My father looks past the screen for a moment. Somewhere I can't see.
"Keep him alive." His voice is rough. "Whatever the rest of it looks like. Keep him alive."
I nod.
He looks past the screen again. His fist still closed against the blanket. He opens his mouth and then closes it, like there's something he wants to say and can't find the shape of it yet.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says finally.
The call ends.
The screen goes dark, and I sit with the laptop on my knees in the quiet, and I let myself feel the full weight of the last four days. Frank Murphy across the dinner table. The crack of my hand against Reilan's jaw. My father's face going gray as I told him about his son.
I think about what my father's face looked like when he couldn't finish his sentence. He's absorbing it still—his son, the hospital bed, what comes next. There's nothing tidy about any of it.
And William, somewhere in this house, who has been giving me the three days I asked for, watching the clock the same as I am.
I close the laptop. I stand up.
The three days are nearly up, and there are decisions that need to be made, and I'm the only person who can make them. I've been moving toward this since the hallway outside Reilan's door, and I'm done moving slowly.
I go to find William.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
William
I HAVEN'T SLEPT. Haven't tried.
The ceiling above my bed is just a shadow. I've been staring at it for hours, watching nothing, thinking too much.
Frank's face keeps coming back. The way he looked at me right before I pulled the trigger. That split second of surprise, like even after everything, he didn't believe I'd actually do it. The sound of the shot. The way his body went sideways in the chair. The wall behind him.
The horror on everyone's faces.
Aidan's mouth opening and closing. Matty going completely still. Reilan's color draining. Aoife's hand flying to cover her mouth.
I killed my uncle in front of all of them. Put a bullet in his head across a dinner table and didn't feel anything except relief that it was done.
What does that make me?
The thought circles and won't let go. I push the sheets back and sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are shaking. Not the fine tremor from withdrawal. Something else. Something that feels like it's been building since I watched Frank hit the floor.
I need a drink.
The thought is so immediate, so absolute, that I'm on my feet before I've decided to move. My body knows where the whiskey is. Knows the weight of a glass in my hand, the burn going down, the way everything gets softer after the third one.
Just one. Just to take the edge off.
I'm in the corridor before I catch myself. The house is dark around me. Silent. Everyone is asleep except me and whatever's crawling around inside my skull.
Aidan's office is downstairs.
The thought lands and won't leave. Aidan keeps whiskey in his office. The good stuff, aged and smooth, the kind that goes down easy and makes everything softer.
One drink. That's all. Just to stop the shaking. Just to quiet the image of Frank's head snapping back.
I want it so badly my mouth waters.
