Page 37 of The Thief
I should go back to my flat. Should get some sleep, clear my head, and prepare for whatever's coming next. Instead, I find myself driving through Dublin's quiet streets toward Henry's house.
I’m just checking on her, I tell myself. Just making sure she's safe, that Henry's security is doing its job. Professional responsibility, nothing more.
Bullshit, and I know it.
I park across the street and settle in to watch. The house is quiet, most of the windows are dark. Security patrol makes their rounds every twenty minutes, with clockwork precision that speaks to military training.
Henry's not taking any chances. Good.
A light comes on in the blue room. Her room. I can see her shadow moving around behind the curtains, pacing back and forth like she can't settle.
I don't blame her. This is her first day with a family she's never met, learning truths about her father that change everything she thought she knew. It would be enough to keep anyone awake.
The shadow stops moving. For a moment, I think she's gone to bed. Then the curtains part slightly, and I catch a glimpse of her face. She's looking out at the street, maybe sensing she's being watched.
Smart girl—those survival instincts kept her alive in Belfast.
She disappears from the window, and I think that's the end of it. Time to go home, get some sleep, and pretend I'm not developing feelings for a woman who's supposed to be just another job.
Then music starts playing. Soft, barely audible from across the street. Classical, maybe. Something with strings and sadness. The kind of music people play when they're trying to make sense of their lives.
Her shadow appears again, but different now, it’s moving with rhythm, with purpose. She's dancing.
Dancing alone in a dead man's room to music that sounds like heartbreak.
I should leave, give her privacy and let her process whatever she's feeling without an audience. But I can't move. Can't look away from this private moment, this glimpse of who she is when she thinks nobody's watching.
She moves like water, like smoke. Graceful despite the grief she's carrying, beautiful despite the anger. Like she's dancing with ghosts, with memories of a father who taught her to survive but not how to live.
It makes me think of Ava, of the nights she'd put on music and dance around my flat while I watched from the kitchen. She moved differently than Alastríona—more aware of her audience, more performed. But the sadness was the same.
Women dancing with ghosts. Story of my fucking life.
The music stops. Alastríona's shadow goes still for a moment, then disappears from the window. The light goes out a few minutes later, leaving the room dark.
I sit there for another hour, watching the house sleep. Telling myself I'm doing my job, keeping her safe. Knowing I'm really here because I can't stay away.
Dangerous territory. Jer always warned me about jobs that get personal, about targets that become people instead of objectives. He said that's how good thieves become dead thieves.
But Jer's gone now. And I'm sitting in my car at two in the morning, watching a house where a blue-eyed girl dances alone with her father's ghost.
Maybe Maverick's right. Maybe I have gone soft.
Maybe that's not entirely a bad thing.
My phone buzzes with a text from Stephen.
Lorenzo's contact wants to meet. Tomorrow night. This could be our break.
Our break. Our chance to get inside Trace's operation, to find the weakness that'll let us put a bullet through his skull.
Justice for Jer. Justice for Ava, maybe. Justice for everyone who's died because Trace Harrington thinks he can take what doesn't belong to him.
I should be excited. Should be planning, strategizing, thinking about how to make the most of this opportunity.
Instead, I'm thinking about a woman dancing alone in the dark, trying to make sense of a life that's been turned upside down.
I’m thinking about how to keep her safe in a world that's about to explode into violence.
