Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
The Green of Grief
Cillian
Iwake to an empty bed and the bitter ghost of her skin on my sheets.
The space beside me is still warm, her imprint pressed into the mattress like a brand.
Last night rushes back in fragments—her mouth, her thighs, the sound she made when I finally touched her like I was supposed to.
Like she was mine again. No blood. No wars. Just skin and sighs.
But she’s not here now.
I throw on the first shirt I find and pad barefoot through the house, heart starting to pound.
Kitchen—empty. The piano room—silent. Living room—nothing but shadows.
The small study door creaks when I push it open.
Still no sign of her. I head for the stairs, my pulse thudding like a drumline.
The upper floor is technically the kids’, open and airy, a place I thought might be filled with toys and noise one day. But now—
She’s there.
Standing at the large round window, her back to me.
She’s wrapped in that champagne-colored silk nightgown I bought years ago and never had the chance to give her.
The matching robe is loose, slipping from one shoulder.
Her blonde hair is wet, drying into those tight, wild curls that only show when she lets it down completely.
Phantom curls. Opera house tragedy curls. God, she’s beautiful.
Sunlight spills through the glass, gilding her like a saint sculpted in gold. She doesn’t turn around. And something in my chest cracks open. She turns around slowly—like she’s already decided what she’ll say before I even open my mouth.
That red ledger is clutched in her hands. The one I buried years ago. The one that should’ve never seen the light again. Her eyes are colder than the Dublin sea in February. There’s something vicious behind them. Sharp. Betrayed. And it kills me.
My mouth dries out as I take a step forward, hands slightly raised like she’s something wild I can’t afford to spook.
“Dove… Where did you get that?”
I already know. But I need to hear her say it. Her fingers tighten around the cover, creasing the edge of the page. The air between us goes heavy, like the house knows what’s about to happen. Like the ghosts in the beams are holding their breath.
She doesn’t answer. Not yet. Just looks at me like I’m a stranger in the home I built for her. Like everything that passed between us last night was a dream. She blinks slowly. That head tilt that used to mean she was curious. Now? It's fucking surgical. Dissecting me.
“Why, Cillian? Is this something I wasn’t supposed to see?”
Her voice is soft. Almost sweet. But it cuts. Like broken glass laced in honey. I take a step forward, instinct driving me—desperate to explain, to lie, to do something. She lifts one hand.
“No.”
The word is final. A slap in velvet. I stop.
“Where did you get it?” I grind out, jaw tight. “Tell me, a stór. Right now.”
She laughs, but it’s cold. “You don’t get to ask questions. Not until you tell me about my mother.”
That hits harder than a bullet. My ribs ache. “Siobhán—”
“Don’t! Don’t you fucking dare say my name like that! Not after what I just read!”
I shake my head. “You don’t know what you think you know.”
“Then tell me. Go on! Because that ledger has my mother’s picture in it, and her name, and a line of fucking code I don’t understand!”
My hands shake.
“Answer me, Cillian! Tell me what happened to Maeve Kelleher, and don’t you dare lie to me!”
I pace. Run a hand through my hair. My throat burns. “It wasn’t me,” I rasp. “I tried to stop it—”
“Stop what, exactly?”
She’s radiant in that silk—champagne-colored nightgown clinging to her curves, robe slipping from one shoulder, hair down in wild golden curls like something out of a dream. But her eyes—Those eyes are war.
“Answer the question,” she says.
I swallow hard. “It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?” Her voice tightens. “Because it looks an awful lot like your family kept records on every job—every kill—including her!”
I clench my jaw. “It’s old. From before—”
“Her name is there, Cillian,” she snaps. “Maeve Kelleher. My mother. Date, location, price.” She flips the book open and reads it like a death sentence. “You want to explain that?”
I walk toward her again. She holds out a hand.
“No! Don’t fucking move.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Where did you find it?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I asked you a question,” she says, voice sharper now. “What the fuck is this? Why is my mother’s name in here? With a red slash through it like she was a goddamn asset? And why does it look like you were the one who fucking killed her?!”
My hands fist at my sides. “You don’t understand—”
“Then make me understand,” she snaps. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you had her killed, Cillian!”
“I didn’t!”
“You didn’t?” she barks.
“Siobhán, for fuck’s sake, let me explain—”
“You lied.”
The words strike like gunfire. I move closer, slow and deliberate. “Please. A leanbh. Tá brón orm. Tá brón orm mar a rinne mé1—”
“Don’t you dare speak Irish to me right now,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare use our fucking language to beg for mercy when you buried the truth like a fucking coward.”
I swallow hard. “I wasn’t the one who killed her, dove. I promise.”
Her silence is louder than any scream. She closes the ledger with a slow, deliberate snap—like a coffin lid—and turns for the stairs.
“Siobhán, don’t.”
She keeps walking. Something inside me snaps. In two strides, I’m there—grabbing her wrist before she can reach the first step. The ledger slips from her other hand and hits the floor with a dull, final thud.
“Let go,” she says, voice trembling but fierce.
“Not until you tell me where you found that.”
“Why?” Her laugh is humorless, jagged. “So you can make it disappear again?”
“Christ, stop—” I drag a hand through my hair, chest heaving. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten into.”
“No! Because you won’t tell me a goddamn thing! My contact gave it to me. That’s all you need to know.”
The word hits me like a punch to the chest. Contact. No. No, no, no. My blood ices over, then boils.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I say, slow and deadly. “To avenge your mother’s death?”
She glares up at me. “Avenge? Jesus, I’m not a bloody murderer.” Her next words slice clean through me. “Like you.”
I flinch. It’s barely visible, but I feel it like she knifed me clean in the ribs. I step forward. “Who is your contact?”
She hesitates. Too long. My pulse hammers. My jaw locks so tight I hear the crack of my own teeth.
“I said—who the fuck is your contact, Siobhán?!”
Her lips part. She takes a step back like she’s never seen me like this before. Like she doesn’t know me. And maybe she doesn’t. Maybe I’m a fucking ghost she’s only now seeing for what I really am.
She whispers, “Cill… you’re scaring me…”
Good. I’m scaring myself. “I need a name,” I growl. “Now.”
“I— I don’t know his name, alright?!”
Everything in me stills.
Her voice shakes. “He just said to call him M. That’s it. Just… M.”
The moment those words leave her mouth, I see fucking red. I stagger back like I’ve been shot. M. My knees nearly give out. The ledger. The slashed name. The pages she wasn’t supposed to see. And now him.
Oh, dove… what have you done?
“What did you give him?” I rasp, throat suddenly dry, like every word burns on the way up.
She stares at me, confused. Scared. “What are you talking about? I didn’t—”
“What did you give him?!” I shout, dragging both hands down my face, trying to fucking breathe. “Tell me you didn’t hand him anything. A file. A code. A copy. A fucking whisper. Anything!”
Panic flashes across her face. “Cillian—what did you do?”
“No,” I breathe. “What the fuck did you do, dove?”
Her lips tremble, but not from fear—rage, confusion, realization all twisting together. “I—God, I didn’t know. I thought—” Her fingers dig into her scalp. “He said he could help me. He said he had answers about my mother. About you.”
“Who?” I bark.
“M!” she shouts back. “He sent the first message when I was in New York. Said he’d worked with your family years ago, that he knew the truth about Maeve Kelleher’s death. Said you were hiding something from me—”
“Christ.” I stagger back, pressing a fist to my mouth. “He was hiding something. From both of us.”
Her eyes widen. “Cillian… who the hell is he?”
I stare at her—this woman I’ve loved since we were kids, standing there barefoot in the house I built for her, shaking because she doesn’t realize the fucking storm she’s just unleashed. “Malachi Boyle.”
The color drains from her face. She whispers, “I know that name.”
I step closer. “You should. Because he’s the man who killed your mother.”
She blinks, disbelief cracking her voice. “No. No, that’s not possible—he said—he said he worked for you!”
“He worked for my father,” I snarl. “And now he’s using you.”
The truth hangs between us like smoke. Thick. Poisonous.
She shakes her head, backing away. “You’re lying. You have to be lying.”
“Would I lie about this?!” I shout, pounding my chest. “You think I’d carry her death on my name all these years for fucking fun?!”
Her hand flies before I can stop her. The slap cracks across my jaw, sharp and clean. I don’t move.
She’s trembling, tears bright in her eyes. “You already did.”
I exhale slowly. My jaw still stings from her slap, but I don’t raise my voice again. Instead, I force it low. Controlled. “What did you give him, dove?”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes dart to the floor, to the fallen ledger, then back to me.
“Siobhán.” I step closer, softer this time. “Tell me.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “A code.”
The room tilts. “What code?”
She looks up at me through tears, green eyes swimming with guilt. “My birthdate.” Her voice cracks. “The code you use for everything.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. The silence in the room feels like it’s choking me.
Her shoulders shake. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—Cillian, I swear I didn’t think—”