Chapter 2 #2
I hated the way the girls at St. Albert’s threw themselves at him just for a glance and a nod.
I hate his blue-eyed beauty and perfect body.
I hate the way he ruled everything.
I can still hear him call me a snitch, still see the curled lip and bared teeth. Still see that narrowed-eyed glare and hear his voice, low and venomous, whispering that he hated me too.
But I’m not that girl anymore.
“Let’s get back to Bridget,” I say, my head held high as I walk away from the McCarthy worshippers of Ballyhock.
I glance at the time, and my stomach sinks.
Goddamn it.
I hear my mother before I see her, on the other side of the frosted door meant to give us privacy.
“Sit up,” she snaps. “That’s a girl. Good. Now, are you going to eat this food or just play with it? You’re wasting away to nothing, Bridget.”
Her tone cuts. My sister’s is softer. “Leave it, Mam,” Bridget pleads. “If you think it’s so delicious, why don’t you eat it yourself?”
I step in with a pasted-on smile. “Got your sausage roll.”
My mother’s face twists.
“Sausage roll? Why would you get her that? She’ll break out.”
“Mam,” I say, with every ounce of forced calm I’ve got. Darragh fades into the hallway, shadow-like, watching again. “In case you missed it, Bridget’s not eating much.” I glance at her frail frame. “I figured food might help. She asked for a sausage roll.”
And in my head, I finish the sentence—whatever the fuck my sister asks for, she gets.
My mother purses her lips, then scans me from head to toe, her eyes widening in horror. Oh god. What did I do now?
“Erin, do you mean to tell me you just went out like that? In public?” When her voice gets to that high-pitched note…
I glance down.
Faded jeans. A jumper. Comfortable shoes.
“What’s wrong with this?”
She lifts her chin. The queen surveying her kingdom.
Not a wrinkle on her face, even her forehead is smooth as silk. Botox. Fillers. Whatever it takes to maintain the illusion. “You’re a Kavanagh woman. That’s what’s wrong.”
I sigh.
Mam was beautiful when she was younger, but she’s older now, and the thick makeup’s beginning to wear.
“Come here,” she says, as she pulls a hairbrush out of her bag.
I gawk at her. “Mom, no,” I say, pulling back when she reaches for me. “Are you out of your mind?” I push her hand away.
“Just let me fix your—”
“No!” My voice rises in fury.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I tap my pocket. It doesn’t help.
Fingertips to thumb. Still doesn’t help.
I turn to Bridget, who immediately reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. I let out a breath. It helps.
“Here,” I say, handing her the sausage roll. Bridget sighs and leans back against her pillows. She takes a bite of the sausage roll and smiles. “Thanks, Erin. It’s delicious.”
“Of course,” I say.
My mother sighs. “Did you hear about the McCarthys? Something about a bomb?”
I thought it wise not to tell them what happened when I was there. Mam’s eyes are on her phone as she taps her screen with one perfectly manicured nail.
“A bomb?” “, as our family was McCarthy family adjacent.
My mother’s voice is flat as she stares at the phone. “It’s a shame. They’re well-loved in Ballyhock. People are outraged.”
A beat passes. When I don’t respond, she pierces me with another look.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Erin, are you still holding that high school grudge?” she says, rolling her eyes so hard they might stay that way. “Kids play. It’s what they do.”
Why does everyone suddenly love the McCarthys?
“Since when are you friends with the McCarthys?” I ask, giving her a curious look.
She sets the phone down like it’s made of glass. Her face goes a little pale.
She clears her throat. “Since I discovered the McCarthys are friends with Dr. Rosenberg. The one in Glasgow,” she says, quiet now.
I give her a sharp look.
“The Dr. Rosenberg? The one doing… experimental procedures. For people with…” Aplastic anemia.
“Aye.”
Bridget sits up straighter, and my stomach clenches. My mother puts on a detached, impersonal front, but I know how it breaks her heart to see her daughter sick, knowing there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.
No amount of motherly fussing—like brushing our hair, making us sit up straighter, or fixing what was visible so we wouldn’t embarrass her—can fix what’s breaking now.
“Listen…” My voice cracks. “We’ve talked about this. You know he’s booking two years out. And he refuses to take clients now. Even for bribes. Won't even meet with Da—”
Or take his money or his bribes or anything.
Bridget’s eyes hold mine. She knows what I’m not saying.
We don’t have two years.
Six months, maybe eight if we’re lucky. That’s what the doctors said last week, the ones Mam doesn’t want to know about, as if denying reality will somehow keep Bridget here longer.
“I’m just thinking, maybe… maybe if you got in their good graces, Erin—”
The words land like a punch.
My heart stutters. Races. I tap my pocket—once, twice, three times, four.
Mam grabs my wrist. “Stop that.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
She wants me to what? Seduce a McCarthy? Befriend them?
“Mam, what are you on about?” I ask her, trying to ignore the way my voice wobbles. “Did you actually forget how they treated me?”
She waves a hand dismissively—because of course she does. “Oh, Erin. You were children then. Let it go.”
I draw in a sharp, shuddering breath and turn back to my sister.
“You don’t have to let it go, Erin,” she says, her voice trembling. She takes another small bite of her sausage roll. “Not on account of me.”
Then it hits—what my mother said.
That Bridget wants this too. That I just refused a choice that could actually give my sister the only thing that might save her.
The McCarthys are friends with Dr. Rosenberg. But the McCarthys…
No.
“Get in their good graces,” I repeat.
Me?
“They don’t like me,” I tell my mother, but it feels like a last-ditch effort. Like I’m trying to convince myself.
“Maybe not,” my mother says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “God, it’s dry in here, isn’t it?”
Because even though she’s mean, superficial, and sometimes cruel… it’s breaking her. Watching her youngest girl disappear in slow motion.
We all know the clock’s running out, and it won’t slow down.
“I was just… I was just thinking,” she stammers. “I could… could pay Caitlin McCarthy a visit, couldn’t I?”
This isn’t like her. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her stammer.
There’s no amount of makeup, no filter sharp enough, to hide what’s bleeding through her face right now—the lines, the pain, the regret.
And my heart drops like lead. If anything, my mother showed me how it’s possible to both love and hate someone at the very same time.
But Bridget’s sweet voice echoes: Not on account of me.
“They’re in the news, you know. Sounds like some terrible things have happened.”
“I know,” my mother says quietly. “And the papers don’t even cover the half of it.” She would know. Make someone who’s the Queen of Gossip a mafia wife, and she’ll know more than anyone.
“So do you know what happened?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
My mother swallows hard. “They say… after the bombing… Bronwyn McCarthy’s gone missing.”
Oh god.
Bridget’s eyes go wide. “Not Bronwyn. She was kind. She was good.”
She was mafia.
“What do you think they’ll do, Mam?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I do know your father was talking to Seamus McCarthy just last week.”
Seamus McCarthy, the acting head of the family now. I heard he got married to a Russian and they have a few kids now. I don’t really know him, just a few of his younger siblings.
They call him The Undertaker though. No one calls him Seamus anymore and hasn’t for quite some time.
“Right,” I say. “About what?”
“Don’t know that either,” she says quietly. Then she pastes on a fake smile I’m all too familiar with.
“I’m meeting Caitlin later this afternoon,” she says. “We’re going to have tea.”
Ah. So she’s already made the plans.
I stare at her like she’s grown a second head. Why now? Why Caitlin McCarthy?
“I want to see if there’s anything we can do to help find Bronwyn,” she says, but I already know what she’s really doing.
She wants to offer up what we’ve got—our name, our money, our contacts—to find Bronwyn McCarthy. To curry the good favor of Caitlin McCarthy.
But why?
Is she bargaining? Trading favors? I want to ask, but I don’t.
I breathe again, as deeply as I can, but it still feels shallow.
Fluorescent lights. Goddamn these lights.
When I look at Bridget, a thin trickle of red blood seeps from the bottom of her nose.
Oh god, oh no, not again.
I leap to my feet and grab a fistful of tissues from the bedside table. A simple nosebleed isn’t what it seems when bleeding doesn’t stop. We have boxes of tissues in here because, with Bridget, it starts small, before it escalates quickly.
The tissues are instantly saturated. I grab more. “Help us!” I yell into the hallway. My voice is high-pitched with a note of hysteria. “Somebody help us!”
“It’s fine,” Mam says, wringing her hands as she backs away from me and Bridget. “It’s fine, love. It’s just a nosebleed. She’s fine.” But Bridget’s gone pale, and her lips look blue.
But Mam's backing away, her face carefully blank—the same expression she wore when the doctors first told us Bridget's diagnosis. When they said the word “terminal” and Mam stood up, smoothed her skirt, and said, “We'll get a second opinion. The Kavanaghs don't do… this.”
As if illness cared about our family name.
As if Bridget could just decide to be perfect again.
“Erin,” Bridget whispers. She grabs at more tissues, but they’re soaked. Her words are slurred, her eyes are rolling back as a team rushes in to help, and I step back, still clutching bloodied tissues.
I watch, tears flowing freely as the nurses rush in to take over. This is happening with more and more frequency now.
My hands shake. No amount of tapping can calm me.
Bridget isn’t getting better.
We’re out of options.
I'd do anything to save her. Anything.
Even crawl back to Cavin McCarthy.
Even if he breaks me all over again.