She glances at me. "You asked."
"I did."
She studies my face, then nods. "The streets aren't that bad, honestly. You learn to manage. Find spots to sleep. Know where the shelters are. Which cops to avoid. Which neighborhoods are safe at which hours." She shrugs. "It's a system. You just have to learn it."
"You shouldn't have had to."
"Maybe not. But I did." She folds the towel and sets it on the counter. "Everyone does what they have to do to survive."
That explains the packed duffel bag. The food stash.
According to Corcoran's reports, her nightly walks are getting shorter. When I snooped this morning, I noticed new clothes hanging in her closet and folded in the dresser instead of stuffed in her go bag. Small progress, but progress.
“I need you home at night now," I say.
She freezes. "What?"
"You leave every night. Walk for hours. I need you to stop. It’s no longer safe.”
Her eyes narrow. "You're spying on me."
"I have men watching you. For your safety. That's not the same as spying."
"It's exactly the same."
She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes in a glare.
"I'm not trying to stifle you or trap you," I say. "I'm trying to keep you safe.”
"Why?"
The question is sharp, direct. She's not asking rhetorically. She wants an answer.
I want to tell her it’s because I care about her. I want to say it aloud, but as her words from moments ago ring through my head—nobody pretended to care—I’m pretty sure she won’t believe me. Not yet.
So, instead I say, "Because you're my wife."
Chapter 9
Saoirse
The knock on the door comes mid-afternoon.
I freeze. There have been no visitors to Declan’s brownstone since I’ve been here, so I’m not used to hearing knocking. Declan's upstairs in his office. The knock comes again—three sharp raps, confident and insistent.
I move to the window and peer through the curtain.
A woman about my age stands on the stoop. Dark hair, expensive coat. She catches me looking and waves.
My stomach drops. I don't know her, but the way she carries herself—the ease, the expectation that the door will open—tells me she belongs in a way I don't.
I unlock the door and crack it open.
She smiles. "Hi. I'm Nora. Cillian's wife."
Recognition hits. Cillian. Declan's oldest brother. The one who runs everything.
"Saoirse," I manage.
