Page 9 of Blindsided
“Shut up or help,” Wren says sharply.
I step forward and place my hands on the coffin lid beside Declan’s. Our eyes meet briefly, and I see something there I rarely witness in my cousin—fear.
“On three,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. “One... two... three.”
We lift the lid together, the hinges protesting after months of silence. The flashlight beam illuminates the interior, and all five of us freeze.
The coffin is empty.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “He was telling the truth.”
Declan’s face has gone pale, his eyes fixed on the satin lining of the empty casket. “He’s not here.”
“That’s impossible,” Kat says, her voice rising. “We all saw him. At the funeral—”
“Was a closed casket,” Rory finishes. “Tomas insisted that in his Will.”
A cold feeling settles in my gut as the pieces start coming together—the meeting at the docks, the foreign man, my father’s hushed phone calls. Uncle Tomas wasn’t just paranoid—he was running from something. Someone.
“The letter,” Wren says. “Ireland. The lockbox.”
Declan straightens, a new determination hardening his features. “Pack your bags,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to Ireland.”
“All of us?” I ask, gesturing around the crypt.
Declan turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “Especially you, Kane. You saw something that day at the docks. Something you’re still not telling us.”
I swallow hard. He’s right, of course. There’s more to what I witnessed—much more. The foreignman wasn’t just arguing with Uncle Tomas; he was threatening him. And the words I overheard weren’t just about being found.
They were about what would happen to the entire MacGallan family if Tomas didn’t return what he’d taken.
“Fine,” I say, meeting Declan’s stare. “But you’re not going to like what you find there.”
“Probably not,” he agrees. “But it’s time we learned what my father was hiding.”
As we close the empty coffin and seal the vault, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re opening something far worse than a grave. Uncle Tomas had secrets—dangerous ones—and now we’re all going to pay the price for them.
Walking out of the crypt into the cool night air, I look up at the stars and wonder if the old man is out there somewhere, watching us stumble into his mess. If he is, I hope he appreciates the irony: the black sheep of the family might be the only one who knows enough to save it.
Chapter 3
Kane
I squinted at my phone through bleary vision, trying to focus on the gate number as we barreled through the international terminal. My head pounded from last night’s whiskey, which had somehow extended into this morning’s whiskey. The airport’s fluorescent lights were doing me no favors.
“Gate C36,” I muttered, shoving my phone back into my pocket and nearly colliding with a luggage cart. “I think.”
“You think?” Declan whirled around, his face a fascinating shade of crimson. “You fucking think? We’re about to miss the only flight to Dublin today, and you think you know the gate number?”
I shrugged, enjoying his meltdown more than I probably should. “Relax, cousin. The plane can’t leave without its most valuable passenger.” I patted my jacket pocket where my flask nestled comfortably.
“I swear to God, Kane, if you’re drunk right now—” Declan started.
“Not drunk,” I corrected, stumbling slightly as we rounded a corner. “Maintaining. There’s a difference.”
Behind us, Kat and Wren were struggling with their carry-ons, both inexplicably wearing oversized sunglasses inside the terminal. Something about a shopping spree last night when they should have been packing.
“Ladies,” I called back, “if you’d packed fewer shoes, maybe you could keep up.”
