Page 31 of The Thief
"Maybe I should trust them."
"Maybe. But trust has to be earned, not demanded."
I pick up the photo of my parents and study their faces. They look so young, so hopeful. Like they believed their love could conquer anything.
"Do you think he was happy?" I ask. "My father?"
"What do you mean?"
"Living two lives. Family here, family with me. Keeping secrets from everyone he loved."
Freddie's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured.
"I think he did what he thought was right. Doesn't mean it was easy."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I've got."
Fair enough. We're all just making it up as we go along, aren't we? Trying to do right by the people we love while the world burns down around us.
Another knock. This time it's Marcus.
"Breakfast," he says. "Henry's waiting."
"We'll be right down," Freddie says.
But Marcus doesn't leave. He just stands there, watching me with those cold eyes.
"Something wrong?" I ask.
"Henry's been waiting eighteen years to meet you," he says. "Don't disappoint him."
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. Be grateful. Be compliant. Be the perfect granddaughter Henry's been dreaming of, or else.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say sweetly.
Marcus leaves, but his warning hangs in the air like smoke.
"He doesn't like me," I observe.
"Marcus doesn't like anyone who might complicate Henry's plans."
"What plans?"
"The kind that involve using Killian's daughter to unite the family. The kind that turns you into a symbol instead of a person."
Great. From Belfast bar girl to Dublin symbol in one easy step. Just what I always wanted.
"Come on," Freddie says, standing. "Time to play happy families."
Breakfast is an awkward affair, with uncomfortable questions that sound like thinly veiled insults.
The food is excellent. The company is harder to swallow.
Henry tells stories about Dad; childhood pranks, teenage rebellion, the day he met my mother. Stories that make Dad sound like a real person instead of the saint I've been carrying around in my head.
"He was stubborn," Henry says, refilling my water glass. "Even as a boy. Once he made up his mind about something, God himself couldn't change it."
