Page 146 of Myla: The Hawthornes

The air smelled fresh, like rain, and I inhaled deeply.

Everybody I knew had one moment, a small sliver of time, when things spun out of control and could’ve ended really badly. Now, I’d had mine. I would’ve happily stayed out of that particular club, but it was over.

The FBI may come to talk to me again, but I doubted it. From the way they’d spoken, they’d assumed that Julian Kitz would come to a bad end somehow, and I held little interest for them since I wasn’t connected to the organization they were trying to take down. There was no satisfaction in prosecuting a property manager who’d acted in self-defense.

Swallowing still hurt.

I wondered how Aoife wasreallydoing now that I knew Richie was still alive somewhere. I couldn’t imagine being away from Cian, knowing that he was alive but never being able to contact him or know anything about his life. It must’ve been agony for her. It was strange that they hadn’t let him take her and Sean with him.

I watched the sun come up over the neighborhood, my chin on my knees.

I was still sitting in the same position when Cian came storming out of the house. He threw the door closed as he stomped onto the porch. He was moving so quickly that he bypassed the three porch steps, jumping from the porch to the ground. As he reached the driveway, he stopped abruptly, staring at where my car should’ve been.

“We left it at the property, remember?” I asked, making him spin toward me in surprise.

“What are you doin’ out here, baby?” he asked, walking toward me slowly.

“You thought I left,” I replied, watching the emotions cross his face.

“Thought it was a possibility,” he conceded.

“We don’t do that anymore,” I said softly. “Remember?”

Cian nodded.

“You have to trust me at some point.”

“I do.”

“You just ran out of the house like it was on fire.”

“I couldn’t find you.”

“But you weren’t scared.”

He paused. “No.”

“You thought I’d bailed.”

He nodded again.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I fucked up before.” He reached up and scratched his beard uncomfortably. “I shoulda told you.”

“I know.”

“Wouldn’t blame you—”

“I’m pissed,” I said with a sigh. “Youshould’vefucking told me about Richie.”

“See that now.”

“You don’t have endless chances, Cian.”

“I get that.”

“But you probably have at least a couple more,” I said ruefully. “As long as they’re small things, like forgetting a date or clipping your toenails in bed or something.”

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