Page 177 of The Thief
I stand at the bedroom window, watching black cars arrive one by one. They're coming from all over Ireland, from London, and from places I've never heard of. Henry's people are coming to pay their respects to a man who commanded loyalty even in death.
"You should eat something," Freddie says from behind me.
"Not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I said I'm not hungry."
He doesn't push. He just moves to stand beside me at the window. Another car pulls through the gates, this one carrying people I don't recognize. More family, probably. More Gallaghers are coming to say goodbye to their patriarch.
"They'll be looking for me," I say quietly.
"Who?"
"All of them. They'll want to meet Henry's granddaughter, the girl he died protecting." My voice cracks on the last words. "They'll want to see if I was worth it."
"Tríona—"
"Was I, Freddie? Was I worth his life?"
"That's not how love works. Henry didn't die protecting you because you were worth it. He died protecting you because he loved you. Because that's what grandfathers do."
"How would I know? I never had one before."
The words hang between us, bitter and raw. I've been holding this inside for days now, this crushing weight of guilt and grief and the terrible knowledge that a good man is dead because of me.
"I don't belong here," I whisper.
"What?"
"Look at them." I gesture toward the arriving cars. "Look at all these people who knew him for years, who loved him, who were part of his life. I knew him for months. Barely that."
"You were his blood."
"Blood doesn't make family. Not real family. These people have history with him, memories, years of shared experiences. I have what? A few conversations? Some stolen moments between one crisis and the next?"
Freddie's quiet for a long moment, processing my words. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured.
"Is that really what you think? That you didn't matter to him?"
"I think I was a stranger he felt obligated to protect because his son was my father. I think he's dead because of duty, not love."
"You're wrong."
"Am I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like Henry Gallagher died for an idea. For the concept of a granddaughter rather than the reality of who I actually am."
The sound of more cars draws my attention back to the window. A sleek black Mercedes pulls up, and I watch as Denis gets out, followed by a woman with red hair I recognize as Holly. Behind them, another car disgorges Makenna and several men I don't know.
They all look like they belong here. Like they're part of something bigger than themselves, something I'll never truly understand.
"I should go," I say suddenly.
"Go where?"
"Back to Belfast. Back to my real life."
"This is your real life."
