Page 29 of The Thief
"Tell me about my father," I say, desperate to change the subject.
Henry's expression softens immediately. "Killian was..." He pauses, searching for words. "He was the best of us. Strong, principled, loved harder than any man I ever knew. Especially when it came to you."
"Then why didn't he tell me about you? About any of this?"
"Because he wanted you to have a choice. He wanted you to grow up normal, away from the business. He said if you never knew what you were missing, you'd never have to decide between family and conscience."
"He made that choice for me."
"Aye. And maybe he was wrong to, but everything he did was to protect you."
I take a sip of whiskey. It burns, but not enough. Nothing burns enough when you're learning your entire life has been built on lies.
"He talked about you constantly," Henry continues. "Carried pictures, bragged about your grades, your dancing, how smart you were. Proudest father I ever knew."
"But not proud enough to bring me home."
"This isn't home," Henry says gently. "Home is where you choose to make it. Killian chose to make his with you and your mother. This was just where he came to rest sometimes."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to be safe. To know where you come from. To understand that you're not alone in this world."
The words hit harder than they should. I've been alone for so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have people who cared whether I lived or died. Almost forgotten what it felt like to matter to anyone.
But this isn't real, is it? This warmth, this acceptance—it's not for me. It's for Killian's daughter. For what I represent, not who I am.
"Where's the photo?" I ask.
"What photo?"
"The one from when I was sixteen. Blue dress, flowers in my hair."
Henry's face crumples slightly. He rises to his feet and moves out of the room. He returns moments later carrying a frame. It’s the picture of me at my school's spring dance, grinning like I didn't have a care in the world.
Seeing it breaks something loose in my chest. All those years, all that time I thought nobody gave a damn about me, and this old man was carrying my picture around like a talisman.
"He sent it to me," Henry says quietly. "Said you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Said you got that from your mother, but the stubborn streak was all Gallagher."
I have to look away. I can't handle the love in his voice, the genuine warmth. It's too much, too fast. I'm not ready for family, for belonging, for any of this.
"You'll meet Denis soon," Henry says. "My grandson. Your cousin. He's been excited to meet you since he found out about you. Hell, the entire family is eager to meet you, but as Denis is closest, we thought it best that he’d be the only one to meet you just yet. We don’t want to overwhelm you."
Another cousin I never knew existed. Another piece of a puzzle I'm not sure I want to solve.
"How many are there? Cousins, I mean."
"Dozens. There are Gallaghers scattered across Dublin, Chicago, and New York. All family. All blood."
Blood. It always comes back to blood with people like this. Like sharing DNA makes you automatically trustworthy, automatically safe.
But I've met enough monsters to know blood doesn't mean anything.
"I'd like to see my room," I say. "If that's alright."
"Of course. Marcus will show you up. We've prepared the blue room. It was your father's when he was your age."
Dad's room. Christ. This stay is going to be like living in a museum dedicated to a man I'm starting to realize I never really knew.
