Page 66 of Dublin Devil

Ryan lifts his fist for a knuckle bump, and I lock my door behind him when he leaves. Then I pull out my phone and rush over to my bed.

Where did he put his number?

I scroll through my contacts. He’s not under Sean or Quinn, but that’s smart. He wouldn’t want my father gaining access to my phone and finding him in there. I start back at the top under the A listings and scan my contacts one by one.

When I get to B. Knight, I laugh and hop onto my bed.

So far so good. The wake was tense but civil.

I wait while the little dots bounce as he texts his reply.

You won’t be safe until you’re clear of them and back on the north side. Don’t let your guard down.

I won’t. I’ve got this.

I love that you think so, but trust me, you don’t.

His lack of faith stings a little, but it’s less about me and more about his perspective based on his experiences. We’re all a product of our past.

Better go. Big day tomorrow. Need my beauty sleep.

There’s no improving perfection.

Sweet dreams, Mr. Knight.

Sweet dreams, P. Be safe.

I don’t sleep much. I lie in bed for hours, listening for the sounds of my parents returning from the pub. It’s after two when they come in and then I’m on full alert.

I don’t want to have our confrontation when they’re upset and drunk, but like everything else—I don’t have a say in that.

Despite lying awake and listening for them to come—they don’t. I wake hours later, still dressed and lying on top of my covers.

I unplug my phone and check the time. It’s just after eight in the morning. Deciding I want to be fully awake and prepared for what’s to come, I grab some clean clothes and have my shower.

I don’t put makeup on to cover the bruises. They need to see what Da’s plotting came to. To that effect, I put my t-shirt away and grab a crop top.

Might as well go for maximum impact.

Before I go downstairs to face the firing squad, I send a quick text to Mr. B. Knight.

Heading into the lion’s den. Wish me luck.

Call if you need help. River or not, I’m there.

It means a lot that he’d brave the hostilities of breaching rival territory to help me.

I tuck my phone into the pocket of the pants I’ll wear until it’s time to dress for the funeral and draw a steadying breath.

After everything I’ve faced this week, why am I so afraid to face my parents? Whatever they say can’t be as bad as what was done to me.

Outside my bedroom, I stand in the upstairs hall and listen to the mumbled voices and clinking sounds of my family in the kitchen.

How can they be down there having breakfast as usual? Were they like this while I was gone for the past week? Did life just carry on?

Oh, our daughter was almost raped and murdered by the Russians, pass the sausage.

And the more I envision it, the more likely it seems.

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