Page 14 of Dublin Brute

CHAPTER FIVE

Nora

Mid-morning sun pours through the living room windows, and I wince at the brightness. Sleep was fleeting and fitful at best, the nightmare tainting any chance of rest. Each step I take now brings a fresh wave of discomfort, each bruise a reminder of last night’s chaos.

I feel like cat hack hardening on an old rug.

I had hoped showering would work out the worst of the kinks—no such luck.

I shuffle from the bottom of the stairs into the kitchen, hoping for some comfort—a warm breakfast would be nice.

That’s laughable. Family breakfasts ended when my mum died.

Breakfasts in the Kelly household consist of my dad pouring himself a black coffee and staring at his laptop while he crunches through a piece of burned toast.

I stop in the hallway and steady my nerves before going in.

My father is in his late forties, but the stress of his job is wearing on him. He’s got more salt than pepper in his hair thesedays, though I still wouldn’t want to challenge him to a chase or a fight. He may look unassuming in his suit, but he’s Irish, so he’s got fight woven into the marrow of his bones.

And more than a little alpha entitlement.

“Morning,” I mutter, heading straight for the counter and reaching for the bread.

“Where were you last night? The door notification had you coming in hours after your play ended.” His tone cuts through the air sharper than a knife, but he doesn’t lift his gaze from the files he has spread open on the table.

I pop a piece of toast down and unscrew the top of the peanut butter.

“If you’re planning to be late, it would be polite to let me know. There was trouble down the road from the theater and you know I worry. A quick text is all I ask.”

My toast pops and I slather it with peanut butter and then strawberry jam. After pouring a cup of tea, I take both to the sliver of empty table on the end opposite my father. “I couldn’t text you, because I was caught in that trouble last night, and my phone was smashed in the stampede.”

That brings his attention to me, and his gaze narrows. “Caught in the trouble, how?”

I take a deep breath and tell him what happened. How Tanya and I were going to meet Kate for a drink to cap off our night. How the shooting came from out of nowhere. How a stranger tackled me to safety, but Tanya wasn’t so lucky.

In the end, I’m proud my voice is steady right until I mention Tanya. There was no hope of saying her name and not choking up.

My father leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenching. “You should’ve called me when things got dangerous.”

I pause mid-bite. “It didn’t even cross my mind. My phone was broken, my friend was dead, and I had to give my statement to the authorities. There was a lot going on.”

He narrows those slate-gray eyes at me, likeI’mthe criminal in this scenario. “If you told the person running the scene who you were, they would’ve contacted me.”

I pull a heavy breath against lead lungs and toss my toast back onto my plate. “Can’t you just ask if I’m okay? Isn’t that more important than reading me the riot act for not following procedure? My life isn’t a case file to be scrutinized, Da. I’m your daughter. My friend is dead and none of it makes any sense.”

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but stops short when I glare back. “Yes, your friend is dead. And no, violence of this sort rarely makes sense. Don’t you understand I only want you to be safe? How does that make me a horrible father?”

I cup my tea in my palms. “I’ve never said you’re a horrible father, but sometimes I feel more like one of your informants being interrogated than your child.”

He grunts and opens another folder from the stack on the table. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Dramatic? Me?He’s the one who envisions me getting raped or kidnapped at every turn. He’s the one who raised me to be small and safe and invisible to avoid anything bad ever happening.

And he thinksI’mdramatic?

I sip at my tea, and glare at the usual array of crime scene photos. I’ve grown up with images of shoot outs, stranglings, and bodies washed up on the shore being the backdrop of our family meals.

I think Da does it to scare me into being a shut-in. Yeah, well, that backfired on him because it just made me numb to horrific violence.

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