Page 21 of When Kings Rise

My mother wants me to be a ballerina, and my father wants a daughter to give to some sort of cult that promises favors if I’m chosen as a consort. If I fail, I bet that my father’s desire for success will weigh more heavily than my mother’s dream of a prima donna. A part of me wants to ask my father more about the O'Sullivans, but I know that will raise too many questions, so I keep my mouth shut on the topic.

“I’m going for a run,” I say. My father takes a sip of his coffee before assessing what I am wearing.

“You should wear something for the rain; it is expected in an hour or so.”

Rain sounds refreshing to me. “I won’t be long,” I say.

I leave the kitchen and exit the house through the front door that faces away from the sea. The yard has high concrete walls, making our residence private. The yard is small and kept free of plants or anything that would give it color. It’s just for cars. A small door to my left brings me out onto the street. To the left will bring me to the sea, and to the right will take me into the small village that has a bus stop. I know what makes me jog right: curiosity and the fact that I might get some answers about the O’Sullivans my own way.

I jog to the small, sheltered bus stop. The local news has been covering the story of a body identified on the outskirts of Rathcoole, a suburb of Dublin. It’s the body of Andrew O’Sullivan, uncle of Diarmuid. The obituary states that his funeral is today. So today would be a perfect opportunity to snoop around without fear of running into any of them. I've been curious about where the body of such a high-ranking member of the O’Sullivan family was found. I want to know more about Diarmuid, and this is the only lead I have. I don’t want this life, but for my sister’s sake, I need to satisfy my parents' hunger so they won’t turn to Ella.

No one else is waiting for the bus, and it approaches in the distance. I walk to the edge of the sidewalk as the bus slows down. Using my card tucked in the pocket of my phone case, I purchase a return ticket to Rathcoole. A few people are on the bus, all consumed with their phones. I take a window seat as the bus pulls away, and I have a moment of excitement at going on an adventure. I’d never been brave enough to do this before, but since I was selected as a bride for Diarmuid O’Sullivan, my parents have loosened the leash they normally keep as a chokehold around my neck.

I watch out the window as we pass fields, and before long, the sea opens up and disappears as we enter a more built-up area. I have to switch buses here, and soon, we stop at the small area named Rathcoole. I’ve never been here before; it’s a small village, even enchanting in a way. The buildings are old, and nothing has been updated, but whoever lives here takes great pride in its appearance. All the buildings appear to have a fresh coat of paint on them, each one a different vibrant color, from blues to greens, and I even spot a small pink shop.

The area where I live is suburban; my parents wanted us away from the noise of the city, but the quiet here is almost unsettling. Two people stand at the door of the only supermarket, chatting, and when I jog past, they wave with friendly smiles. It doesn’t seem like a place where someone was recently murdered.

I jog to the outskirts of the village. I have no idea of the exact location where the body was found, just that it was here in this sleepy village. I pass a few lone houses, mostly cottages, and I try to see if I can spot garda tape through the sparse undergrowth that grows behind the houses. It grows thicker, and I leave the main road and start my way through the trees and underbrush. A light rain starts to trickle down, and I pause, looking up at the angry sky. The trees rustle around me, birds chirping a song that has me inhaling a lungful of fresh air.

I continue making my way through the tree line. I don’t see any tape, and the longer I walk, the heavier the rain becomes. Before long, I’m soaked and thinking of how my father warned me about the change in weather. I should have brought my raincoat. I consider turning back, thinking how foolish this was. What would I find out anyway? Even if I came across the burial site, it wouldn’t give me any information. The ground beneath my feet is laced with fallen leaves, and with the recent downpour, it grows slippery. I spin at the sound of a male voice and nearly lose my footing. A hand reaches out and grabs my waist, stopping me from face-planting into the ground.

“Let me go,” I say through sheets of rain. The man steps back and raises his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He smiles and removes his glasses from his face. Pulling the hem of his sweater, he cleans his glasses before putting them back on. “I’m Rian Morrissey.”

His voice is light and happy. Maybe he's a local.

Niamh,” I offer up.

“What are you doing out here, Niamh?” he asks, looking around at the trees that surround us. The rain ceases its onslaught, stopping as quickly as it began.

“Looking for something,” I say.

His smile widens. “Me, too.”

His joyful voice and relaxed stature eased me a bit. He rummages in his pocket and extracts two frube yogurt tubes. He offers me one, but I decline with a shake of my head. I remember having them as a kid, but I haven’t in years.

He shrugs and places one back in his pocket before he flips the other around. “Why did the yogurt go to therapy?” he asks, reading the joke off the back.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“It had too many cultural issues.” He grins and rips the top off before sucking the yogurt from the tube.

“Funny. So, what are you looking for?” I inquire.

He grins. “I could ask you the same thing. But I'm not one for secrets.” He glances around us, his brows drawing together. “I'm here to see the burial site of Andrew O’Sullivan.” He pushes the empty wrapper into his pocket.

That snippet of information surprises me. “Are you a detective?” I ask. He looks too young to be one.

He continues to smile, but once again, I get a sense that he isn’t forcing it; he’s just a naturally happy person.

“Kind of. I run a podcast on unsolved crimes.”

“How interesting,” I say.

He starts to walk, and I fall into step beside him. What kind of luck would it be if he knew something?

“It really is fascinating,” he fixes his glasses. “I've loved unsolved crimes ever since James Reyos was proven innocent after spending forty years in prison for a murder he did not commit, thanks to a podcast. I’ve been trying to achieve the same kind of feat.”

“Forty years, really?” I shiver at the thought. Imagine being wrongfully accused and suffering for that long.

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