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I’ve decided to start over. Not back to my life pre-fake engagement, but long before that. I need to confront where my weakened heart began.

Movement from next door catches my eye, and I stiffen. It’s Liam, pulling on black leather gloves as he strides down his parents’ walkway, away from me. My chest squeezes at the sight of him. He’s the reason I’ve been sitting at this window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man I was supposed to marry, to devote my life to.

I lean closer to the cold glass, my breathing too shallow to fog more than a tiny patch. There’s a stoop to Liam’s shoulders these days, one that makes me ache with pity, with guilt. I should be helping him with his burdens.

But he has a new woman to help him now, a true mafia bride-to-be. Not the young Italian woman who made him so happy, but a Russian woman named Vasilisa instead. She must make him even happier. I tell myself that I take comfort in that fact.

At the end of the walkway, Liam pauses. He turns to look over his shoulder, toward me. I duck beneath the windowsill. It’s a coward’s reflex, and I chide myself for it. I’m stronger than this. Vomiting my guts out in public was the lowest point I’ll ever allow myself. No more sloppiness, and no more weakness.

Clenching my fists at my sides, I force myself to sit back up.

Liam’s walking away. His tall, imposing form shrinks farther from me, and I’m left staring at the empty walk. In the blanket of snow between our houses, there’s the slightest dip at the property line, the near-invisible marker separating our yards.

It’s where Liam stood all those years ago, the eight-year-old boy whose quiet danger intrigued me so much. Meanwhile, I hid in my house, in this very spot, with my nose pressed to the screen, wondering just how dangerous he was.

Too dangerous for me.

I know now that I can’t handle promises broken with violence. And yet, I’ve been feeling strong in other ways. Strong enough to go back to the beginning.

I tug on my coat and boots for the thirty-second walk. When Pete spots me from his conspicuous car out front, he starts to get out, but I motion for him to stay in the warmth, that I’m just going next door. We exchange a wave as I pass, which feels odd. Typically, it’s Gus on duty, and he only ever responds with a curt nod. Here in the center of O’Sullivan territory, my guard is a formality, but Gus has been as grumpy and grim-faced as ever.

Orla ushers me inside like she’s been expecting me. As she fixes us tea in the kitchen, it feels like countless other times we’ve chatted at this table: conversations that usually put me at ease. But today, I’m steeling myself for discomfort.

I am strong, I remind myself. Liam showed me that. And although we’re not together anymore, I still value the lessons he taught me.

I clear my throat, steadying my nerves for my announcement.

“I’d like to find my mam,” I tell Orla. With all of her connections to investigators, she’s the best place for me to start.

She exhales slowly as she evaluates me, then takes her time setting down her mug. With her intentional delay, I realize she knows where my mam is, and she’s been keeping that information from me. And by the grave expression on her face, Orla’s knowledge isn’t something I want to hear. My mouth falls open, suddenly dry. When she sees the shock on my face, she nods solemnly.

“Your mam passed away last spring. She got to enjoy the flowers outside her hospital window the morning she passed.”

My vision blurs, my mind swirling. I’ve been mentally preparing myself to meet with the woman who’d abandoned me, to speak with her about why she left. And now, I’ll never see her again. As my thoughts circle an empty blackness, I’m brought back to the present by a firm grip.

Orla’s squeezing my hand.

“You were with her,” I whisper. “At the end.”

“Yes.” She was there for my mam, the way she’s always been there for me.

“A hospital?” I ask, and she nods.

“I was with her for all her chemo appointments. Only two weeks, but we had plenty of time to talk.” Orla tightens her fingers around mine. “All she wanted to talk about was you, love.”

I want to sit back in my chair, or possibly slump to the floor, but Orla’s gripping my hands too tight. And she’s not about to let go.

“Your mam felt awful about leaving you. It was her life’s biggest regret. She couldn’t cope with your da’s passing, and that changed something in her. She felt she couldn’t be a proper mam to you anymore.”

My face feels numb as I remember my mam, an empty shell of herself after my da died, barely able to get out of bed. Maybe she wasn’t being a proper mam anymore, but she was still my mam.

“She felt that the best she could do for you was to let you live your life, without having her around as a burden. She held out until you were old enough to emancipate, and she made sure that we’d help you through the process.”

“She…” I struggle to form my thoughts into words. “She arranged it with you? Her leaving?”

“In her own way.” Orla gives my hands one final squeeze, then goes to her kitchen desk, where she opens a drawer full of papers. She finds what she’s looking for immediately, a torn half-page with a hastily scribbled note.

The old paper shakes in my hands as I read it.