Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Brendan
I drag my tired ass into the kitchen, Bryan right behind me. The smell of coffee hits me first, followed by bacon, and my stomach growls loud enough to make Cora look up from her crossword puzzle.
“Well, look who finally rolled out of bed.” She sets her pen down, her weathered face creasing with a knowing smile. “There’s still some breakfast keeping warm in the oven.”
“You’re a saint, Cora.” I head straight for the coffeepot while Bryan pulls out plates.
“Rough night?” She watches us move around her kitchen with the familiarity of men who grew up stealing cookies from her cooling racks.
“Long night.” Bryan pulls the warming tray from the oven. “Tag has us visiting every pub and club in our territory.”
I pour two mugs of coffee, doctoring Bryan’s with enough sugar to make my teeth hurt. “We’re making sure everyone knows about the McGuires’ latest bullshit.”
Cora’s expression softens as she looks at me. “And how are you holding up, love? Still thinking about your girl?”
My chest tightens at the mention of Nora. “I’m fine.”
“He’s not fine,” Bryan rats me out, sliding a loaded plate in front of me. “He checks his phone every five minutes.”
“Fuck off.” I shove him, but there’s no heat in it.
“Language,” Cora scolds, but she reaches over to pat my hand. “The right things have a way of working themselves out.”
The kitchen door swings open and Piper bounces in, already dressed in workout clothes. “There you are! You guys didn’t forget about the self-defense class this afternoon, right?”
Shit. I totally forgot. I paste a smile on my face. “Course not, P. We’ve been looking forward to it.”
Bryan snorts into his coffee, and I kick him under the table.
“Perfect!” Piper beams. “The girls are really excited. See you at two!”
She disappears as quickly as she arrived, leaving me to wonder how the hell I’m going to teach self-defense with three hours of sleep.
Nora
I check the time as I head downstairs, my anger at my father still simmering, but no longer at a full boil. I shouldn’t have said what I did about Mum. My father isn’t perfect—far from it—but he coped with being a single father the best he could. It was unkind to tear him down for that.
I’ve got just under an hour before I’m supposed to meet Kate and sign the lease for Mr. Pearsall’s flat. That’s plenty of time to calm the waters with my dad about the things I said and catch my bus.
“Listen, Da. I don’t want to fight—” I stop talking when I round the corner and realize the dining room is empty.
The muffled rumble of his voice drifts from his office, the tone clipped as he talks on the phone.
I’m turning to leave when a photo catches my eye from a stack of files spread out on the dining room table. Brendan’s stupidly handsome face stares up at me, his expression hard in the surveillance shot.
My feet carry me around the table before I can stop myself.
I glance toward the doorway, my father’s conversation still in progress down the hall.
My heart pounds as I flip the front cover of the top file open. There’s a notepad on top, filled with my father’s cramped handwriting, notes about Quinn family movements and suspected criminal activities.
Every observation drips with prejudice, painting them as violent thugs without a shred of humanity.
Brendan Quinn. The Dublin Brute. Known enforcer. Mindless thug / narcissistic vigilante?
Charity boxing event. Money laundering operation? Cross-reference attendees.
I bite back a snort. The event raised tens of thousands for the children’s hospital and after-school recreation programs.
Which one killed the father? Tag is the most likely.
Motive - Inheriting the business, power, money, control.
My blood runs cold. Wait. Brendan told me his father died of a heart attack. What makes him think Cormack Quinn was murdered? From what Brendan said, Tag was devastated and couldn’t even sit in his father’s seat for six months.
I don’t even know his brother, but I know Brendan and how he was raised. The odds of Tag being so fundamentally different that Brendan didn’t even realize he might’ve had something to do with their father’s death is crazy to me.
Brendan is a very observant and insightful man.
Another file catches my attention—this one with a woman’s photo clipped to the front. Striking red hair frames a bitter expression. I flip it open next, scanning the contents.
Oh no! This Siobhan Daley woman came to them for protection. She’s feeding them insider information about both families.
‘Full immunity and relocation arranged in exchange for testimony.’
Wow, the stuff she’s saying about the Quinns reads like a vengeful fantasy.
And she does not like Tag.
I pause my snooping, and listen. My father is still deep in his call.
My hands tremble as I pull out my phone and snap photos of the redhead’s statement and file. Turning the pages over, I quickly focus the lens on the next and then the next, until I have it all. Then I capture more of my father’s notes, several police reports, a medical report, and a bunch of other stuff I don’t even register. Each click of the camera seems deafening and I soon chicken out.
After closing everything and leaving it the way I found it, I get out of there before I get caught. Hurrying to the front room, I sit on the sofa and try to calm down.
Have I lost my mind? What am I doing? Why, after all these years of minding my own business, would I betray my father’s trust and photograph his private work?
The answer is horrifyingly obvious—I’ve been sucked into Brendan’s orbit.
Guilt and doubt war within me. Could I really betray my father further and tell Brendan what I found? Am I as na?ve as he always says? Have I fallen prey to a player?
Everything in my heart and soul says no, but what if I’m wrong?
I’m shaking as badly as I did the night of the shooting.
Closing my eyes, I wonder who’s telling the truth. My father or Brendan. Who should I trust? Who should I stick my neck out for?
I clutch my phone tight to my chest, the evidence of my father’s biased investigation making me ill. But what if it’s not biased? What if he’s right and I’m being played by a member of the Quinn family like Laura was by the McGuires?
The urge to run back upstairs and hide is incredible, but I’m not a shrinking violet anymore. If I want the truth, I have to find it for myself.
I take the stairs carefully, avoiding the steps that let off the loudest creaks of protest, and make it to the spare room without incident. After locking the door, I sink to the floor over the old, cast-iron vent. Da’s voice drifts up from his office below and my stomach turns to lead.
“I don’t care, Jameson. Girls are going missing in Quinn territory and we’re no closer to proving it’s them…Of course, it’s them. Occam’s Razor—the simplest answer is almost always the correct one…Christ, now you sound like my daughter.”
Oh, at least someone is voicing another opinion.
“Then find some. And if you can’t prove it, get creative. There’s enough fuel around them that once a fire starts, something will surface in the resulting explosions.”
What? No. The phone conversation continues, but I can barely hear it over the roaring in my ears. This isn’t my father—the man who taught me right from wrong, who drilled the importance of truth and justice into me since I could walk.
But it is . Jordan Kelly is willing to fabricate proof to take down the Quinns. He’s so determined they’re dangerous, he believes the end justifies the means. My mind races back to all those times he lectured me about black and white, and good and evil.
He always said there were no gray areas with criminals.
But how does him ‘getting creative’ and doing what he thinks is right make him any different from Brendan and his family? They break the rules to keep bad guys at bay, to secure the safety of their people. They use a code to guide them and believe in justice.
I don’t see the difference.
Has my father killed people? Yes.
Has he and his team beaten people for information? Yes.
If he’s willing to break the law to frame the Quinns, what else has he done? What else would he do? What else will he do? The weight of this revelation crushes my chest. I can’t leave—not now.
If I move out, I’ll lose access to his files, his phone calls, everything that could help protect Brendan and his family from false charges.
My mind is still whirling with that thought when I realize there is no more talking below. My father is finished his call. Will he come upstairs and find me in here listening at the vent?
I push up from the carpet and pad across the room, listening at the door before I release the lock. When I’m reasonably certain he’s not coming up the hallway, I zip out of the room—avoiding the area in the hall that lets off the loudest creaks of protest.
Please don’t be up here. Please, please, please.
Heart pounding, I make it back to my room.
I close myself in, lock my door, and sink to the floor with my heart pounding so hard my pulse is rushing in my ears.
I really would make a terrible spy.
Once I catch my breath and have thought about the situation every which way I can and still can’t think of another way, I pull out my phone and dial Kate’s number.
“Hey, roomy! I’m almost at the Pearsall’s place now. Are you on your way?”
“Kate…” My voice cracks, and I close my eyes against the sting of tears. “I’m so sorry. I can’t do it. I can’t sign the lease.”
“What?” The other end of the call goes dead silent and the break in my heart cracks open a little wider. “What do you mean you can’t sign? We’ve been planning this for months!”
“I know.” Tears burn behind my eyes. “I just…I can’t move out right now. In a month or two I might?—”
“Are you serious? We found the perfect flat! I told that nice old man we’d take it. What happened to freedom day? What happened to getting away from your controlling father?”
“Please understand?—”
“Wait. Is that what this is? Did your father find out? Is he threatening you?”
“No. It’s not that.”
“Then the only thing I understand is that you’re bailing on me at the last minute and without an explanation. That flat won’t wait for us, Nora. Someone else will snap it up.”
“I know, and I really am sorry.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I just can’t do it right now.”
The line goes silent for a long moment. When Kate speaks again, her voice is tight with hurt and anger. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll figure something else out. Something that doesn’t involve an unreliable, back-stabbing ex-friend.”
The call ends with a sharp click. I sink onto my bed, phone dropping from numb fingers as the tears finally spill over.