“Why do you do that?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
I glanced at her, my expression thoughtful. “Do what?”
“Downplay your...” Dr. Walker began, but her attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. She reached out, picking up a photograph from the file Sinclair had given me. Her voice faltered as she examined the image. “Why do you have a picture of my parents?”
“What?” I responded, caught off guard.
Dr. Walker held the photo in front of me, her expression growing more insistent. “Why do you have a picture of my parents in your file?”
Gunner approached, concern etched on his face. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, taking the photo from her.
She answered without taking her eyes off me. “It’s my parents, Gunner.”
Melissa sat next to me. “Rowen? What’s going on?”
I shook my head, flipping through the stack of pages in the file. “I don’t know. Sinclair gave me this file before we left. He said everything I would need to know is in here. Dr. Walker saw the photo of her parents, but I don’t know why it’s included.” My confusion mirrored the uncertainty that now hung in the air, wondering what game Sinclair was playing now.
For several tense minutes, we sifted through the documents sprawled across the table, each page seeming to raise more questions than it answered. The silence was thick until Michael’s voice sliced through it, ragged with disbelief. He slammed his fist on the table, startling us all. “Son of a bitch.”
Haizley, who had been reading with furrowed brows, snapped her gaze toward him, her eyes wide with worry. “What is it?” she asked, her voice trembling as she leaned closer, bracing herself as if she already sensed the ground shifting beneath her.
Michael’s face was unreadable as he met my gaze. “You’re Brian Buchannon’s son?”
I couldn’t summon any emotion; my reply was flat, almost mechanical. “Apparently.”
Michael’s voice dropped as he explained, “Your dad is the head of the IRA.” The Irish Republican Army—a name that carried a legacy of both fear and reverence, notorious for its history of political violence and clandestine power. The revelation was enough to send a shudder through the room; even those unfamiliar with Irish history seemed to sense the enormity of the truth that had just been laid bare.
I kept my eyes on the table, voice barely above a whisper. “So I’ve been told.” My tone betrayed nothing, but inside, memories of a complicated past twisted uneasily. Across from me, Melissa’s finger traced a line of text on one of the pages, her lips moving silently.
Suddenly, she froze. “Haizley...” she murmured, her voice thin and unsteady. Instantly, I looked up, alert to the dread in her tone. I reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly, my knuckles white.
“What is it, honey?” I urged, my pulse quickening.
Melissa’s gaze darted between Haizley and me, her voice trembling as she spoke softly, careful not to startle anyone. “I know why you have a photo of Haizley’s parents in your file. Haizley is your cousin.” The word hung in the air, echoing between us.
Then the room erupted—Michael lurched forward, yanking the page from Melissa’s hands, his eyes scanning the text in disbelief. “What!?” he shouted, his voice cracking.
All eyes turned to Haizley. Her face went sheet-white, lips parted in shock as she stared at me, hands trembling at her sides. Her breaths came short; her chest rising and falling rapidly. For a long moment, she was utterly silent, eyes shining with tears, as if her very sense of self was unraveling. “It’s all there, Gunner,” Melissa went on gently, reading aloudthe damning lines: “Saoirse Buchanon, born 1976 in Galway, Ireland, youngest daughter of Siobhan O’Malley and Sean Buchanon married Nicholas Walker in 1995.” Each word seemed to hammer the truth deeper as my web of family secrets unfolded.
The remainder of the flight passed in a tense, uncomfortable silence. The shocking revelation hung over both Dr. Walker and me, its weight leaving us with too many thoughts and not enough words. When we landed, I drove quietly through the city, heading toward the New York residence, the city lights blurring past the windows as my mind replayed everything that had happened.
Michael sat beside me in the passenger seat, his attention fixed on the file in his hands. He spent the entire flight poring over the documents, flipping page after page with an intensity that made it clear he was searching for answers of his own. I could see the questions forming on his face, but neither of us spoke about what he might have found. A part of me was curious about what new secrets the file held, but a larger part wanted nothing to do with it. Some truths, I decided, were better left alone; whatever else was in those pages no longer mattered to me.
I had come to the city with a single, unwavering purpose. Everything else—the confusion, the revelations, the painful connections—faded into the background. My focus sharpened to a point as I reminded myself of what had brought me here in the first place.
I needed to find Madigan Kelley and Rurik Ryabkin. Sinclair’s urgency was undeniable: I could not let them exposewhatever secrets they might possess. The risk was too great, and the consequences of their knowledge spreading were unthinkable.
My task was clear—locate them and ensure their silence before it was too late.
After we arrived at the New York residence, I didn’t waste any time. As the girls disappeared upstairs, I made my way directly to Sinclair’s office. Gunner followed close behind, unable to contain his questions. “Why am I really here?” he demanded.
I gave him the only answer I had. “Sinclair thought you could be of some help to me. As to what, I don’t know.”
His eyes narrowed, pressing for more. “How?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I need to find Madigan Kelley and Rurik Ryabkin.”
He raised an eyebrow, the tension thick between us. “Why?”
