Page 8 of Cowboy
"Caoimhe?" Auntie Trish's voice sounds far away. "Caoimhe, sweetheart, can you hear me?"
I feel hands on my shoulders, guiding me to sit down. The female Garda is kneeling in front of me, speaking softly, but I can't focus on her words. All I can think about is Dylan. His smile this morning. The worry in his eyes. The kiss on my cheek before he left.
Left and never came back.
A sob tears from my throat, and suddenly I'm crying uncontrollably. Auntie Trish wraps her arms around me, and I can feel her body shaking with her own sobs.
Through my tears, I see the Gardaí exchanging glances. The male officer steps forward. "We need to ask you both some questions. About Dylan's recent activities, his friends, any unusual behavior..."
His words snap me back to reality. The text messages. The secretive conversations. The job that required staying low and out of trouble. Whatever Dylan was involved in, it got him killed.
And Ciarán knows what it was.
I pull away from Auntie Trish, wiping my eyes. "I need to use the toilet," I manage to say.
Once inside the bathroom, I lock the door and pull out my phone with shaking hands. I dial Ciarán's number, praying he'll pick up.
"Hello?" His voice is groggy, like he's just woken up.
"Ciarán," I choke out. "Dylan's dead."
There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "What? Caoimhe, what are you talking about?"
"The Gardaí are here. They found his body. Ciarán, what the hell was he involved in? What happened to my brother?"
"Jesus Christ," Ciarán whispers. Then, more urgently, he says, "Caoimhe, listen to me. Don't tell the Gardaí anything. Don't mention me, or any jobs, or anything unusual. Do you understand me?”
My heart pounds as I listen to Ciarán's urgent words. Part of me wants to scream at him, demand answers, but the fear in his voice stops me.
"Ciarán, please," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I need to know what happened to Dylan."
There's a long pause on the other end of the line. When Ciarán speaks again, his voice is low and strained. "I can't explain everything over the phone. It's not safe. But Dylan... he got caught up in something big. Something dangerous. We both did."
My mind races, trying to piece together fragments of information. "The job you were talking about? The one that required staying low?"
"Yeah," Ciarán sighs heavily. "Look, Caoimhe, I promise I'll explain everything. But right now, you need to focus on staying safe. Don't tell the Gardaí anything about what Dylan might have been involved in. Just say you don't know."
"But—"
"Please," Ciarán interrupts, his voice desperate. "Trust me on this. It's what Dylan would want. To keep you safe."
I close my eyes, tears streaming down my face. Every instinct is screaming at me to demand answers, to tell the Gardaí everything I know. But the fear in Ciarán's voice, the memory of Dylan's worried eyes... it holds me back.
"Okay," I whisper finally. "I won't say anything."
"Good," Ciarán says, relief evident in his voice. "I'll contact you soon. Stay safe, Caoimhe."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts and crushing grief. I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose myself. Outside, I can hear Auntie Trish talking to the Gardaí, her voice thick with tears.
I splash some water on my face, steeling myself for what's to come. As I exit the bathroom, the female Garda approaches me, her eyes full of sympathy.
"Caoimhe, isn't it?" she asks gently. "I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you a few questions about your brother. Is that okay?"
I nod, my throat tight. As we sit down in the living room, I can feel the weight of their expectant gazes. I take a deep breath, Ciarán's words echoing in my mind.
"I'm sorry," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "but I don't know anything. Dylan... he never talked about what he was doing. He always said he was just working."
The Gardaí exchange glances and I see the doubt in their eyes. But I do exactly as Ciarán told me to. I repeat the same story no matter how they phrase their questions. By the time they leave, promising to be in touch about formal identification procedures, I'm exhausted and a crying mess. I can barely speak.
