“I’m a therapist, Mr. O’Malley. I’m used to uncomfortable silences.”
“Are you?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “And what is your preferred practice, Dr. Jefferson?”
I smirked and simply said, “I counsel children, Mr. O’Malley.”
“Touché.” He grinned. “Then you know what I’m talking about. How children bear the weight of their parents’ sins. How tragedy finds the innocent first.”
My throat tightened. “Yes.”
“Then you understand why you shouldn’t be here.”
“I understand why you think I shouldn’t be here,” I corrected. “But understanding something and accepting it are two different things.”
His expression shifted, not quite approval, but something close to interest. “Tell me, Dr. Jefferson, what do you know about Rowen Shay?”
The question caught me off guard. I expected to have to explain, to plead my case, to convince him to listen. I hadn’t expected him to already know why I was here.
“I know he’s a good man,” I said carefully. “I know he never wanted the life he’s been forced into. I know he’s sacrificing everything he is to protect the people he loves.”
“And you’re one of those people.”
“Yes.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No.”
O’Malley’s smile widened, and this time it did reach his eyes, but it wasn’t warmth I saw there. It was amusement, dark and knowing. “Of course he doesn’t. Because if he did, he’d have locked you in a room somewhere to keep you from doing exactly this.”
“Probably,” I admitted.
“So you came to Boston, to my home, to speak with me about a man who’s just taken over the IRA, a man who, by all accounts, is now my boss, and you did this without his knowledge orpermission.” He tilted his head. “Either you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, Dr. Jefferson. I haven’t decided which.”
“Can’t I be both?”
The laugh that escaped him was genuine, sharp, and surprised. “Christ, you’ve got balls. I’ll give you that.” He stood, moving to a sideboard where several decanters sat. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He poured himself another measure of whiskey—Irish, I assumed—and returned to his chair. “So. You’re here about Rowen Shay. What exactly do you want from me?”
This was it. The moment I’d been rehearsing in my head for the entire train ride from New York to Boston. The moment where I either convinced this man to help me or signed my own death warrant.
“I want to understand,” I said. “I want to know what he’s walked into. What he’s facing. What it means that he’s taken over the IRA.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t help him if I don’t understand.”
“Who says he needs your help?” O’Malley’s tone was mild, but there was steel underneath. “Who says he wants it?”
“He doesn’t want it,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “He wants me safe. He wants me far away from all of this. But I can’t do that. I can’t just walk away and pretend he doesn’t exist. I can’t live with the knowledge that he’s destroying himself to protect me.”
“So you’d rather destroy yourself trying to save him?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
O’Malley took a long drink, his eyes never leaving mine. When he set the glass down, his expression had shifted into something harder, more calculating.
