Chapter 32
Sullivan’s Irish Pub — Sylva
Sullivan’s Irish Pub sat halfway along a narrow back street off Main.
Inside, hops and fried potatoes filled the air, and an old folk song hummed from the speakers, weaving through the creak of stools and the clink of glasses.
Declan O’Rourke sat at the end of the bar with a pint of Guinness in front of him, one boot hooked over the rung of the stool.
Behind the bar, Patrick Sullivan—Sully to everyone who mattered—wiped down a glass with slow, deliberate strokes.
Sully had the kind of beard that made him look like he’d stepped straight off a fishing boat in Galway, and his accent was still thick enough that some of the locals nodded politely even when they hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
“Another, Deck?” Sully asked.
Deck lifted his glass and examined the foam line.
“Ye poured it right the first time, lad. No need t’rush perfection.”
Sully snorted.
“Careful now. Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start chargin’ ye double.”
Two women at a nearby table laughed. One of them, a brunette, turned toward Deck.
“Don’t let him fool you,” she said. “Sully’s already charging everyone double.”
Deck swiveled a little on his stool, giving them the full benefit of his blue eyes and crooked grin.
“Well now, if that’s the case,” he said, lifting his pint, “I’m clearly drinkin’ in the wrong company. Next round should be on the house for the prettiest table in the place.”
The brunette grinned.
“You know what? I think that’s completely fair.”
Deck pretended to think about it, his gaze lingering long enough to be noticeable, not long enough to be rude.
“Public service,” he said. “Can’t have an old Irishman with a heavy heart walkin’ home alone on a Monday night. Terrible for the town’s morale.”
The blonde laughed, eyes crinkling.
“Oh, honey. That line might’ve worked in 1978.”
Deck placed a hand over his chest in mock offense.
“Now that was cruel. An’ here I was about t’write ye into me will.”
The brunette smirked.
“Depends what’s in the will.”
“Couple of bad knees, a fine collection of neckties, and a heart o’ gold,” Deck said promptly. “Truly, a treasure trove.”
Sully chuckled behind the bar.
“Careful, girls. Ye’ll bruise the man’s pride. Takes me hours t’fluff it back up.”
Deck pointed a finger at him without looking away from the women.
“Don’t listen to the barkeep. He’s jealous of me devastatin’ good looks. Happens to the best of us.”
The blonde shook her head, still smiling.
“Tell you what, Irish. You keep the patter up and maybe we’ll buy you a drink.”
Deck tipped his glass in a little salute.
“Now that’s the kindest offer I’ve had all week. I’ll do me best t’earn it.”
The women laughed and turned back to their conversation, but the warmth in Deck's chest didn't last five seconds. Above the bar, the television flickered. He hadn’t been paying it much attention until the audio cut through the pub's hum—a voice like cold silk.
“...and now defense attorney Eleanor Harper finds herself entangled once again...”
Deck’s glass paused halfway to his mouth. The charm vanished from his face—like a mask had been ripped away. On the screen, Lila Grant didn't just look like a reporter. She looked like a predator spotting movement in the brush.
“This time, she isn’t just dating the opposition. It’s the District Attorney himself.”
Deck’s grip tightened around the pint.
Ah, Nell.
The whole damned town would make sport of her now.
There it was.
Something old and dangerous had woke up inside him.
“Well now,” he muttered under his breath.
The camera zoomed tighter on Lila’s face.
It wasn’t what she was saying.
It was the look in her eyes.
Deck had spent thirty years reading faces across interrogation tables. He knew curiosity. He knew ambition. He knew reporters chasing headlines.
This wasn’t that.
There was something else there. Something colder. Something personal.
Something that had nothing to do with Caroline Simms.
And when she said Eleanor’s name—his Nell—there was a flint-hard satisfaction in her gaze that made the back of his neck prickle.
Sully leaned on the bar beside him.
“Ye know her?”
Deck shook his head slowly.
“No.”
On the television, Lila’s mouth tightened as she said Eleanor’s name again.
Deck’s eyes narrowed, tracking the way Lila’s mouth thinned—a micro-expression of pure, unadulterated loathing. It wasn't the look of a journalist chasing a scoop. It was the look of a woman holding a blade.
Sully frowned.
“Bad blood?”
Deck didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
“Aye.”
He lifted his glass and finished the last of the Guinness.
“That’s not a woman chasin’ a story.”
Sully glanced back at the television, then swept a look around his pub—the locals hunched over drinks, a couple at the far table whispering as they watched the screen.
“Ye know, since this one came t’Sylva, my business has picked up a fair bit,” he said. “Seems the folks like t’think people are disappearin’ and there’s ghosts in Sylva. Gives ’em the shivers, so they come in here for courage.”
Deck answered with a low grunt, more irritation than amusement. His gaze never left Lila’s eyes.
Sully studied him.
“So what is she chasin’, then?”
Deck set the empty glass down with a soft clink.
“Payback. And she’s been waitin’ a long time for the check to come due.”
Sully raised an eyebrow.
“You sure about that?”
Deck stood, pulling his wallet from his pocket. He thought of the file he’d kept tucked away for years—the one he’d hoped he’d never have to open again.
“Thirty years readin’ people across a table, lad. I know the look of a woman who’s finally found her opening.”
He tossed a few bills onto the bar.
“I know the look.”
Sully gathered the money.
“So what are ye goin’ t’do about it?”
Deck slid into his jacket.
“Well now…”
He glanced once more at the television. Lila’s eyes were still cold when she said Nell’s name.
“…I think it’s time I paid a visit t’a few old friends down in Charleston.”
Sully tilted his head.
“Vacation?”
Deck smiled faintly, though there was nothing of holiday in it.
“Call it professional curiosity.”
He headed for the door.
Behind him, Lila Grant’s voice carried from the television. Deck paused just long enough to hear one more line.
“…because sometimes the people standing closest to the truth are the ones trying the hardest to bury it.”
Deck shook his head.
“Not this time, lass,” he said softly. “Not on my watch.”