Chapter 10 #2
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to. For all I know, there could be dead people down there.
One by one, we all make our way down the steps and end up in a room made of stone. A passageway looms ahead.
“There’s no fucking way I’m taking another step with just my cellphone to light the way,” he says.
Everyone pulls out their cellphones, and we turn our flashlights on.
As the glow from our phones illuminates the stone passage, I can’t help but feel like we’re in some horror movie—the kind where the clueless outsider—that would be me—gets killed first.
“Are there always secret passages in Irish castles, or is this a special MacGallan feature?” I whisper, trying to mask my nervousness with sarcasm.
“Bit of both,” Kane answers, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow space. “Most old places have hidey-holes, but my family has a particular talent for secrets.”
I stick close to Kane as we move forward, our phone lights casting long shadows against the damp stone walls. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a steady plink-plink that makes my skin crawl.
“This is ridiculous,” Declan mutters ahead of us. “We need better light.”
As if answering his complaint, Rory pulls something from his pocket—a heavy-duty flashlight that cuts through the darkness like a spotlight.
“You couldn’t have mentioned that five minutes ago?” Kat asks, exasperated.
Wren produces another flashlight from her purse, and suddenly the passage is bathed in proper light. I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.
“Better?” Kane asks, noticing my relieved expression.
“Much,” I admit. “Though I’m still questioning my life choices right about now.”
He grins, that troublemaker smile that somehow puts me at ease despite our surroundings. “Join the club.”
With the improved lighting, we move more confidently through the passage. It’s wider than I initially thought, with a ceiling high enough that even Kane doesn’t have to duck. The stone walls glisten with moisture, and the air smells of earth and time.
“How old is this place?” I ask, running my fingers along the cool stone.
“The castle dates back to the 1500s,” Wren explains. “But some of these underground structures could be even older.”
“And your family owns it?” I’m trying to reconcile these people with the kind of wealth that casually possesses ancient castles.
“Technically, the clan does,” Kat says over her shoulder.
Before I can ask what exactly a “clan” entails in modern times, Declan stops abruptly at the front of our little procession.
“There’s something up ahead.”
We crowd forward, and I see what stopped him—a heavy iron gate blocks our path, rusted but still formidable. Beyond it lies what appears to be a larger chamber.
“Locked,” Declan confirms, rattling the ancient padlock that secures the gate.
Kane pushes his way forward, examining the lock with narrowed eyes. “This isn’t original to the castle. Someone added this recently.”
“Define ‘recently,’” Rory says, shining his light on the lock.
“Within the last decade,” Kane replies. “It’s a modern design, just made to look old.”
Declan and Kane exchange a look that seems loaded with meaning. Without a word, they both take a step back, then simultaneously throw their shoulders against the gate. The sound of metal scraping against stone echoes painfully in the enclosed space, but the gate doesn’t budge.
“Again,” Declan orders, and they ram the gate once more.
This time, I hear something give—a cracking sound followed by the groan of bending metal. One more powerful shove, and the lock tears away from its housing, sending the gate swinging inward with a screech that sets my teeth on edge.
“Show-offs,” Kat mutters, but she sounds impressed.
We step into a circular chamber that reminds me of something from a fantasy novel. The ceiling arches overhead, and another massive fireplace dominates the far wall. Unlike the one above, this hearth is pristine, as if it were built yesterday rather than centuries ago.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Wren says, voicing what I’m thinking. “This fireplace shouldn’t be here. The stonework doesn’t match the rest of the castle.”
“Because it isn’t part of the original structure,” Declan says, approaching the fireplace cautiously. “Someone built this recently.”
“Your dad,” Kane says, and the words hang in the air like smoke.
Declan runs his hands along the mantle, feeling for something. “There has to be a reason he sent us here. Something hidden...”
His fingers catch on something, and a section of the stone floor in front of the fireplace slides away, revealing a small compartment. Inside sits a metal box, about the size of a shoebox, secured with yet another padlock.
“Allow me,” Kane says, picking it up and examining it. Without hesitation, he smashes it against the edge of the fireplace—once, twice, three times—until the lock breaks.
Everyone leans forward as Kane lifts the lid. I crane my neck to see over Rory’s shoulder, half-expecting to find bundles of cash or passports or whatever mobsters typically hide in lockboxes.
Instead, there’s a single envelope and what appears to be an old photograph.
“That’s it?” Rory sounds disappointed.
Kane picks up the envelope first. It’s sealed, with “For Declan” written across the front in faded ink. He hands it to Declan, who takes it with visible reluctance.
“Open it,” Wren urges quietly.
Declan breaks the seal and unfolds a single sheet of paper. As he reads, his face drains of color.
“What does it say?” Kat asks, reaching for her brother’s arm.
Instead of answering, Declan passes the letter to her. She scans it, her expression shifting from concern to shock.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
Kane, apparently tired of waiting, grabs the photo from the box. It shows a younger version of Tomas standing beside a beautiful, dark-haired woman. They’re both smiling, his arm around her waist, the ocean behind them.
“Who’s the woman?” Wren asks, peering at the photo.
Declan looks up from the letter, his eyes finding Kane’s. “According to this, she’s Kane’s mother. That doesn’t look like the woman I remember.”
The castle suddenly feels very quiet. Even the wind seems to have stopped. I watch as Kane stares at the photo, his knuckles white around the edges.
“That’s not possible,” he finally says, his voice strangely flat. “My mother never knew Tomas.”
“The letter says differently,” Kat says gently. “It says... it says Tomas is your father, Kane.”
“How does that not fucking surprise me?” Declan comments dryly.
I should definitely leave. This is beyond family drama—this is life-altering revelation territory. But when I take a step back, Kane’s hand shoots out, grabbing mine without even looking at me. His grip is almost painful, his rings digging into my skin, but I don’t pull away.
“There has to be some mistake,” he insists, still staring at the photo. “My father was Patrick Murphy. He died when I was fifteen.”
“The man you knew as your father,” Declan corrects, his voice carefully neutral. “According to this, Tomas had an affair with your mother. When she got pregnant, he paid Patrick Murphy to shut up and claim you as his own.”
Kane’s laugh is harsh and brittle. “What the fuck for?”
Declan shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“So, what, I’m a MacGallan now? After all these years of being treated like the family fuck-up?”
“You’ve always been family,” Declan says softly.
“As a cousin,” Kane snaps. “Not as...” He trails off, unable to say the word.
I stand there awkwardly, still caught in Kane’s iron grip, witnessing what is clearly a monumental family revelation. Part of me wants to comfort him, but what do you say to someone who just discovered their entire identity is built on a lie?
“There’s more,” Declan says, his eyes still on the letter. “Dad says the Russians are after him because he stole something from them thirty-three years ago. Something they’ve been hunting him for ever since.”
“What did he steal?” Rory asks.
Declan looks directly at Kane.
“Your sister.”