CHAPTER NINE
THE SEA IS calm today. Waves crash along the shoreline, some race across the heavy man-laid rocks and splash onto the concrete slab that warns people not to get any closer. Over the years, people have been dragged into the violent sea when storms erupt. They once were rare, but the weather here is growing more violent as the years pass. Global warming is what people blame.
To me, the sea is freedom; it’s a mass of the unknown, so much not discovered. I fill my glass at the sink and continue to watch the relay teams that have crossed the stretch of sea between Ireland and Wales. The groups are large, as no one has ever done it alone. It’s dangerous as the rough currents and low temperatures scare away anyone who thinks they are brave enough to try it. Also, the idea that the Irish Sea is home to thirty-five species of sharks makes groups feel far more secure swimming in teams than going it alone.
Today, I’m going to jog along the sea. I’m dressed in a light zip-up sweater, yoga pants, and running shoes. I don’t bring music, as I love the sound the sea makes. I always wanted to be the first to row it by myself. Maybe one day.
My father’s voice jolts me out of my musing. I empty the remaining water out of my glass into the sink. A kiss is pressed against my cheek before my father speaks cheerfully. “There is my breadwinner; I hope your night went well?”
I cringe internally. What an awkward way to ask me if I got intimate with someone so I could secure my father’s business interests. I turn to my father. He’s wearing a business suit that fits him perfectly. He’s lean for his years and works out most days. “It was interesting,” I say before zipping up my sweater fully to give myself something to do other than think about how I was chained or how Diarmuid made me climax.
My God, I didn’t want to enjoy it, but it was pure ecstasy. I had tried to fight all the feelings and focus on how he had made me an accessory to murder. Was he serious when he told me that? Did Victor—a priest—give him a command to kill someone? I had so many questions.
“For my sake, spare me the rest of the details. I just hope you do well. We are counting on you.” My father pours himself a coffee, and I look at his wide back. No, Ella is counting on me.
My mother wants me to be a ballerina, and my father wants a daughter to give to some sort of cult that promises favors if I’m chosen as a consort. If I fail, I bet that my father’s desire for success will weigh more heavily than my mother’s dream of a prima donna. A part of me wants to ask my father more about the O”Sullivans, but I know that will raise too many questions, so I keep my mouth shut on the topic.
“I’m going for a run,” I say. My father takes a sip of his coffee before assessing what I am wearing.
“You should wear something for the rain; it is expected in an hour or so.”
Rain sounds refreshing to me. “I won’t be long,” I say.
I leave the kitchen and exit the house through the front door that faces away from the sea. The yard has high concrete walls, making our residence private. The yard is small and kept free of plants or anything that would give it color. It’s just for cars. A small door to my left brings me out onto the street. To the left will bring me to the sea, and to the right will take me into the small village that has a bus stop. I know what makes me jog right: curiosity and the fact that I might get some answers about the O’Sullivans my own way.
I jog to the small, sheltered bus stop. The local news has been covering the story of a body identified on the outskirts of Rathcoole, a suburb of Dublin. It’s the body of Andrew O’Sullivan, uncle of Diarmuid. The obituary states that his funeral is today. So today would be a perfect opportunity to snoop around without fear of running into any of them. I”ve been curious about where the body of such a high-ranking member of the O’Sullivan family was found. I want to know more about Diarmuid, and this is the only lead I have. I don’t want this life, but for my sister’s sake, I need to satisfy my parents” hunger so they won’t turn to Ella.
No one else is waiting for the bus, and it approaches in the distance. I walk to the edge of the sidewalk as the bus slows down. Using my card tucked in the pocket of my phone case, I purchase a return ticket to Rathcoole. A few people are on the bus, all consumed with their phones. I take a window seat as the bus pulls away, and I have a moment of excitement at going on an adventure. I’d never been brave enough to do this before, but since I was selected as a bride for Diarmuid O’Sullivan, my parents have loosened the leash they normally keep as a chokehold around my neck.
I watch out the window as we pass fields, and before long, the sea opens up and disappears as we enter a more built-up area. I have to switch buses here, and soon, we stop at the small area named Rathcoole. I’ve never been here before; it’s a small village, even enchanting in a way. The buildings are old, and nothing has been updated, but whoever lives here takes great pride in its appearance. All the buildings appear to have a fresh coat of paint on them, each one a different vibrant color, from blues to greens, and I even spot a small pink shop.
The area where I live is suburban; my parents wanted us away from the noise of the city, but the quiet here is almost unsettling. Two people stand at the door of the only supermarket, chatting, and when I jog past, they wave with friendly smiles. It doesn’t seem like a place where someone was recently murdered.
I jog to the outskirts of the village. I have no idea of the exact location where the body was found, just that it was here in this sleepy village. I pass a few lone houses, mostly cottages, and I try to see if I can spot garda tape through the sparse undergrowth that grows behind the houses. It grows thicker, and I leave the main road and start my way through the trees and underbrush. A light rain starts to trickle down, and I pause, looking up at the angry sky. The trees rustle around me, birds chirping a song that has me inhaling a lungful of fresh air.
I continue making my way through the tree line. I don’t see any tape, and the longer I walk, the heavier the rain becomes. Before long, I’m soaked and thinking of how my father warned me about the change in weather. I should have brought my raincoat. I consider turning back, thinking how foolish this was. What would I find out anyway? Even if I came across the burial site, it wouldn’t give me any information. The ground beneath my feet is laced with fallen leaves, and with the recent downpour, it grows slippery. I spin at the sound of a male voice and nearly lose my footing. A hand reaches out and grabs my waist, stopping me from face-planting into the ground.
“Let me go,” I say through sheets of rain. The man steps back and raises his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He smiles and removes his glasses from his face. Pulling the hem of his sweater, he cleans his glasses before putting them back on. “I’m Rian Morrissey.”
His voice is light and happy. Maybe he”s a local.
Niamh,” I offer up.
“What are you doing out here, Niamh?” he asks, looking around at the trees that surround us. The rain ceases its onslaught, stopping as quickly as it began.
“Looking for something,” I say.
His smile widens. “Me, too.”
His joyful voice and relaxed stature eased me a bit. He rummages in his pocket and extracts two frube yogurt tubes. He offers me one, but I decline with a shake of my head. I remember having them as a kid, but I haven’t in years.
He shrugs and places one back in his pocket before he flips the other around. “Why did the yogurt go to therapy?” he asks, reading the joke off the back.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“It had too many cultural issues.” He grins and rips the top off before sucking the yogurt from the tube.
“Funny. So, what are you looking for?” I inquire.
He grins. “I could ask you the same thing. But I”m not one for secrets.” He glances around us, his brows drawing together. “I”m here to see the burial site of Andrew O’Sullivan.” He pushes the empty wrapper into his pocket.
That snippet of information surprises me. “Are you a detective?” I ask. He looks too young to be one.
He continues to smile, but once again, I get a sense that he isn’t forcing it; he’s just a naturally happy person.
“Kind of. I run a podcast on unsolved crimes.”
“How interesting,” I say.
He starts to walk, and I fall into step beside him. What kind of luck would it be if he knew something?
“It really is fascinating,” he fixes his glasses. “I”ve loved unsolved crimes ever since James Reyos was proven innocent after spending forty years in prison for a murder he did not commit, thanks to a podcast. I’ve been trying to achieve the same kind of feat.”
“Forty years, really?” I shiver at the thought. Imagine being wrongfully accused and suffering for that long.
Rian nods and smiles. “Yes, forty years of the man’s life gone. Poof.” He raises both of his hands up, presses his fingers together, then opens them wide. “Just like that. So, I like to keep an eye on unsolved murders. I have a police scanner and fire scanner in my home. It helps me keep up with the emergency calls in the area.”
“That’s neat,” I say, not sure what else to add.
“I arrived at the scene of Andrew’s body before the investigators got here. So yeah, it’s really neat,” he grins again.
“What do you know about Andrew’s death?” I probe.
His grin widens. “So, you have an interest in unsolved crimes.”
I nod. “Yes,” I lie. My interest is only in this crime, in finding out more about Diarmuid, and now Victor is of interest to me.
“You didn’t say where you were from.” He”s suspicious of me now.
“Neither did you,” I fire back.
“Touche. Okay, so the scene was discovered by a pair of mushroom pickers. This case is high profile, as the family that Andrew O’Sullivan belongs to has a long-running history of being involved in organized crime.”
He glances at me, and I raise my brows as if surprised.
“They say they have left that life, but they all say that. Whatever the O’Sullivans are into now is even bigger and more secretive.”
“So, are you a conspiracy theorist also?”
“I don’t close off any avenue of investigation. That’s what makes me so good.”
I want to ask him how many crimes he”s solved but resist, as that doesn’t really matter here. All I need is information. I don’t even have to ask any questions, as he seems happy to offer up all he knows.
“On the day that Andrew was found, he was not the subject of the emergency call. A woman’s body was found lying on Andrew’s.” Rian stops walking, and so do I. “I saw two bodies come out of these woods. I have been trying to see if there are any clues here that the investigators missed. Might have missed on purpose, if my theories are right.”
“A woman’s body? I never heard about that.” Which I hadn’t. I want to ask him if he”s sure, but he”s claiming to have seen it with his own eyes, and if he has a Gardaí scanner that he listened to when the call was made, there is no reason for him to lie to me. But I wonder why no one else knows about the woman’s body. Maybe we shouldn’t be here; this seems far more dangerous than I thought. Not just one body but two.
“You need to be careful,” I say to Rian. He seems nice, and eager to solve this crime, but people like him might get hurt. If someone like Victor knew he was snooping around, would his name end up on some piece of paper in an abandoned post box? Would mine?
“Maybe stick to Gardaí scanners and the internet to do your research.”
“What would be the fun in that? Besides, I’ve already been arrested twice, but I’m determined to find the truth.”
The truth. Is it worth the price of someone finding out he has been poking his nose into the burial site? I’m questioning myself for even being here.
I shiver as my damp clothes and hair soaks into my bones. I had forgotten about the rain, too enthralled in what Rian had to say.
“I better go,” I say, giving a little wave before turning away.
“You came here for the same reason as I did. You want to know what happened.”
The truth is, I don’t care what happened; I was seeking some kind of information on Diarmuid and his family, not to find out who murdered a woman.
I don’t say anything, and Rian takes a step closer to me. He presses a business card into my hand. “You can call me if you ever want to find out the truth.”
I want to hand the card back, but it’s Rian who jogs off before I can do so. I glance down at the heavy paper.
When I glance back up, Rian is out of sight, swallowed up by all the trees and underbrush. I pray his curiosity doesn’t lead to his ruin.
I stuff the card into my pocket and start back toward the village. I’ll dump the card, as I don’t want Diarmuid to find out that a man gave me his phone number, not after what happened with the maid. He’s far more dangerous than anyone truly knows.