Page 22 of The Thief
"Like that."
She's quiet for another few minutes, thinking it through. Smart girl. She knows there's no going back now, not after what happened in that alley. Blood's been spilled, lines have been crossed. Belfast's not safe for her anymore.
But then again, nowhere's really safe in our world. There are just different degrees of danger, different flavors of violence.
"Why do you care?" she asks suddenly.
"What?"
"Why do you care if I change my mind? You're just the messenger, right? The job's the same either way."
Good question. Why do I care? A week ago, she was just a name on a piece of paper. A target to be retrieved, nothing more. A package to be delivered to Henry Gallagher's doorstep.
Now, she's something else. Something I can't quite name.
"Maybe I don't like seeing people trapped," I say.
"Everyone's trapped by something."
"Not everyone."
"No? What are you trapped by?"
The question hits harder than it should. What am I trapped by? Guilt that Jer trusts me like a son and I’ll never live up to it? Anger at a dead woman who lied about everything? The need to prove I’m more than just a thief with good reflexes?
All of the above, probably.
"Ghosts," I say finally.
She turns to look at me then, her blue eyes studying my face like she's trying to read something there. It’s dangerous territory. I don't like being read, especially not by women who see too much.
"What kind of ghosts?"
"The kind that don't stay buried."
Ava's face flashes through my mind. Beautiful, lying Ava with her secrets and her married life, I never knew about. Sometimes I think the worst part isn't that she's dead; it's that I never really knew her at all.
Our last fight plays on repeat in my head like a broken record. I should've seen the signs, should've known something was wrong. But I was too caught up in the fantasy of what we were to see the reality of what she was.
"Where the hell have you been?" I ask.
Ava’s in my kitchen, making tea like she belongs there. Like she hasn't been gone for three weeks without explanation.
"Out."
"Out where?"
"Christ, Freddie, what are you, my keeper?"
She’s different. Distant. She keeps checking her phone, jumping every time it buzzes. Acting like she has somewhere else to be, someone else to see.
I should've trusted my instincts. I should've known.
"Just wondering. You've been... off lately."
"Off how?"
"I don't know. Secretive. Like you're hiding something."
