Page 27 of The Thief
"That's not what I asked."
No, it's not. She asked if I'll be alright, and the honest answer is probably not. Jer's death has torn something loose inside me, something I can't put back together with willpower and stubbornness.
But she doesn't need to know that. She has enough problems of her own without taking on mine.
"I'll be fine."
"Liar."
"Yeah. But I'm a functional liar."
That gets me another almost-smile. That’s two in one night. Must be some kind of record.
We're close now. I can see Henry's neighborhood up ahead, the kind of expensive Dublin suburb where old money goes to pretend it's respectable. Big houses with bigger walls and security systems that cost more than most people make in a year.
"Last chance," I say. "There’s still time to turn around."
"And go where? Back to Belfast? Back to pulling pints and dodging grabby drunks?"
"Back to a life that's yours."
"Was it mine, though? Or was it just another form of hiding?"
Good question. Maybe we're all hiding from something. Maybe the only difference is whether we're hiding behind bars or behind walls.
"Your call."
She looks out at Henry's street, at the life waiting for her beyond those gates, then she takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.
"Let's go meet my family."
I pull up to Henry's gate and punch in the code he gave me. The iron gates swing open with mechanical precision, revealing a driveway that probably cost more than my flat.
Here we go. Into the lion's den, with a girl who doesn't know she's about to become a pawn in a game bigger than anything she's imagined.
I hope I'm not making the biggest mistake of my life.
I hope she's strong enough for what's coming.
I hope any of us are.
CHAPTER FOUR
alastríona
The gates close behind us with a soft clang that sounds like a prison door.
Henry Gallagher's house isn't what I expected. It's massive, three stories high. It probably cost more than most people see in a lifetime. But it's not flashy. No gold lions or gaudy fountains. Just old money trying to look respectable, like the violence that built it happened somewhere else entirely.
Freddie parks in front of steps, the engine ticks as it cools, and it’s the only sound in the sudden quiet.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"No."
"Good. Means you're smart."
The front door opens before we reach it. A man steps out—mid-sixties, expensive suit, the kind of face that's seen too much and forgotten how to smile properly. He looks me up and down like I'm livestock at the market.
