Chapter 36
Irish
Leaving County Clare had never been difficult before.
The first time I left, I was twenty-three and too angry to understand the difference between getting away from an argument and abandoning a life.
The second time came after funerals, police interviews, and enough grief to make distance feel like the only thing keeping me upright.
Every departure after that had happened in my head rather than on a road, repeated whenever I refused Eamon's calls, ignored Niamh's messages, sent money to maintain the farmhouse without allowing myself to imagine its rooms, or told myself Ireland belonged to a version of Rory O'Brien that no longer existed.
I had spent fifteen years becoming very good at leaving without ever going anywhere near the place I had left.
This morning was different because I knew I was coming back.
The realization sat with me while I carried our bags downstairs and found Skye already in the kitchen with her laptop open beside a notebook filled with restoration measurements.
Sunlight reached through the windows in pale strips, catching dust motes above the old table and making the room look deceptively peaceful after several days of investigators, archived evidence, phone calls, and enough emotional excavation to make the hidden room behind Da's study wall feel almost straightforward by comparison.
Brennan's team had finished the first forensic catalog the afternoon before and taken selected copies, digital images, and several original documents under formal chain of custody.
The farmhouse was no longer closed evidence in the legal sense, though the study would remain partially restricted until another specialist returned to inspect the hidden compartment itself.
Finn's note stayed with me. Brennan had photographed it, recorded its discovery, and then handed the original back after deciding it carried more personal than evidentiary value.
I had read it three more times, not because the words changed but because I did.
Skye looked up from the laptop when I entered.
"You packed."
"Aye."
"Without me reminding you."
"I'm thirty-eight."
"That hasn't stopped you needing reminders about anything else." I set the bags near the doorway and walked toward the coffee.
"You're very brave before breakfast."
"I'm extremely brave with access to caffeine." I glanced at her screen. A floor plan of the farmhouse filled one side while a spreadsheet occupied the other.
"What are you doing?"
"Working."
"On my house?"
"Our project." The word stopped me. She noticed.
"Professionally," she added, though the slight curve of her mouth told me she knew exactly what she'd done. I took my coffee and sat across from her.
"What's wrong with it now?"
"Do you want the short list or the expensive list?"
"Neither."
"Then don't ask." I leaned back.
"Bathroom still offensive?"
"Deeply."
"You're obsessed."
"I'm correct."
"You realize I can fire you."
"You gave me a key yesterday."
"That was before I understood the extent of your hostility toward Irish plumbing." Her eyes warmed.
"Still keeping the key."
"Aye."
The answer came naturally enough that neither of us made anything more of it.
That was another change. A week ago, I would've treated every symbol of permanence like something dangerous enough to require disclaimers.
Now Skye had a key to my family's home, her company was taking on the restoration properly, and we had said I love you in Mam's kitchen without either of us trying to turn the words into a contract about where we would live.
Nothing about the future had become simpler.
Scotland still existed. Carolina still existed.
Thistle & Stone still mattered, the club still mattered, and the Order wasn't going to disappear because Harrow had lost one property and Croft had finally landed in custody.
We had simply stopped treating complexity as evidence that something couldn't work.
My phone vibrated against the table. Toxic.
Flight still on? I answered. Aye. Late afternoon from Shannon.
The reply came almost immediately. Clubhouse waiting. I stared at the message. Skye noticed.
"Toxic?"
"Aye."
"They miss you."
"They miss having someone responsible."
"Raze is there."
"Exactly." She laughed. I looked toward the hallway, where morning light stretched across the photographs beside the stairs.
"I miss them too."
That admission felt strange only because I had spent so many years believing affection worked like a territory map.
If I belonged to the club, then Ireland had to remain behind me.
If I allowed the farmhouse to matter again, then maybe America became somehow less real.
If Rory existed, perhaps Irish had been an invention I needed to outgrow.
All of it had been nonsense. People weren't countries, and families weren't competing claims. I could miss Carolina while standing in Clare.
I could love a dead family without turning their house into a grave.
I could answer to Irish at the clubhouse, Callum to people who met me in the years after I left, and Rory when Skye said it softly enough that the name stopped feeling like something belonging only to ghosts. Skye closed the laptop.
"You're doing the thinking thing again."
"Apparently it's contagious."
"Terrible news." I looked toward her.
"You ready to go back?"
"To America?"
"Aye." She considered the question rather than answering automatically.
"For now." That distinction no longer frightened me.
"Isla?"
"She wants another week in England before deciding whether she's ready to go home to Edinburgh."
"Home." Skye's expression changed slightly.
"Yes." I smiled faintly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You never say that when it actually means nothing."
"I like hearing you call Edinburgh home."
"It is home."
"Aye." She watched me carefully.
"And this?" I knew what she meant. She meant the farmhouse and Ireland, the place where we'd spent the last several days changing each other's understanding of what coming back could mean.
"Also." Her expression softened.
"Carolina?" I took a drink of coffee.
"Also." She smiled.
"You're becoming greedy."
"Apparently." The front door opened without warning. I didn't even bother reaching for a weapon. Only one person had developed that level of disrespect for the concept of knocking. Brigid's voice carried through the hallway.
"If you're leaving without breakfast, I'm disowning you." I looked toward Skye.
"See?"
"She doesn't technically own you."
"Tell her that." Brigid entered the kitchen carrying a covered basket and wearing the expression of a woman who had already decided every plan we made without consulting her was inherently flawed.
"You packed."
"Aye."
"Too early."
"Flight's this afternoon."
"Still too early." Skye stood and accepted the basket.
"What did you bring?"
"Food for the road."
"We're driving less than an hour."
"Airports don't have proper food."
"Shannon has food." Brigid gave me a look that suggested I had personally betrayed Irish agriculture. Then her gaze moved around the kitchen. The change in her expression was small but unmistakable.
"You opened the curtains." I frowned.
"They've been open for days."
"I know." She touched the back of one chair.
"Your mother used to open every curtain in this house before breakfast, even in winter. Said people who lived in darkness became miserable."
"She also complained about heating bills."
"Siobhan contained contradictions." Skye smiled. Brigid looked toward the restoration notebook.
"You're really doing it?"
"Doing what?" I asked.
"The house." I glanced toward Skye.
"Apparently."
"Don't sound so enthusiastic."
"I'm thrilled about invoices."
"You should be. It's what happens when adults maintain property."
I closed my eyes. Skye laughed. Brigid pointed toward her. "Don't let him cheap out on windows."
"I won't."
"I am standing here."
"Yes," they said together. I regretted everything. The noise brought another sound from outside, tires on gravel, followed by a car door. This time I did know who it was before Eamon knocked once and came inside anyway. Niamh followed him carrying Orla. Apparently privacy had died completely.
"Thought we'd catch you before you left," Eamon said.
"You all coordinate this?"
"Village."
"That's not an answer."
"It is here." Niamh hugged me before I could complain further. The ease of it still surprised me. Not because the affection felt wrong, but because I no longer believed I needed to earn it retroactively before accepting it.
"Call when you land," she said.
"I have an entire club that will know."
"I didn't ask whether your club knows."
"Aye."
"That's not a promise." I looked at Eamon. He folded his arms.
"She's right."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely." I exhaled.
"I'll call." Niamh nodded, satisfied. Then she looked toward Skye.
"You too."
Skye smiled. "I will." Orla reached toward my beard from her mother's arms. I stepped back.
"No." Niamh laughed.
"She remembers you."
"She's seven months old."
"Apparently you're memorable."
Eamon took the baby before she could make another attempt at facial hair and settled her against his chest. The sight didn't hurt.
I noticed that. Days earlier, holding Orla had forced me to confront everything I had missed by leaving.
Today I saw a child who belonged to two people I loved in a way that no longer required explanation.
Their life wasn't an accusation. It was simply theirs.