Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I walk to the interrogation room, my stomach clenching. I don’t want her in here. It’s where we perform some of the more base interrogations. It’s where I punished Tully days ago. Where we taught Lachlan the ways of the Clan, where he trained.
Soundproof, it’s where criminals come to die. It’s no place for a woman. No place for my wife.
I yank the door open, half expecting to see her, both hoping and dreading seeing her wide blue eyes and long blonde hair.
But it’s vacant. I turn to leave, when something catches my eye. I turn back toward the exit. This room can be entered either from the connected rooms on this floor, or from an outside exit, a useful construction when we have to drag a suspect in, or hell, a body out. We keep it tightly secured, and only inner circle members even have a key to access this room. Today, the exit’s left ajar, just slightly enough for a sliver of light to shine through.
I hear mam and Caitlin behind me, but I walk toward the exit.
“Everything alright, Cormac?” mam asks.
“I think so,” I tell her. “But I’m going to find out.”
I leave them both and head out the door. Just beyond the exit to this room lies the pathway to the greenhouse on the other side of our house, the pathway nearly hidden in shadow. I pause, frowning, and turn back to the door. Something’s amiss. I’m eager to get to Aileen, to find her, so I don’t investigate now, but make a mental note to come back to it.
Little pebbles line the walkway toward the greenhouse, and nearby, stacks of freshly-chopped wood wait for the late night fires we’ll build in the backyard, under the stars and moon, on a chilly spring evening. Some of the best nights of my life were spent under those stars. How I long to sit beneath that blanket of heaven with my wife and child. How I wish I could make her happy, bring her peace.
I walk past the greenhouse and garden, past the gate that keeps us apart from everyone else, down to where the rough, craggy rocks of Ballyhock lead to the cliff’s edge. Is this where she’s gone? If not, where else could she be?
Goddamn anywhere.
I grit my teeth and keep walking, when the sound of a lonesome song drifts my way. Hauntingly beautiful, I would know that voice anywhere, though I can’t make out the lyrics. My heart gives a great lurch at having found her, then squeezes at the pain in her voice.
Ahead of me lies the sea, tumultuous but beautiful, flecked with foam. The swirl of blue-green holds power and grace. Like my girl. My wife.
She stands on the cliff’s edge, staring at the water below. If she sees me approach, she doesn’t show it, her lilting voice now carrying the words that haunt me.
He quickly ran to her
And found she was dead
And there on her bosom
Where he soaked, tears he shed
My heart squeezes. She sings the song of Molly Ban, a tragic story of accidental loss and new love that ends in tragedy.
I want to call to her, to reach out and drag her back to me, but she stands too close to the cliff’s edge. If I startle her, she could fall.
I clear my throat to get her attention.
“Aileen.”
“Mmm.”
She closes her eyes as if to drown me out, and gives me a slight nod. All the anger I had at her disappears evaporates when I go to speak to her. My throat is strangely clogged. Maybe it’s because of the song, or the blessed relief that floods me when I see that she’s okay, but my voice comes out softer than I intend. I can’t remember the lecture I planned on delivering or the warning I wanted to give her, how she shouldn’t scare me like that, or risk her safety, or go wandering alone where I can’t find her. Instead, my tone is gentle when I speak.
“Y’alright, sweetheart?”
She doesn’t open her eyes, but nods. It’s then that I notice she’s carrying something, holding it close to her chest.
“I’m fine,” she whispers. She’s anything but.
I take a few steps toward her, careful not to startle her.
“Are you?” I ask. “Why are you out here all alone, lass?”
Wordlessly, she holds the folded newspaper out to me. “Found this,” she whispers, her gaze still fixed out at the sea. The paper falls from her hands, and a gust of wind swirls, but I snatch it just in time. If I were a superstitious man, it’d feel like an omen.
I take the paper from her, and within seconds, the calm I felt for a moment while looking out at the sea has vanished.
Taken
Daughter of one of the most powerful men in all of Ireland, Aileen McCarthy may be used to the ways of the Irish mob, as it’s the only way she knows how to cope, but it doesn’t mean she’s had it easy. Aileen represents a small, repressed group of women under the thumb of the underworld of Ireland: the vicious mob that rules with an iron fist.