“You need a reminder every now and then, girl. Don’t be brash. You know I couldn’t cope without you.”
He’s twisting the knife, ensuring I remember the pain. After Mom’s death, though, we’re each other’s sounding board and reality check rolled into one.
“Joe, I’m okay. I was sloppy and didn’t expect him to fire. It won’t happen again.”
He nods, also pointing at the half-eaten sandwich between us. “I think we all knew as soon as the job was called, and the two of you were assigned to work together, that you’d be pulled. We’ve got people on the street spreading that you had a very nasty accident in one of the holding cells because you got caught. Tommy Smithers was apparently not a happy man; he didn't get his diamonds. But at least he hasn’t lost any face now both Barrett and Nina Collins are dead.”
Nina Collins is who I’ve been parading as for the last couple of years. Beta with a faint tea scent, blonde hair, blue eyes, and a reputation for having sticky fingers. And the ability to get a job done. Working in Tommy’s world tested all my skills and consumed every minute of every day I was there. The adjustment back to being me is going to take time, though I won't be sad to be out of London and that scene.
“So, are you going to tell me who was riling you up enough that we’re taking nips of your Scotch?”
His cheeks blow out as he exhales noisily, his hand rubbing down his face after. When he looks across the table at me, he’s back to being my boss. “DOCB has heard about you. They’ve got in the ear of the Superintendent, and as a result, you’re transferring to Ireland.”
“What the fuck? I swear you need to repeat what you just said, because the Garda National Drugs and Organized Crime Bureau requested me join them.”
He raises his chin, the color in his eyes muting as he shuts down on me. Confirmation in his actions is as clear as if he’d spoken. Though I still push him for that too.
“Joe, I’m not going to Ireland.”
For about a thousand reasons. None of them having to do with the weather.
His lips curl as he sorts through the waves of emotions flashing in his eyes. Eventually he speaks, and he wavers between being both a fatherly figure and my boss.
“It’s not your choice, Tally. We knew the risk of you accepting the career fast track. It’s a joint task force, so you could have ended up in Wales or Australia.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes and scenting like fire. “Yeah, but nowhere in any of the documents, or any of the conversations we’ve had, did anyone mention fucking Ireland.”
“Sweetheart, you and I both know you’re too good to stay with this team. And the experience will be invaluable.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be modest. You’re damn good at what you do. You get shit done in next to no time too.”
“I can’t do Ireland. Look what happened last time, Joe.”
“Your cousin going missing wasn’t because of Ireland.”
“Bullshit. If we weren’t there for that summer, we wouldn’t have gone to Blarney Castle, and Liam wouldn’t have lost his wallet and gone searching for it without me. He’d still be with us.”
“What if this is your one chance at finding out the truth? You digging might get us the closure you’ve been looking for all this time. Or, Tally, you let go of your promise.”
“I can’t do that,” I whisper, getting dragged backwards to the moment in time when I held my mom’s hand and gave her my promise.
“She never meant for you to go through this much pain, sweetheart. She was sick. Her intention was muddled.”
I take a deep inhale, my lungs squeezing, making it hard to breathe. I hate remembering that time in my life. To see my mom, so strong and vibrant, wasting away and losing herself haunts me still. How erratic she became was awful, but I couldn’t leave her to suffer alone. The doctor explained terminal restlessness, and while she was rambling because she was dying, she was still my mom until the last beat of her heart.
“I know. But I made a promise to her—to me too, though. I can’t bear the thought of Liam being by himself. I need the comfort of that.”
Joe squeezes my hand knowingly. Because he sat with us until the very end. Like always, his advice hits home. This could be the chance I’ve been looking for. Then he mentions the other person tying me back to Ireland, turning the pain into sharp, searing anger.
“Oscar still doesn’t sit well with me. His version of events never matched yours.”
I feel the weight of his words like rocks in my stomach, because Oscar’s explanation never sat well with me, either. He insisted I wasn’t remembering things properly because of how emotional and young I was.
Age and emotion had nothing to do with it. The gap in my memory was, and still is, too memorable for it not to have been something I had to remember. I’d been to a therapist who believed me enough to refer me to a colleague who specialized in narrative therapy.
Frustratingly, each session ended with a roadblock. Supposedly, I had no option but to wait for either my mind to unlock or for me to see what had locked me up in the first place, so it could act like a flip switch, a trigger. Waiting has been a source of frustration for a long time now. I’ve tried to stay focused on the fact that one day the truth will come to light, but my hope is dwindling too.
