Page 16 of The Thief
Alastríona
I can't sleep.
I’ve spent the night tossing and turning, Freddie's words spinning round my head like a broken record. All I can think about is a family I never knew existed.
By four in the morning, I give up on sleep and make tea, then I sit at my tiny kitchen table with my laptop open and stare at the search bar like it might bite me.
Gallagher family, Dublin.
The results make my blood run cold.
There are headlines about shootings, arrests, and territory wars, photos of hard-faced men in expensive suits walking out of courthouses. These are the kind of men Dad always told me to avoid. The kind who solve problems with bullets and bury their mistakes in shallow graves.
But there's other stuff too; charity events, legitimate businesses, photos of weddings and christenings that look almost normal. Almost.
I click on a photo from some society magazine. It’s a funeral, by the looks of it. The caption reads: Henry Gallagher at his son Killian's memorial service.
The man in the photo is older, more distinguished. Grief is carved into every line of his face. Behind him stand some other men; younger versions of the same hard features, the same dangerous eyes.
My family, apparently.
I close the laptop before I can see any more. Before I can start wondering what kind of life I might have had if Dad had never taken me away from all this.
Work feels different tonight. Like I'm seeing Murphy's through someone else's eyes. The broken furniture, the smell of desperation, the way the regulars nurse their drinks like they're medicine.
This isn't a home. It's a hiding place.
Freddie's words echo in my head as I pull pints and dodge wandering hands. Maybe he's right. Maybe I have been hiding. But from what? And why?
"You're distracted tonight, love," Murphy says during a quiet moment. "Everything alright?"
"Grand," I lie. "Just tired."
He gives me a look that says he knows I'm full of shit, but he doesn't push. It’s one of the reasons I like him.
The door opens at half nine, and I don't need to look to know who it is. I feel him before I see him—that electric current in the air that seems to follow him makes my skin prickle.
"Evening," Freddie says, sliding onto his usual stool.
"I thought I told you not to bother coming back."
"You did. I don't listen well."
"Noticed that about you."
I pour his Jameson without being asked. Our fingers brush when he takes the glass, and that same jolt runs up my arm. It’s annoying how my body reacts to him when my brain knows better.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
"Like a baby."
"Liar."
I am lying. I spent half the night Googling his face, trying to figure out what kind of man Henry Gallagher sends to collect wayward granddaughters. I found nothing, which is almost worse than finding something. Men who don't exist on the internet are usually the ones you should run from.
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because you've got that look, like you've been asking yourself questions you don't want to know the answers to."
