Chapter 19 #2
A laugh escaped me despite the pressure in my chest.
Isla smiled.
Then she reached toward me and stopped halfway.
I understood.
I placed my hand beneath hers.
She closed her fingers around mine.
"I love you," she said quietly. "I know you came for me. I know what that cost you. But I don't want Croft House to become the place where you start deciding my life for me because you're afraid something will happen again."
My eyes burned.
"I'm trying."
"I know."
"What if you need me?"
"I have your phone number."
"You hate calling people."
"I'll make an exception for trauma."
"Very generous."
"And Storm is terrifying."
"She'll appreciate that."
"I like her."
"She likes you."
"See? Practically a social life already."
I shook my head, smiling through the ache behind my eyes.
Then Isla's expression turned serious again.
"Go."
I didn't answer.
"Skye."
"What?"
"Go with him."
My heart kicked once.
"I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to."
She watched me for a long moment.
"You trust him."
I thought about Croft House.
The way Irish had asked instead of commanded more often as the days passed.
The way he had stepped back when survivors looked afraid.
The way he had let Dr. Croft escape because a woman was seizing.
The way his hand had closed around mine in the corridor without claiming anything more than what I offered.
"Yes."
"Then maybe let that mean something."
I looked toward the window.
Rain had begun tapping softly against the glass.
"You don't know what happened to his family."
"No."
"Neither do I."
"Then don't try to fix that either."
I glanced back at her.
"You're very opinionated for someone who was recently sedated."
"Imagine how unbearable I'll be when I'm fully recovered."
That made me laugh again.
This one lasted.
When it faded, I squeezed her hand.
"I'll only go if you're comfortable here."
"I am."
"If anything changes—"
"I call."
"If you don't like the doctor—"
"I tell Storm."
"If somebody tries to question you before you're ready—"
"I tell them no."
"And if they don't listen?"
Her mouth curved.
"I tell Storm."
"Excellent."
We sat together another twenty minutes before Isla's eyes started closing between sentences. I waited until she had drifted back to sleep, then left the room without touching the door.
It remained exactly where she wanted it.
I found Irish outside.
Of course I did.
The rain had become finer, almost mist, gathering along the shoulders of his jacket while he stood near the low stone wall behind the manor.
He wasn't smoking or talking on the phone.
He simply stared into the dark garden with both hands resting on the wall, his posture rigid enough that I knew he had been standing there for some time.
I stopped several feet away.
"You planning to spend all night in the rain?"
"Considering it."
"Seems dramatic."
"I'm Irish. We stand in rain professionally."
I smiled.
He glanced toward me.
The humor disappeared quickly.
"How's Isla?"
"Sleeping."
"Good."
"She remembered more."
His attention sharpened immediately.
"What?"
"Saint Brigid's. County Clare. Coastal transfer routes. She heard staff discussing moving residents by ferry because it attracted less attention than flights."
Irish looked away.
I stepped closer.
"She said Croft's people moved records too."
"Aye."
"Cipher told you?"
"Some."
"And Harrow?"
His jaw tightened.
"That name means something."
"My father mentioned him."
"When?"
"Before they died."
The sentence was quiet.
There was no need to ask who they meant.
I leaned against the wall beside him, leaving enough space that he could decide whether he wanted to close the distance, but for the moment he remained exactly where he was.
"I don't know what you're going to find in Ireland."
"Neither do I."
"But you're going."
"Aye."
"I am too."
His head turned sharply.
"No."
I expected the answer.
That didn't make it less irritating.
"Interesting."
"Skye."
"You don't get to decide that."
"Isla needs you."
"Isla told me to go."
That stopped him.
I continued before he could recover.
"The investigation involves Thistle & Stone, Blackridge, Croft House, Alderwick, Saint Brigid's, and records Isla saw before she disappeared. If those records moved to Ireland, I have a professional reason to be there even if you didn't."
"This isn't a design job."
"No. It's an investigation where hidden construction has mattered at every stage."
His expression hardened.
"And if it leads where I think it leads?"
"Then I'm still useful."
"That's not what I'm asking."
I looked at him.
Rain collected along his beard and darkened the auburn hair at his temples.
For the first time, the controlled reconnaissance specialist I'd met inside Alderwick House looked genuinely uncertain.
"What are you asking?"
His gaze moved toward the garden.
"If it leads to my family."
His answer revealed the real problem beneath every argument he had made about why I shouldn't come.
I stepped closer.
"Then you shouldn't be alone."
He laughed once without humor.
"You barely know me."
"I know enough."
"No, you don't."
"Then tell me what I'm missing."
His jaw flexed.
I regretted the phrasing almost as soon as the words left my mouth, not because I didn't want whatever answer he might give me, but because I recognized the subtle change in his expression and the tension returning to his jaw.
I had pushed too directly against one of the boundaries he was only beginning to trust me near, and I could practically see him preparing to close himself off again.
Rather than force him into defending something he clearly wasn't ready to explain, I changed course.
"You don't have to tell me tonight."
Irish looked at me.
"I meant what I said before. You can tell me something without telling me everything."
The tension across his shoulders eased by a fraction.
I reached for his hand.
He let me take it.
"I am not going to Ireland because I think you need saving, Callum."
His fingers closed around mine.
"Then why?"
"Because Isla's evidence goes there. Because I can read the buildings. Because I'm already part of this. And because if the truth about your father is waiting there, I don't particularly like the idea of you walking into it alone."
His eyes held mine.
"What about Scotland?"
"It'll still be here."
"Your company?"
"Also still here."
"Isla?"
"Is currently sleeping after informing me that staying would be insulting to her independence."
That earned the faintest smile.
"Sounds like your friend."
"You have no idea."
For a moment we stood in silence while rain whispered through the garden.
Then Irish lifted our joined hands slightly.
"You sure?"
The question mattered because he was asking rather than telling.
"Yes."
His expression softened in a way I was beginning to recognize as something he allowed only when he forgot to protect it.
"We leave in the morning."
"Fine."
"Could be several days."
"I own clothing."
"County Clare weather is worse."
"I'm Scottish."
"Aye. You keep saying that like it protects you from bad decisions."
I smiled.
"It has so far."
His thumb moved slowly over my knuckles.
Neither of us mentioned the kiss.
We didn't need to.
Something between us had shifted beyond the stage where every touch required explanation.
Irish looked back toward the dark garden.
"I haven't stayed at the farmhouse since I left."
The admission came so quietly I almost missed it.
I didn't react too quickly.
"Do you still own it?"
"Aye."
"Why?"
A long pause.
"I don't know."
I believed him.
Maybe that was the saddest part.
"Then perhaps it's time you found out."
His hand tightened around mine and for several seconds he said nothing before nodding.
Tomorrow we would cross into Ireland following records tied to the Order, a dead man's name, and a history Irish had spent half his life trying to outrun. I had no idea what waited in County Clare, and I suspected he knew even less than he pretended.
For once, uncertainty didn't make me want to turn away. It made me want to stay beside Callum O'Brien long enough to see what happened when the man who had spent fifteen years running from home finally turned around and faced it.