I hate that part of myself. The part that would rather believe Frank Murphy than face the truth. That I don't know what I'm doing. That I'm drowning. That maybe I'm not strong enough to save anyone, least of all myself.
I lean forward and cut another line. The room is spinning now, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. But the edges are soft. The thoughts are quiet.
I can pretend, for just a few more minutes, that I'm not drowning.
That I'm not failing.
That I'm strong enough to do this.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out with shaking hands. Unknown number. A text this time.
“Tomorrow. Noon. The old docks. Come alone, or don't come at all.” - F
Frank.
I stare at the message. Tomorrow. Less than twelve hours to decide if I'm walking into a trap.
The cocaine makes the decision easy. Of course I'm going. I'm invincible right now. Untouchable. I can handle Frank Murphy and whatever game he's playing.
I'll remember this confidence is chemical. That it's a lie. That I'm probably making the worst decision of my life.
But that's tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, I have another line to cut. Another few minutes of pretending I'm the man they need me to be.
Even if everyone knows it's not true.
CHAPTER NINE
Aoife
I WAKE TO unfamiliar darkness.
For a moment, a single, blessed moment, I don't remember where I am. Don't remember the blood. Don't remember my father's throat torn open by the bullet. Don't remember the way William Murphy looked at me in his kitchen before walking away.
Then it all comes back, and I'm drowning in it.
The room is too large. Too cold. The bed beneath me is unfamiliar.
I sit up, and my head swims. How long did I sleep? Minutes? Hours?
The dress I'm still wearing is stiff with dried blood. My father's blood, crusted on the navy fabric, dark and brown nowinstead of red. My hands are stained. My arms. The smell of iron clings to my skin.
William left me alone in that kitchen. Walked away when I needed...when I...
I don't know what I needed. But he wasn't there to give it.
The room is unfamiliar.
The image hits me before I can stop it. Father's face. The glass shattering. The way his body jerked when the bullet tore through his neck. The blood, so much blood, poured between his fingers as he tried to hold it in.
My stomach twists. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I've never seen violence like that. Not real violence. Not the kind that tears through flesh and bone and leaves people choking on their own blood. I've heard about it, of course. Grown up knowing it existed around the edges of our world. But hearing about it and witnessing it are entirely different things.
The way William moved. The way Aidan reacted. They knew. They'd seen it before. Multiple times, probably. It was in their bodies, the way they didn't freeze, didn't panic, just acted.
