Page 100 of Wicked Ruin

“Da,” Cavin says, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Seems he had a serious breathing issue. They had to call the medics. Bridget helped, though, Erin says. I'm not entirely sure what happened, except that he's on his way to the hospital now.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “I'm sorry, mate. I know you wanted to talk.”

“Go to the hospital. See your father. Come on, I'll call mine.”

Bridget would say there are no accidents, that the universe has my back, that the universe didn't want me to tell Cavin right now.

“Wait. You say Bridget helped?” I grab my things and follow him out to where we parked.

“Aye, but I’m not too clear how.”

I call Bridget, and she answers straight away. “Hey,” she says in a low voice, like she’s afraid someone might overhear.

“What happened?”

She tells me everything. “Bronwyn and I did some research, so I kind of knew what to do. It helps, you know, to help somebody else.” She says it quietly, and I know exactly what she means.

“Erin says you were brilliant. According to Cavin.”

“Maybe. Didn't take much. I just had to remind him to slow down his breathing. It was a dangerous situation.” Her voice is so sweet.

How the fuck am I going to tell Cavin?

“It definitely helped Caitlin's nerves,” Bridget says. “She was nervous as hell.”

“Of course she was. It's her husband.” I've watched my uncle and aunt over the years. Decades of love. Cavin unlocks his door. “I need to go.”

“Aye, I know,” she says softly. “I’ll… see you soon.”

I hang up the phone and slide into the passenger seat. One thing is crystal clear. Bridget belongs here. I just don't know how and don’t know when. But I have to find a way.

Cavin drives like a bat out of hell, and minutes later, we pull to a screeching halt outside the hospital.

“You coming in, brother?” he says. “I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to tell me what you needed to talk about.”

“I will,” I tell him. “I promise.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

BRIDGET

I've always loved Erin and Cavin's house, with its rustic charm and modern upgrades, but what I really love right now is that we have privacy, including from her overbearing husband.

Erin likes to feed me when I'm in the kitchen, and today I'm not complaining because I am ravenous. The nausea has abated a bit, so it only comes in spurts now, and it feels good to be able to eat again. Anyway, sometimes food is a love language and armor all wrapped in one, like therapy.

I'm sitting at Erin's kitchen island, both hands wrapped around a smooth ceramic mug, sipping my tea. Erin is moving around the kitchen as she always does until she finally turns around and faces me. Her eyes are misty, and she has that look that sometimes makes her look so much older than she is.

“How long have you been carrying this alone, Bridget?” she asks.

“Well,” I say, picking at a thumbnail. “Since I found out. I found out the night that Declan got shot.”

I brace myself for anger or some kind of lecture, Erin's voice going sharp because she's my older sister and protective. Or for the silence that means she is processing things in her own way. Or maybe a stern word about family and politics and the reasons why this is impossible.

I had braced myself for all of that, but this is my sister, and she loves me the way sisters do, in a way that’s sometimes oppressive and stifling, but exactly what I needed.

Erin crosses the kitchen in four steps and sits down right beside me so we’re touching, just like when we were little and I'd climb into her bed after a nightmare.

“I'm not angry,” she says. “I'm just trying to understand how you've been walking around with this, and you didn't tell me. Why didn't you tell me, Bridget? Don't you trust me?”