Page 32 of Irish Reign

I tell Fairfax he can’t walk Aiofe to classes. I need him at the house. Aiofe is too frail to carry her book bag. The public streets aren’t safe.

Fairfax negotiates with Rory O’Hare, and O’Hare assigns his best enforcer to drive Aiofe to and from school.

I tell Fairfax Aiofe can’t manage speaking to strangers. She’s suffered more trauma in her short life than most adults. She’s only been talking for a month. She may not be able to communicate effectively with the sisters if anything goes wrong.

Fairfax meets with Sister Immaculata, the headmistress of the school, who administers a placement test, focusing on Aiofe’s language skills. Aiofe ranks in the ninety-fifth percentile for girls her age.

I tell Fairfax Aiofe faces too many threats. Paparazzi might follow her to the playground. Russo might get at one of the teachers, or a janitor, or even a parent of another student.

Sister Immaculata agrees to let O’Hare’s man sit outside Aiofe’s classroom. He can go to the cafeteria, too. He can stand on the playground at recess. The nun’s only restriction is that no student see any weapon he carries.

I tell Fairfax he’s overstepped his bounds. He’s in charge of the house only, nothing on the outside. He shrugs and bakes a batch of Aiofe’s favorite biscuits.

I tell Fairfax I’ll dock his pay. He whistles and shifts laundry from the washing machine to the dryer.

I tell Fairfax I’ll send him packing. He laughs and makes a sack lunch for Aiofe to carry the next morning.

I won’t tell Fairfax I can’t handle the donation. I shift funds about, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul—or Agnes, as the case might be. I write a check with far too many zeroes.

And on Monday, June 3, eleven-year-old Aiofe Máiréad Mason heads to St. Agnes for her very first day of school, ever.

Aiofe’s at her feckin’ school.

Samantha’s working in her office upstairs.

Fairfax is in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans like he’s trying to raise the dead.

I can’t take the noise. I can’t take the waiting. So I grab the keys to the Jeep and head downtown to the new construction site for the Hare and Harp.

When we found the location, I gave half a thought to renovating the old bar that already sat there. But there was dry rot in the joists and mildew in the walls. I had to finish thebasement, building out the special room my business requires. So, in the end, it was easier to take the whole thing down and start fresh.

There are perks to running one of the largest construction firms in town. I put my best foreman on the job, raised the budget by twenty-five percent, and told him to finish up six weeks early.

Money. It’s only feckin’ money.

The Hare is still a hard-hat site, and I’m not about to chance ruining a bespoke suit on a stray nail or two. It feels good to wear jeans and work boots. I like talking to Jack, the head carpenter, hearing his explanation for why they’re bumping the ceilings up six inches on the second floor. The electrician is there as well, excited to show off his wiring diagram.

Supervising new construction isn’t a complete distraction. I check my watch half a dozen times, noting when Aiofe’s in first period class, when she’s at recess, when she’s at lunch. I know the tracker I put in her backpack can’t confirm no one’s dragged her off school grounds, but at least the bookbag is still at St. Agnes.

When the construction crew takes their late-morning break, I head down to the basement. The drain there is deep and wide, just the way I ordered. The floor has a gentle slope. Once it’s tiled, with the grout sealed, it will be easy to clean. A network of pipes wait for heavy-duty shower curtains—more clean-up considerations—and the joists have been reinforced so a heavy man can be suspended two feet off the floor.

I’m just testing the pulley hanging directly over the drain when I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Jack!” I call. “You’ve done good work here.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not Jack.”

I knew it wasn’t Jack from the first syllable out of her mouth.

Samantha’s not as concerned about ruining her clothes as I was. She’s wearing one of her skirts—the first one I ever gave her. It’s pink and covered in flowers that match her soft short-sleeve sweater. She’s wearing knee-high lug-sole boots I’ve never seen before, which is an oversight, because they make me want to push her up against the wall and fuck her till she screams.

I clear my throat. “You’re supposed to have a hard hat.”

She crosses the basement floor, and there’s no reason her hips have to sway like that. “Whoops,” she says. Her fingers are steady as she takes the hat off my head. She puts it on, settling it too far back on her own head for any real protection. “It’s a good thingyoualways follow the rules.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“I figured you needed a little distraction on Aiofe’s first day in school.”

“I have a dozen projects in the city.”

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