.
Goddamnit.
I hear my mother before I see her, on the other side of the frosted door meant to give us privacy.
“Situp,” she snaps. “That’s a girl. Good. Now, are you going to eat this food or just play with it? You’re wasting away to nothing, Bridget.”
Her tone cuts. My sister’s is softer. “Leave it, Mam,” Bridget pleads. “If you think it’s so delicious, why don’t you eat it yourself?”
I step in with a pasted-on smile. “Got your sausage roll.”
My mother’s face twists.
“Sausageroll? Why would you get her that? She’ll break out.”
“Mam,” I say, with every ounce of forced calm I’ve got. Darragh fades into the hallway, shadow-like, watching again. “In case you missed it, Bridget’s not eating much.” I glance at her frail frame. “I figured food might help. She asked for a sausage roll.”
And in my head, I finish the sentence—whatever the fuck my sister asks for, she gets.
My mother purses her lips, then scans me from head to toe, her eyes widening in horror. Oh god. What did I do now?
“Erin, do you mean to tell me you just wentoutlike that? Inpublic?” When her voice gets to that high-pitched note…
I glance down.
Faded jeans. A jumper. Comfortable shoes.
“What’s wrong with this?”
She lifts her chin. The queen surveying her kingdom.
Not a wrinkle on her face, even her forehead is smooth as silk. Botox. Fillers. Whatever it takes to maintain the illusion. “You’re aKavanaghwoman. That’s what’s wrong.”
I sigh.
Mam was beautiful when she was younger, but she’s older now, and the thick makeup’s beginning to wear.
