42. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
I stare at Maeve.
She keeps her eyes on the loose thread she's twisting around her finger, as if what she just said makes perfect sense.
It doesn't. Not even a little. I know her father.
Not personally, but I've spent months researching every person connected to Ronan Gallagher, and Cormac O'Donnell was one of the first files I built.
I know where he went to school. I know when he took control of his family's organization. I know the names of the men he trusts and the ones he only pretends to trust.
I know Maeve spent almost every summer of her childhood at the same house in Ireland.
I know her father flew home in the middle of a business trip when she broke her arm falling out of a tree at eleven.
I know there are hundreds of photographs of the two of them together over the years, and in every single one, Cormac O'Donnell is looking at his daughter like she hung the fucking moon.
Nothing in my research suggests an unhappy childhood. Nothing suggests neglect. If anything, it suggests the opposite.
Which means I don't understand how the woman sitting beside me came to believe her father wouldn't be worried that she'd disappeared.
I know what it looks like when parents love their child but don't know how to make that child understand it.
Mine love me. I've never doubted that. They just don't always understand me.
Growing up, my mother tried to hug every problem out of me while my father tried to fix them, and neither of them understood why sometimes I needed them to do nothing at all. They learned eventually.
So did I.
Rachel says my parents spent years trying to love me in ways that made sense to them, and now I spend too much time trying to love them in ways that make sense to them.
Apparently, texting my mother a link to an updated home security system isn't an appropriate response to I miss you.
Rachel made me call her. The point is, love doesn't always translate correctly.
I understand that better than most. But this feels different. Maeve's family isn't like mine.
I can't explain how I know that. The research supports it, but it's more than that. I know it in my gut. And my gut is rarely wrong.
"Maeve."
She keeps looking at her hands. "Hmm?"
I reach for her before I can overthink it. My palms settle against her cheeks, and her eyes immediately lift to mine.
I'm becoming alarmingly comfortable touching her face. That's probably something I should analyze later. Not now.
"Do you trust me?"
Her answer is immediate. "Yes." No hesitation. None. She doesn't ask why. Doesn't qualify it. Doesn't remind me that she only learned my real name last night.
She just says yes.
Something blooms beneath my ribs. Warm and expanding, it presses outward until my chest feels too small to contain it.
I don't know what it is. I'm starting to accumulate an unreasonable number of feelings I can't identify. It's becoming irritating.
Maeve's hands lift and wrap loosely around my wrists.
"I trust you," she says again.
That makes the feeling worse. Or better.
I don't fucking know anymore.
I run my thumbs beneath her eyes. "Okay."
Her eyebrows pull together. "Okay?"
"Get dressed."
The confusion deepens. "Why?"
"I'm taking you to see your father."
Her entire body goes still. "What?"
"You think he won't care."
"Keaton—"
"I think you're wrong."
Her hands tighten around my wrists. "You don't know that."
"No."
"Then how can you say that?"
"Because I have a statistically significant amount of information about your family."
Her eyes narrow. "That's a strange way to say you've been spying on us."
"Researching."
"Spying."
"Professionally researching."
Her lips twitch despite the uncertainty still lingering in her eyes. I consider that a win.
I lower my hands from her face but take one of hers with me. I don't know why. I just don't want to let go of her yet.
"I'm going to take you to see him."
"Keaton..."
"If I'm wrong, I'll bring you back here."
She watches me carefully. "And if you're right?"
"I'll still bring you back here." That gets her attention. "Unless you decide you want to stay there," I add.
The words taste terrible. I say them anyway. Maeve looks down at our joined hands. I wait.
I'm discovering that waiting for Maeve to make decisions is significantly harder than making them for her.
Rachel would probably say that's the point. Annoying woman.
Finally, Maeve nods. "Okay."
The tension I hadn't realized I was holding releases from my shoulders. "Okay."
I reach for my phone.
Maeve watches me unlock it. "Who are you calling?"
"No one."
I open my text thread with Callum.
There are several unread messages.
I ignore all of them and type a new one.
Me:
Tell Cormac I'm bringing Maeve to see him.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Then disappears. Appears again. Disappears. I wait.
Callum Rizzoli:
You cannot be fucking serious.
I type back.
Me:
I am almost always serious.
Three dots.
Callum Rizzoli:
You hung up on me.
Me:
Maeve needed me.
The typing bubble appears again.
I wait.
And wait.
Nothing.
Interesting.
I send another message.
Me:
We will be there in an hour.
This time, his response comes immediately.
Callum Rizzoli:
DO NOT JUST SHOW UP AT CORMAC O'DONNELL'S HOUSE WITH THE DAUGHTER YOU KIDNAPPED.
I frown.
Maeve leans closer. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Your face says something is wrong."
"My face doesn't say things."
"It absolutely does."
I angle the phone away before she can see the screen. "Callum is being dramatic."
Her eyes widen. "About us going to my father's house?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Apparently, there are concerns about the method of your departure."
"The method of my departure?"
"He's calling it kidnapping."
Maeve stares at me. I stare back.
I look down at the screen again. Another message.
Callum Rizzoli:
WAIT FOR ME.
Then another.
Callum Rizzoli:
SKEE. I MEAN IT.
I put my phone facedown on the table.
Maeve looks at it. Then at me. "Shouldn't you answer him?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I don't intend to wait."
Her mouth falls open slightly. "You really don't listen to anyone, do you?"
"That's not true." I stand and offer her my hand. "I listened to Rachel."
Maeve takes it and lets me pull her to her feet. "After arguing with her."
"Still counts."
She smiles up at me. The strange feeling in my chest comes back. I decide to ignore it.
I've already dealt with enough emotional development for one morning. "Come on."
She looks toward the hallway, but she doesn't move.
I wait.
Her fingers tighten around mine. "What if you're wrong?"
There it is. The real fear beneath everything else. I step closer.
"Then I'll be wrong." Her gaze lifts to mine. "And I'll bring you back here, make you coffee, and allow you to insult my glasses again."
"I didn't insult them."
"You stared at them for an uncomfortable amount of time."
"I said I liked them."
"Repeatedly."
Her mouth twitches.
I squeeze her hand. "But I'm not wrong."
She studies my face for another moment.
Then nods.
I don't know exactly what happened between Maeve and her family after she married Ronan.
But I'm going to find out.
Because someone convinced this woman that the people who loved her wouldn't come for her.
And if the look on Cormac O'Donnell's face in every photograph I've studied means what I think it does, Maeve is about to find out exactly how wrong she is.