CHAPTER SIX
KIERAN
“COME ON, CHARLIE.” I tap the side of my leg, and the dog trots after me into the kitchen, his tail wagging with every step. His paws click against the dark tiles, a rhythm that echoes faintly under the low hum of the refrigerator. The air carries the faint tang of bleach, a sterile reminder of the routine cleanliness that keeps this safe house feeling less like a refuge and more like a holding cell. The scent clashes with the faint aroma of fresh fruit from the bowl on the counter, another sign of the carefully managed facade. This isn’t a home—it’s a pit stop, a place wiped clean of every trace of humanity the moment someone steps out the door.
I know the drill too well. Weekly cleaners show up, restock the fridge and pantry, scrub every surface, and cart away the trash like clockwork. It’s like watching a machine at work, efficient and unfeeling. When it’s time to leave, I’ll do the same—reset everything, wipe every fingerprint, make it look like no one ever breathed here.
The cabinets are lined up neatly along the walls, their surfaces a pristine, glossy white that reflects the faint overhead light. The counters are empty, save for a perfectly arranged fruit bowl—bananas, apples, and oranges stacked high—and Hazel’s phone resting near the edge.
Charlie paces in a restless loop, his nails scratching faintly against the polished floor as his nose twitches at every lingering scent. His eyes flick to me, hopeful, as I rummage through the pantry and pull out a loaf of bread. The plastic crinkles loudly in the quiet room as I tear the plastic bread clip off. I move to the stove and pour milk into a saucepan, watching as it heats slowly.
It’s not a gourmet meal—barely food, really—but it’ll have to do. I don’t have the luxury to care about the quality of dog food right now, and judging by Charlie’s eager pacing, he won’t complain. His tail wags faster as the milk begins to steam.
Leaning against the counter, I fold my arms and watch him. His nose lifts, sniffing the air, and his movements grow more impatient with every passing second. “Impatient,” I mutter, shaking my head. My fingers tighten on the edge of the counter, the smooth surface cool under my grip. For a moment, my mind drifts back—uninvited—to a different kitchen, in a different time. The same simple meal, but with far more desperation. My sister and I, huddled over bowls of soggy bread soaked in milk, hands trembling from the cold seeping through the cracks of a dilapidated apartment. Survival had been the only goal back then, a bare, gnawing instinct. No strategy, no power plays—just staying alive until the next miserable day.
I shake off the memory. Useless. It belongs to a different life, one I don’t have the time or energy to dwell on. The milk is ready, steaming gently as I pour it over the bread in a bowl. Charlie is practically vibrating with excitement as I place it on the floor. He dives in, devouring the meal with a gusto that makes his tail wag harder. For a moment, his enthusiasm almost makes me smile. He doesn’t have a clue how deep he and his owner are in it. His world is simple—food, shelter, the sound of my voice. He’s oblivious, happily licking the bowl clean like the sky isn’t falling.
“Nice?” I ask him. He doesn’t look up, too focused on scraping every last drop from the bowl. My gaze shifts to Hazel’s phone, still sitting on the edge of the counter. I grab it and swipe the screen open. Her passcode was pathetically easy—something anyone could guess with half a brain. I scroll through her contacts, finding Mary’s number in seconds.
I enter it into my own phone, my fingers moving quickly, efficiently. No hesitation, no missteps. Simple. Clean. No loose ends.
I’m ready to power it off, but my thumb hesitates over the screen. Instead of shutting it down, I let my curiosity get the better of me and start scrolling through her messages. Appointment reminders flood the list—dentist visits, haircuts, mundane errands that give her life a normality I can’t comprehend. Mixed in are random verification codes for her social media accounts, scattered like breadcrumbs leading to nowhere interesting. Nothing that justifies my time or attention.
Then, there’s John.
His name is frequent. Countless messages from him fill the screen—reels she probably laughed at, memes she likely never replied to, and a string of “How are you?” texts that reek of desperation. Pathetic. Boring.
I swipe it aside and switch to her gallery. The tone shifts instantly. It’s not John here—it’s Charlie. He dominates her photos like some beloved prince, his scruffy dog face taking up every other square. Shots of him lying in the sun, running through fields of grass, and his nose smudging the camera lens. She probably thought they were adorable. I don’t. The sheer number of photos is overkill.
But then something else catches my eye—a video pinned right at the top of the gallery. Different. Not the dog. My finger hovers over it, after a moment’s hesitation, I tap play.
The video starts, and my chest tightens the second I see it. Damn it. I don’t need to watch the whole thing to know exactly what it is. The McGrath kill. She filmed it. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to bury her if the wrong people see it. Brave or stupid? It doesn’t matter—the Walshes won’t care about bravery or stupidity. To them, it’s an act of defiance, a loose end that needs cutting. And they’d make her pay for it by ordering me to make her death slow, an example to anyone else who dared cross them.
For a moment, I stand there, the phone suddenly feeling heavier in my hand. The decision isn’t hard, though. I know what has to be done. I hit delete without hesitation, the video vanishing into digital nothingness. Gone. No evidence, no risk. It’s the only way to keep her alive and, more importantly, the only way to keep me in control.
I power off the phone this time and toss it into a drawer, which is mostly empty except for a can opener and some random kitchen utensils, most of them plastic.
When I glance toward the living room, I see her moving with quiet precision, her steps careful, deliberate. She’s searching. Her eyes betray her urgency, darting from the cushions to the shelves, then to the corners of the room like she’s on the edge of panic. Desperation clings to her every move, but she won’t find what she’s looking for. She doesn’t know I’m three steps ahead, that this place isn’t just my turf—it’s designed to hold captives. There’s no chance of her finding anything that could be used as a weapon or a means to escape.
As she’s consumed with her fruitless search, I slip out the back door. The faint creak of the hinges is drowned out by the whisper of the wind. Outside, I pull my phone from my pocket and hit dial. Patrick picks up almost immediately, his tone sharp, clipped, brimming with impatience.
“Is it done?” he demands.
“I went to the girl’s place,” I say, forcing my tone into something calm, something detached; he can detect a lie as well as I can. “She wasn’t there. Some of her clothes and the dog are gone. Looks like she ran.”
The silence on his end is heavy, and I let the lie simmer, giving it time to root itself in his mind. Patrick’s too proud to doubt me—he’ll take my word as gospel, just like always. These are the words I tell myself.
“We can’t have her running around blabbing off,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” I add, a steel edge creeping into my voice. “I’ll find her.”
“Just make it quick,” he says before hanging up.
I take a deep breath, letting the cold air bite into my lungs before shoving the phone back into my pocket. It’s better this way. Cleaner.
When I step into the kitchen, Charlie tilts his head and glances at me. I ignore the dog and enter the living room. Hazel’s eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal. Desperation flickers in her gaze, scanning for something—anything—she can use to defend herself. A lamp, maybe. A vase. Even the edge of a picture frame looks tempting in her hands. The faint tremor in her stance betrays her fear, but she keeps her chin high—brave little thing. I smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe, folding my arms across my chest.
“When you’re done looking for a weapon, I’ll show you to your room,” I say, my voice smooth but laced with challenge. Let her try. She won’t get far. The corner of my mouth twitches, but I rein it in, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing me amused.
“I wasn’t,” she replies, folding her arms defensively across her chest. Her posture screams defiance, but the small, nervous gesture of pushing her oversized glasses up her nose betrays her. It’s almost cute—if not for the situation.
“You are a very bad liar, Hazel.” I push off the doorframe, letting my movement subtly emphasize the difference in size and control between us. She doesn’t back away, but I notice her grip on her own arms tightening, knuckles whitening—a small victory.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she says, her tone teetering between exasperation and defeat. It’s more a statement than a question, like it might explain why she’s rifling through the cabinets and drawers for something sharp or heavy. Her hands have already betrayed her purpose.
I nod slowly, as if considering her words. “I’d be looking for a weapon, too,” I admit with a shrug, throwing her honesty back at her. My candor doesn’t soothe her—if anything, it unnerves her more. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for an exit, a reprieve, anything to counterbalance the panic tightening in her throat.
“I didn’t even see anything. The Gardaí I reported it to didn’t even take me seriously. Michael…” Her voice falters as she speaks his name. The fear she’s so desperately trying to suppress is gaining ground, her breathing quickening as panic starts to seep through the cracks in her facade.
“Michael is a half-wit,” I finish for her.
Her head jerks up at my words, her brows knitting in a mix of confusion and fear.
“Please,” she starts, her voice soft but pleading. It grates on me.
I raise a hand to silence her, my tone sharp as I cut her off. “Don’t beg, Hazel. Not to me. It doesn’t suit you.”
The tension in the room thickens as she stares at me, her gaze darting to the hand I’d raised, then back to my face. Before she can respond, the sound of Charlie approaching breaks the silence.
Hazel’s attention immediately shifts to the dog.
Charlie doesn’t go to her but looks up at me. I’m sure he wants more food. That isn’t going to happen. The betrayal in Hazel’s expression is almost enough to make me laugh, but I keep my face blank, giving nothing away. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Her disappointment and frustration radiate off her like heat waves, and I savor it. She’s already beginning to understand her position here.
“Come on,” I say, nodding for her to follow. My tone leaves no room for argument.
I lead her down the dimly lit hallway, my footsteps echoing against the hardwood floors. She stays a few paces behind, her movements stiff with tension. I can feel her eyes on me, burning holes into the back of my skull. She’s calculating, no doubt, trying to decide if she can outwit me. She can’t. Not here.
When we reach the guest room, I push the door open with a flick of my wrist. Her bag is already sitting on the neatly made bed, a solitary, unassuming presence in the otherwise barren space. The walls are plain, painted a soft gray, but there’s nothing comforting about it. No pictures, no distractions. Just a bed, a nightstand, and a single lamp. A box to contain her, and she knows it.
I nod toward the bed. “Get some sleep,” I say flatly, already turning to leave. I don’t bother locking the door. There’s no need. The safe house is a fortress, and she knows it as well as I do. There’s nowhere for her to run, no escape.
Out in the hallway, I pull out my phone, swiping to bring up the live camera feed. Every inch of this place is covered—bedrooms, hallways, even the yard. The screen flickers, showing me Hazel standing in the doorway of her room, staring at her bag as though it might bite her. She’s frozen, caught in her own head. With a few taps, I disable the cameras, her image going blank. I wipe the footage clean. No evidence. No trail. Nothing to suggest we were ever here.
Still, I can’t help but imagine her sitting on that bed, her shoulders hunched as she stews in her fear. It’s not just me she’s afraid of—it’s the walls, the locked windows, the silence pressing down like a weight. It’s the unknown. The realization that she’s completely out of her depth.
Good. She should know how out of her depth she really is.