Page 5 of Cowboy
Dylan glances back at me. "Stay inside, Caoimhe. Lock the door behind us."
As they step out into the hallway, I move closer to the door, straining to hear their hushed conversation.
"...heard anything?" Dylan's voice is low and urgent.
"Nothing yet," Ciarán replies. "But I've got a bad feeling. We need to be ready to move if..."
Their voices fade as they move further down the hall. I lean back against the door, my mind racing. What have they gotten themselves into? And more importantly, how can I help?
I may be younger, but I'm not helpless. And if Dylan's in trouble, there's no way I'm sitting on the sidelines. Whatever's going on, I'm going to find out. And I'm going to protect my brother, just like he's always protected me.
As I hear their footsteps returning, I quickly move away from the door, trying to look casual. But inside, my heart is racing. I settle onto the couch, grabbing a book and pretending to read just as the door opens.
Dylan and Ciarán walk in, their faces serious. I peek over the top of my book, studying them. There's a tension in the air I can almost taste.
"Everything okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
Dylan nods, but it's not convincing. "Yeah, all good. Just some work stuff."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Always with the 'work stuff' excuse.
Ciarán glances at me, then back to Dylan. "I should get going. We'll... talk more later, yeah?"
Dylan nods, walking him to the door. They exchange a few more whispered words before Ciarán leaves. As soon as the door closes, Dylan's shoulders slump, as if a great weight has settled on them.
"Dylan," I say softly, setting my book aside. "Please, tell me what's going on. I know something's wrong."
He turns to me, conflict clear in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might actually open up. But then the walls come back up.
"It's nothing for you to worry about, Caoimhe," he says, forcing a smile. "I've got it under control."
But I can see the lie in his eyes. Whatever this is, it's far from under control.
"I'm not a kid anymore," I argue. "I can handle it. Let me help."
Dylan shakes his head firmly. "No. Absolutely not. This isn't your problem to deal with."
"But it's yours?" I counter. "You're only sixteen, Dylan. You shouldn't have to handle everything on your own."
A flash of pain crosses his face. "I'm doing what I have to do to keep us safe. To keep you safe."
The words hang heavy in the air between us. I want to push further, to make him understand that he doesn't have to carry this burden alone. But I can see the determination in his stance. He won't budge, not tonight.
"Fine," I say, standing up. "But this isn't over. I'm not going to sit by and watch you run yourself into the ground."
As I head to my room, I hear Dylan sigh heavily behind me. I close my door, leaning against it and closing my eyes. My mind is whirling with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. What kind of trouble is Dylan in? And how can I help him when he won't even admit there's a problem?
I move to my desk and pull out a notebook. If Dylan won't tell me what's going on, I'll have to figure it out myself. I start jotting down everything I've noticed over the past few weeks: Dylan's strange behavior, the hushed conversations with Ciarán, the way he jumps at every unexpected sound.
As I write, I realize that whatever this is, it started about two weeks ago. That was when Dylan first came home looking shaken, his clothes dirty and a wild look in his eyes. Since then, he's been on edge, constantly checking his phone and having whispered conversations when he thinks I'm not listening.
I tap my pen against the paper, thinking hard. What happened two weeks ago? What changed?
Then it hits me. That was the night Dylan didn't come home until almost three in the morning. He claimed he was working late, but I remember the fear in his eyes when he finally walked through the door. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
I scribble this down, circling it. This has to be the key. Whatever happened that night, it's at the center of all this. But how can I find out more? Dylan won't talk, and I doubt Ciarán would tell me anything either. They're too loyal to each other.
I chew on my pen, lost in thought. Then an idea strikes me. Dylan's phone. If I could just get a look at it, maybe I could find some clues. Text messages, call logs, anything that might give me a hint about what's going on.
