CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HAZEL
THE HOTEL IS nothing like the last one.
I step into the pristine lobby, taking in the grand chandelier overhead, the polished marble floors, the hushed murmur of people who actually belong in a place like this. It’s a stark contrast to the dingy hotel room where Kieran and I spent the night.
Mary walks ahead of me like she owns the place, her heels clicking with confidence. She stops at the reception desk, says something in a smooth, authoritative tone, and within minutes, we have a suite. A suite. I don’t belong here.
Once we’re inside, she turns to me. “Take a shower. I’ll order us some food.”
I don’t move. I don’t want a shower. I don’t want food. My stomach twists with unease, my thoughts circling back to Kieran. I can still feel his hands on me, his body against mine, the way he made me forget everything for a while. But now? Now, I can’t forget.
“Will they kill him?” I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
Mary stops, her eyes narrowing. “You love him?”
I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I don’t have an answer that fits. Love? No. But I care. More than I should. More than makes sense. Kieran isn’t a good man, but he’s not a bad one either. His life, his choices, they’ve been dictated by circumstances beyond his control. And despite everything, he kept me safe. I can’t ignore that.
“He’s important to me,” I say finally.
Mary studies me, then shrugs. “He’ll be fine. They’re big boys. They can take care of themselves.”
I wish I had her certainty. The way she speaks, like the future is already set in stone, like she can see a version of events where everything turns out okay. But I don’t argue. What’s the point? I’m too tired to fight, too drained to do anything but follow her instructions. So I do as she says. I head for the shower.
The bathroom is large, and everything is white down to the large towels that hang on a heated rail. My movements are mechanical—strip, step in, turn the knob. The water blasts hot, scalding even, but I don’t adjust it. I let it burn, let it sear away the grime, the stress, the lingering ghost of Kieran’s touch. My skin reddens, my muscles sting, but I welcome the pain. It’s better than the numbness. Better than feeling nothing at all.
I brace a hand against the tile, letting the water beat down on me, washing away everything. Or trying to. But the filth is more than physical. The worst parts of it are beneath my skin, buried deep where no amount of heat can reach.
By the time I step out, my skin feels raw, but I don’t care. The steam has turned the mirror into a fogged-over blur, and I’m almost grateful for it. I don’t want to see myself right now.
When I come back into the room, Mary has food waiting. Something simple—bread, cheese, a bit of fruit. My stomach twists at the sight of it, rejecting the idea before I even take a bite. I know I need to eat, but the thought alone exhausts me. It feels like a chore, another obligation when I have nothing left to give.
“Do you have any.. …” I start.
Mary points at a pile of fresh clothes on the bed.
“Thank you.” I gather them and return to the bathroom, dressing quickly in the simple jeans and a white shirt. Mary is taller than me, so I have to tuck the fabric at my heels; otherwise, everything fits. Slipping on fresh socks, I return to the room and put on my own shoes.
“Do you feel better?” Mary’s voice is soft, and I want to gush everything to her, but I’m hesitant with her. She had lied about who she really was or who she married into. But, I push that all aside, knowing I lied to her, too.
“Yeah, the shower was nice.” I sit. I pick at the food because I know she’s watching, waiting for her moment to ask me questions.
“I know it was Kieran's voice on the phone, but I don't understand why you're lying,” Mary says.
I swallow the small blueberry I just popped into my mouth. It feels lodged in my throat, so I take a sip of water, forcing it down.
“I'm not lying. Sean tried to kill me.”
My mind flashes back to that moment in the cabin—Sean standing in the kitchen, the cold finality of Kieran pulling the trigger. My stomach twists. “I don't know what you think you heard, but Kieran has protected me,” I say, because no matter how complicated the truth is, that part remains.
Mary reaches across the table, her warm hand covering mine. “I want to believe you, Hazel, I do. But, it's one million euro. My husband...” She hesitates. “He won't take kindly to losing that kind of money.”
A chill runs through me. “What will your husband do?” I ask, dread gnawing at my insides.
She doesn’t even hesitate. “He'll find whoever took it and kill them.”
She says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, and suddenly, I wonder if I even know her at all.
“Well, you can't kill a dead person,” I say.
The silence stretches between us, thick and unspoken, until I break it.
“I need to call my parents,” I say, my voice rougher than I expected. “I need to get Charlie.”
Mary’s eyes soften. She smiles, and it’s nice; she looks like the Mary I know.
“Why don’t we pick up Charlie and go see your parents?” she suggests.
The words hit harder than I expect, like a sudden impact to the chest. I blink, staring at her, trying to process the offer.
Home. My parents. John.
The thought is a shock to my system. Like cold air after too much heat. Like something foreign pressing against my ribcage, threatening to break through.
It’s the first time since this nightmare started that the idea of normal doesn’t feel like an impossible dream.
I nod. “Okay.”
It happens so fast I barely have time to process it. One minute we’re leaving the hotel; the next, we’re picking up Charlie. I enter my home with the spare key that sits under the small pot at the door. But the door is already unlocked. I glance at Mary, who is right behind me.
Pushing open the door, the destruction slaps me in the face.
“Don’t go inside.” Mary grabs my arm.
“Charlie is in there.” I step into the hall and try not to look around my home. Who did this? And when? Kieran had dropped Charlie off—had he seen this and not told me?
My mind races as I enter the living room and ignore the mess. Charlie isn’t here. I go into the kitchen with Mary right on my heels, constantly looking behind her. I hear a bark and race for the back door. The moment I open it, Charlie jumps up on me, and I crouch down, hugging my dog.
Mary exhales a shaky breath. “Let’s go. We can come back and clean it later.”
I don’t argue. I don’t want to be here either. The air feels thick, suffocating, and I don’t know if it’s from the destruction or the knowledge that someone was in my home. My skin prickles with unease.
Gripping Charlie’s collar, I lead him through the wreckage, careful not to step on shattered glass and overturned furniture. Mary is jittery, shifting from foot to foot as she waits by the door. Her hands are clenched into fists, and I can see the tension in her shoulders.
We step out, and she slams the door shut behind us as if locking away whatever horror happened inside. I help Charlie into the back of Mary’s car, my fingers trembling as I secure him. He pants, tail wagging, oblivious to the tension clinging to us like a second skin.
Mary starts the car and speeds off, the short drive to my home passing in a blur. Neither of us speaks, both too rattled by what we just saw. My stomach churns, and I grip my seatbelt, inhaling deep breaths to steady myself. I try to push the image of my wrecked home aside and focus on my parents; I’m going to see them any second.
We pull into my driveway, and the moment the car stops, I reach for the door handle.
“Are you okay?” Mary asks softly, her voice still tight with unease.
“I will be,” I answer, hoping it’s true.
Before I can even step out, the front door bursts open, and they come running. The sight of them nearly knocks the breath from my lungs—my mother, my father, John. A sob wrenches from my mother’s lips, raw and desperate, as she throws her arms around me, clutching me like she’ll never let go. Her body trembles against mine, her fingers digging into my back as if she’s afraid I’ll vanish again if she loosens her grip.
“My baby, my baby,” she chokes out, her tears warm against my cheek. “I thought—I thought we’d never see you again. Your really here.”
I clutch her just as tightly, my throat closing around words that refuse to come. I breathe her in—the faint scent of lavender soap, the warmth of home, the feeling of belonging that I thought had been stolen from me forever.
Then my father, always so composed, always so strong, reaches for me. He doesn't say a word at first, just pulls me in, his grip firm, steady. I feel his chest rise and fall, the way his breath shudders in a way I’ve never heard before. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick. “You’re here,” he whispers, as if he still doesn’t believe it, as if I might slip through his fingers like a dream. “You’re home.”
Then there’s John—loud, dramatic, wonderful John—who barrels into me, wrapping me in a crushing hug, his laughter shaking with something dangerously close to a sob. “Christ, Hazel,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at me. His green eyes, so much like my own, are red-rimmed and glossy. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, but this? This is next-level.”
A watery laugh slips from my lips, though it barely covers the emotion swelling in my chest. The last time I saw them, I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. But now…now they’re here. And I’m in their arms. And for the first time in so long, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
Charlie rushes around everyone’s legs like he, too, is rejoicing that we are all here together.
“Connor never even rang to say they found you?” my father says; he’s talking about the Gardai, and everything inside me recoils.
“I was in the station when the call came through. I told them I’d take Hazel home,” Mary says with not an ounce of a lie in her words.
“Your home, that’s all that matters,” my mother says, wrapping an arm around me. “Let’s get you inside.” I lean into my mum as she guides me into our family kitchen.
Inside, the questions come fast. Too fast. Where have I been? What happened? Am I okay?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. How do I explain all of this? The darkness I’ve been swallowed by? The girl who left wasn’t the same one standing here now. But before I say a word, Mary steps in, her voice smooth and practiced.
“Connor explained everything to me. They thought she was from a wealthy family,” she says easily. “When they realized there wouldn’t be a ransom, they let her go.”
It’s a simple lie, one that paints me as a girl who was merely misplaced, not one who was shattered and put back together with jagged edges. My mother gasps, pressing a hand to her mouth. My father nods, his expression unreadable, though there’s something there—contentment, maybe. Relief.
John, of course, won’t let the mood stay too heavy. He has Charlie on his back rubbing his belly. “Well, at least tell me you took a few of the bastards down before they let you go.”
“John, watch your language.” My mother scowls, and it’s all so normal.
I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “No.”
Hours pass in a blur of talking, of laughter, of a normalcy I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back. The house smells the same—warm and safe, like fresh bread and vanilla. My mother keeps touching my arm, my cheek, as if reassuring herself that I’m real. My father listens more than he speaks, his watchful eyes never straying too far from me. John, ever the entertainer, keeps the air light, his presence a constant source of comfort.
But when the time comes, I tell them I’m staying with Mary.
“Are you moving back to Ireland?” my mother asks, directing the question at her instead of me, as if she already knows my answer.
Mary shakes her head. “No, just visiting. That’s why I was at the Gardai station; I was renewing my passport.”
Mary was a very good liar, and once again, I wonder if I ever knew her.
My mother frowns, lips pressing together, but she doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask why I won’t stay. Maybe she senses the answer. Maybe she knows that even though my feet are on familiar ground, I’m not the same girl who left.
John catches my eye and grins. “You always did know how to make an entrance, Hazel.”
I smile, warmth flooding my chest. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe it.
I’m home.
My mother insists that Mary and I stay at the house, sharing my old room like we’re kids again. I know she means well, but I can’t—not after everything.
“I’m staying with Mary for a few nights,” I tell her. “But I’ll check in every night, and I’ll spend some time with you when Mary flies back to France.”
She exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing just enough. It’s a lie—one I hate telling—but the truth would only keep her up worrying.
I give my dad a firm hug, then turn to my brother. He’s been all smiles since I walked through the door, but I see it—the exhaustion clinging to him, the weight of everything we don’t say. I hold on to him a little longer, feeling the slight tremor in his grip before I step back.
My mother walks me to the car, and Mary gets in first, giving us a moment. The night air is cool, but her arms around me are warm, desperate.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers, hugging me tight enough that, for a second, I wonder if she’ll ever let go.
I squeeze back, guilt threading through me. “I promise I’ll call when I get to the hotel.”
She nods, but the worry still lingers in her eyes, refusing to let me go completely. My father joins her on the driveway, wrapping his arms around her, and I’m glad—at least they have each other.
The drive to the hotel is quiet, shadows stretching long across the road. By the time we get there, exhaustion has sunk deep into my bones.
The second the door shuts behind us, I turn to Mary. “You lie so well.”
She doesn’t smile. “In this world, you have to.” There’s something almost sad in the way she says it.
I scrub a hand down my face. “What if my parents call Connor?”
“He’ll tell them the same story. Don’t worry.” She steps closer, fingers wrapping gently around my arm. “Please, just rest. You’ve been through too much.”
She’s right, but my mind refuses to shut down. Still, I climb into bed, phone in hand, and dial my mother. The relief in her voice is immediate, and I let her talk, let her believe everything is fine.
When I hang up, my thoughts drift to Kieran. It feels strange not being with him, a hollow ache settling in my chest. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I hope—no, I need—to see him.