My father, Edward Murphy, the man who terrified half of Ireland, who built an empire through sheer force of will, who never once showed weakness in front of his sons, was hanging from the ceiling beam of his own office.
I press my hand against my mouth.
I don't know how long I stood there. Seconds. Minutes. Time stopped working. I remember my legs giving out. Remember hitting the floor. Remember the sound I made, this noise that came from somewhere so deep inside me that I didn't recognize it as my own voice.
Then I was on my feet again. Moving. Not thinking, just moving, because thinking would mean accepting what I was seeing, and I couldn't do that. Not yet. Not ever.
I tried to lift him. Grabbed his legs and tried to take the weight off the rope. His body was cold. Not recently dead cold, but cold cold. Hours cold. He'd been hanging there while I slept in my bed two floors above him. While I dreamed about nothing. While my father died alone in the dark.
I should have come sooner. Should have checked on him. Should have known something was wrong when the door was unlocked. Should have been a better son. Should have been enough to make him want to stay.
But I wasn't. And he didn't.
I called for help. Someone came. Security, I think. Then Aidan. Then more people. The Gardaí. The ambulance that came too late. Men in uniforms asking questions I couldn'tanswer because the only words in my head were: I should have come sooner.
They had to pry my hands off him. I wouldn't let go. Wouldn't stop holding his weight even though it didn't matter anymore, even though he was gone and nothing I did could change that. I held on because letting go meant it was real.
They cut the rope. I held him as they lowered him down. Felt the full weight of my father settle against me. The last time I'd touched him, he'd gripped my shoulder outside his office and told me I was a disappointment. That I'd never amount to anything. That he wished I'd been born different.
That was three days before he died.
And I've carried those words and his body weight and the smell of that room every single day since.
The tears are falling before I realize I'm crying. Not the violent, wrenching sobs from earlier. These are quiet. Steady. Grief that isn't new but is still sharp enough to cut.
I close the journal. Hold it against my chest.
William Murphy found his father hanging in a dark office. Held the body. Blamed himself for not coming sooner. Believed his father chose to leave them. Carried that guilt like a stone in his chest.
And the whole time, it wasn't suicide at all. Alex killed their father and staged it. That much I know. Everyone knows. It's the reason Alex left. The reason William is sitting in a chair he never wanted.
But this journal was written before any of that came to light. These words belong to a man who believed his father chose to die. Who blamed himself for not being enough to make him stay.
I can't imagine what it did to him when the truth finally came out.
I open the brown journal. Flip through pages. This one is different. Less personal. Numbers. Diagrams. Notes aboutoperations and rivals were scrawled in the margins. I don't understand half of it, but I understand enough to know this isn't the work of a man who's falling apart.
This is someone thinking. Planning. Paying attention.
I close it. I'm not ready to sit here all night decoding his business strategy. But the image I had of him, the reckless addict who can barely function, doesn't survive what I've just seen.
I know this because I do the same thing. Not with drugs. With control. With cataloging details and analyzing information, and turning every moment into data, I can manage. My coping mechanism is tidier than his, more socially acceptable, but it serves the same purpose.
We're both trying to survive minds that won't let us rest.
I reach for the navy one. The smallest. The most worn.
This one is older. The entries go back years. The handwriting is younger, less controlled. I flip to a random page.
Aidan told me I need to get my shit together. He's right. He's always right. That's the worst part about Aidan. He's so fucking reasonable that arguing with him feels like arguing with a wall that also has a degree in psychology.
A laugh escapes me. Small and surprised. Even here, even in his darkest moments, that dry humor surfaces.
I flip further back.
I wonder sometimes what Father actually thinks of me. Probably the same thing he's always thought. That I'm not Alex. Not Jason. Not even Aidan. Just William. The spare. The afterthought. The one who was born last and mattered least.
The thing is, I think he's right. Not about mattering least. About being different. I'm not Alex, who can look Father in the eye and match his coldness. I'm not Jason, who can absorb Father's cruelty and still love him. I'm not Aidan, who can reason his way around Father's rage.
