Chapter 13
Kane
I step into the house, scanning the cozy space with its stone fireplace and overstuffed furniture.
It’s the kind of place that belongs in a rom-com about finding yourself in the Irish countryside—exactly what Airplane Girl needs after her husband’s betrayal.
Not whatever chaos I’m about to bring into her life.
“Nice place,” I say, running my hand along the back of an armchair. “Very... quaint.”
“It belongs to my friend’s family,” she explains, tucking a strand of that choppy hair behind her ear. “So, what brings you to my doorstep at this hour? Besides my extremely compelling text message.”
I drop into the armchair, suddenly exhausted. “Would you believe I’m in hiding?”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“From whom? The police?”
“My family,” I say with a humorless laugh. “Or whatever the hell I’m supposed to call them now. They’re all fired up about solving that riddle, tracking down Tomas, and my long-lost sister.”
“And you’re not?”
“I just found out my entire identity is a lie, Kori. I want a fucking minute to process that before running off on some scavenger hunt across Ireland.” I rub my hands over my face, feeling the stubble that’s grown since this morning.
“Declan wants to head to the Hill of Tara tomorrow—that’s the ‘ancient throne’ in the riddle.
I told him I needed some air and bolted. ”
“So you came here? How did you even know where to find me?”
“Wren told me. She’s terrifying but surprisingly helpful when she wants to be.” I glance around the room again. “Plus, you’re literally the only person in Ireland I know who isn’t related to me. Well, supposedly related. Christ, I don’t even know what to call them anymore.”
She settles onto the sofa across from me, gracefully tucking her legs beneath her. “That’s... a lot to process.”
“Tell me about it. One minute I’m the family fuck-up, the next I’m Tomas MacGallan’s secret son with a mysterious Russian half sister. It’s like I walked into a bad spy novel.”
“At least your life isn’t boring,” she offers with a small smile.
“Says the woman who fled across an ocean after finding her husband in bed with her sister.”
“It wasn’t in bed,” she corrects. “It was photos. On my phone. In my kitchen.”
“Sorry,” I wince. “That was a dick move.”
“It’s fine,” she sighs. “We’re both having spectacularly shitty weeks.”
I study her for a moment—wet hair curling around her face, no makeup, dark shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep.
She looks real in a way women rarely do around me.
Usually, they’re all polished surfaces and calculated gestures, wanting something from the Murphy name or my supposed connection to the MacGallans.
But Kori’s just... here. Raw and unfiltered.
“Can I ask you something weird?” I say suddenly.
She gives me a wary look. “Depends on how weird.”
“Does this feel strange to you? Us sitting here talking like we’ve known each other forever when we literally just met a few days ago?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “I was just thinking the same thing. It’s like... I don’t know, like we’ve met before.”
“In another life, maybe,” I suggest, only half-joking. “Perhaps I was a pirate, and you were the governor’s daughter who nursed me back to health after a shipwreck.”
She laughs, a real one this time. “More likely you were the village drunk and I was the disapproving barmaid.”
“Ahh, you got me there,” I admit with a grin. “Though I prefer to think of myself as a charming rogue with a drinking problem rather than a straight-up alcoholic.”
“Is there a difference?”
“About six generations of family money,” I quip. Immediately regret it as I remember that family money comes with the MacGallan name—a name I apparently have more claim to than I realized.
Kori seems to sense my shift in mood. “Want some tea? I was just having some.”
“Got anything stronger?”
“The bottle you left on the porch?”
I shake my head. “I promised that it would stay outside. Bad form to break a promise five minutes after making it.”
“Even for a charming rogue?”
“Especially for a charming rogue. We have a code.”
She gets up and disappears into the kitchen, returning with two mugs of tea. As she hands me one, our fingers brush, and that same weird familiarity washes over me again.
“So, what’s your plan?” she asks, settling back on the sofa. “You can’t hide from your family forever.”
“Watch me,” I challenge, but there’s no real conviction behind it. “I just need some time. Declan and the others are so focused on finding Tomas and this sister that they’re not stopping to think about what this all means.”
“And what does it mean?”
I stare into my tea, watching the steam curl upward. “It means everything I thought I knew about myself is wrong. My dad—Patrick Murphy—was a mean, bitter drunk who died when I was fifteen. I spent my whole life trying not to become him, and now I find out he wasn’t even my father.”
“Does that change who you are, though?” Kori asks quietly. “You’re still you, regardless of whose DNA you carry.”
“Easy for you to say. Your identity hasn’t been completely rewritten.”
“Hasn’t it?” She sets her mug down with more force than necessary.
“Five days ago, I was Kori Blake, wife of the president of the largest financial firm in Toronto, Mark Blake. Now I’m.
.. what? The woman whose husband preferred her sister.
The idiot who gave up her career to be the perfect wife.
I’m having my own identity crisis over here. ”
I look at her—really look at her—and see the same raw pain I’ve been feeling all day. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we? Both running from who we thought we were.”
“At least we’ve got good scenery for our breakdowns,” she says, gesturing toward the window where moonlight glints off the distant sea.
“And questionable haircuts,” I add, nodding toward her choppy locks.
She touches her hair self-consciously. “I cut it myself. After I found out about Mark and Lana.”
“Lana? Your sister’s name is Lana?” When she nods, I can’t help but laugh. “Kori and Lana. Your parents have a thing for unusual names?”
“Says the man named after a Biblical murderer.”
“Touché.” I grin, lifting my mug in a mock toast. “To new identities and terrible haircuts.”
She clinks her mug against mine. “And to finding random men buried on beaches.”
“Just the one, I hope. Otherwise, you might have a concerning hobby.”
Her laugh is warm and genuine, and something in my chest loosens at the sound. For the first time since reading that letter, I feel like I can breathe properly.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “my friend’s family has this tradition. Whenever something terrible happens, they take a midnight swim in the ocean. They say the cold water washes away the bad luck.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we go skinny dipping, Airplane Girl? Because I gotta say, that’s moving a bit fast even for me.”
“Not skinny dipping, you ass,” she laughs, throwing a pillow at me. “Just a quick dip. Fully clothed. To wash away our old selves.”
“It’s freezing outside,” I point out. “And probably even colder in the water.”
“Exactly,” she says, her eyes bright with something that looks dangerously like hope. “That’s the point. To shock your system into remembering you’re alive.”
I should say no. It’s insane to go swimming in the Irish Sea in the middle of the night. But then again, my entire life has just been revealed as a lie, so what’s a little hypothermia in comparison?
“You know what? Fuck it,” I say, standing up. “Let’s go wash away some bad luck.”