Chapter 23
Kane
I feel like I should be saying something—asking about her husband’s threats or sharing my own worries about what we might find in Dublin.
But as we drive away from the little border town, following Declan’s car through the winding country roads, I find myself oddly content with the silence between us.
Kori gazes out the window, her profile illuminated by the morning sun.
There’s something different about her today—a quiet strength that wasn’t there yesterday.
The woman who fled Toronto in tears is, before my eyes, transforming into someone who faces skeletons and Russian conspiracies with remarkable composure.
Well, aside from that panic attack, which was completely understandable given the circumstances.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring at her during a straight stretch of road.
“Nothing,” I lie, quickly returning my attention to driving. “Just thinking.”
“About the safety deposit box?”
“Among other things.” I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break. “Are you worried? About your husband coming to Ireland?”
She sighs, turning to face me fully. “Not worried, exactly. More... resigned. Mark has always been good at tracking me down when I try to create space. It’s part of his control thing.”
“Sounds healthy,” I say dryly.
“Oh, incredibly,” she agrees with a small smile. “Nothing says ‘loving husband’ like refusing to respect boundaries.”
“What will you do if he finds you?”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering. “Tell him it’s over. That I’ve contacted a divorce lawyer. That there’s nothing to discuss.”
“And if he doesn’t accept that?”
Her expression hardens in a way that makes something in my chest tighten. “Then I’ll make him accept it. I’m done being the accommodating wife who shrinks herself to fit into the box he’s created.”
I can’t help but smile at the determination in her voice. “Good for you, Airplane Girl.”
“What about you?” she asks, turning the tables. “What are you hoping to find in this safety deposit box?”
It’s a fair question, and one I’ve been avoiding since we found Tomas’s letter. What am I hoping for? Answers, certainly. But beyond that?
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Part of me wants to find my sister, to know she’s okay.
Part of me wants to find Tomas, preferably alive, so I can punch him in the face for everything he’s put us through.
Although he’s in his eighties, so that would constitute elder abuse, I’m sure,” I pause, considering.
“And part of me wishes we’d never found that first letter, that I could go back to being just Kane Murphy, family disappointment, instead of Kane MacGallan, missing heir or whatever the hell I am now. ”
“Do you really mean that?” she asks softly. “You’d rather not know?”
I consider this as we pass through a small village, its stone houses huddled together against the morning chill. “No,” I finally admit. “I needed to know even if it hurts. Even if it changes everything.” I glance at her. “What about you? Do you regret finding out about your husband and sister?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No. It was devastating, but I needed to see it. I needed to know the truth about the man I married. About my sister.” She looks out the window again. “Sometimes the most painful truths are the ones we need most desperately.”
Her words settle over me, resonating with something I’ve been feeling but couldn’t articulate.
The pain of discovery—of finding out my father wasn’t my father, that my uncle was actually my biological dad, that I have a sister I never knew—it’s excruciating.
But necessary. Like lancing an infected wound.
“Do you think you will ever forgive your sister?”
She was quiet for so long that I thought she hadn’t heard me. Finally, she whispers, “I don’t know.”
We drive in comfortable silence for a while, the Irish countryside flowing past our windows in a blur of green.
I find myself thinking about last night—about kissing her in the rain, about the way she felt in my arms, about the unexpected rightness of it all.
It’s insane, of course. We’ve known each other for what, a week?
And we’re both in the middle of personal crises.
It’s hardly the foundation for...whatever this is.
And yet. There’s something between us that defies the rational timeline of our acquaintance. A connection that feels older, more profound than it should.
“You’re thinking very loudly over there,” Kori observes, breaking into my thoughts.
I laugh at being called out. “Just processing. It’s been a hell of a few days.”
“That’s one way to put it.” She shifts in her seat, turning toward me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“What Kat said last night—about you not speaking Gaelic. Is that true?”
I blink, surprised by the question. “Yeah, mostly. I know some basics from school, and my mother used certain phrases when I was growing up, but I’ve never been fluent.”
She nods, seeming to accept this explanation, though there’s still a curious light in her eyes. “It helped. Hearing it.”
“Good.” I clear my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy of the conversation. “So, Dublin. Have you been before?”
She allows the subject change with a small smile. “Once, years ago. College backpacking trip through Europe. I remember Temple Bar and the Book of Kells, not much else.”
“It’s a great city,” I tell her, grateful to be on safer conversational ground. “Busy, though. Different from the Ireland you’ve seen so far.”
“Have you spent much time there?”
I nod. “Some. The family has property there—well, the Murphys do. I guess the MacGallans probably do too.” I frown, the dual identity still jarring. “Anyway, I’ve visited a few times over the years. Usually, when I needed to escape Declan’s disapproving glares.”
“You two have a complicated relationship,” she observes.
“That’s putting it mildly.” I drum my fingers against the steering wheel again.
“It’s always been tense, but I thought it was just because he was this perfect heir apparent and I was the black sheep cousin who couldn’t get his shit together.
Now I find out he’s actually my brother, which somehow makes the whole dynamic even more fucked up. ”
“Have you talked to him about it? Since finding out?”
I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “Not really. We’ve been a bit preoccupied with Russian conspiracies and hidden sisters.”
“Fair enough,” she concedes. “But maybe you should, when this is all over. Clear the air.”
“Maybe,” I agree, though I have my doubts. Declan and I have never been good at honest conversations. I’m not sure finding out we share a father is going to change that fundamental incompatibility.
As we approach the outskirts of Dublin, the traffic thickens, and I focus on following their car through the increasingly congested streets. The Bank of Ireland on College Green is in the heart of the city, a grand building that speaks to old money and established power.
We find parking nearby and regroup on the steps of the bank, a collection of tired, rumpled travelers who probably look nothing like the institution’s usual clientele.
“Remember,” Declan says, his voice low as we prepare to enter, “we don’t know what’s in that box. Be prepared for anything.”
I nod, feeling the weight of the key in my pocket. Kori stands close beside me, her presence a steady comfort in the face of whatever revelation awaits us. On impulse, I reach for her hand, linking our fingers together.
“Ready?” I ask, searching her face.
She squeezes my hand in response. “Ready.”
As we push through the bank’s heavy doors, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever we find inside is going to change everything—again. But this time, at least, I’m not facing it alone.