“Derek?”
“Sir.” I stare as Moran leaps out of his seat to address the older man. What the hell is going on?
Derek nods at Ruth and fixes his eyes on me, completely ignoring the detective, who sinks back down into his seat.
“You all right, Irish?” he says. I nod mutely. “Getting yourself in all sorts of trouble, I hear.” He stalks around to the other side of the desk and peers at the notebook over Moran’s shoulder. “Shame on you, Pete. She’s a young girl, you’re scaring the jeepers out of her.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, sir, I was just trying to. . .”
“Less of thesirnonsense, Pete. I’m retired and all the better off for it.”
“Yes, of course s . . . Derek.” He says it hesitantly, like a child calling a teacher by their first name.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask. The adults in the room all turn to look at me in surprise, as if they’ve forgotten I’m here.
“Told you before, Missy, didn’t I? I’m your legal guardian while you’re under the care of the college.”
I look at Ruth, bewildered, who nods in agreement. “He’s right, petal. Derek’s been looking after students here for the last two years. Part of the university’s safety scheme.”
“Trying to,” he mutters, glaring at Ruth. “How could you leave them in that library all alone?”
“They weren’t alone, they were in a building full of students and staff.” Her voice is calm, but there’s a wobble to it. “I would never, ever. . .”
“Stop.” I massage my tight forehead and the scratchy blanket slips from around my shoulders. “Am I done now? Please? I just want to sleep.”
Derek walks over and places both hands on the back of my chair, glaring at Detective Moran – Pete – over my head until he sighs. He flips his notebook closed and looks at me.
“Yes, fine. But if we need to speak to you again. . .”
“You come speak to me,” Derek says firmly, before gesturing for Pete to help me up from the chair. “C’mon, Irish, let’s get you home.”
“No way! So, the fella running your flats is an ex-Guard?”
“Yeah. It was brilliant, he put the detective right back in his box.” I grin into the little screen, happy just to see my sister’s face. She has her phone propped up on our shared dresser and is playing with her hair, tonging it into ringlets and admiring herself in the mirror. “Where are you off to?”
“Nowhere, just bored.” She wraps a long, dark lock around the metal barrel and fixes me with a look that I can feel all the way from Kilkenny. “So, when are you coming home?”
“Don’t start, Megs.”
“OK, OK, but let’s get serious for a minute. Let’s say this killer is after you. What if next time they succeed?”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” She lets the curler loosen its grip, a ringlet springing up around her face, and starts the process again on a fresh strand of hair. “I want you to come home in one piece, you know.”
“I know.” I watch as she curls two, three, four more sections of hair, an easy silence between us, even though I’ve barely spoken to her for a week. “Megs, I need you to do something for me.”
She puts the curler down and looks at me expectantly.
“Why do I feel like this won’t be a good idea?”
“Just listen.” I take a deep breath, knowing that if she agrees and something does happen to me, she’ll never forgive herself. “I need you to pretend to be Mammy.”
“What?” She picks up the phone now and for a second I see flashes of our familiar bedroom. My stomach clenches.
“If the Guards, or Derek, call home, I need you to pick up the phone first and pretend to be Mammy.”
“But why?”
