Page 164 of Dirty Eoin

I pick up my burner and stare at the screen before typing the message. He may as well use this number now as I’ll have no option but to introduce him to my alter-ego.

Jaine:I love you.

My finger hovers.

Send. Not send.

I smile at the screen. I want him to know. He needs to know. He’s waited long enough for me to say those words back.

He’s waited a whole lifetime to hear them.

I press send.

My phone rings moments later.

“Dylan.”

“Jaine, I don’t know how to tell you this.” His voice is panicked. It immediately brings memories flooding back. Memories from the worst day of my fucking life.

Please, God. Not again.

“Is it Fin?”

“Fin’s fine. It’s Eoin. He’s been shot.”

“Where?”

“Outside Cillian’s apartment.”

“Where on his body has he been fucking hit, Dylan!” He knows exactly what I’m asking and why, and his silence speaks volumes.

“Dylan!”

“In the gut, Jaine.” I can tell by his tone that he didn’t want to go into that level of detail over the phone because he now knows exactly what I’m thinking.

That’s he going to die.

“Where is he?”

“New York Presbyterian.”

New York Presbyterian Hospital

Deja-vu? History repeating?

Given I can recall every single shitty detail of the previous two occasions, I guess it’s the latter.

Raf. Gut shot. Dead.

Ace. Gut shot. Dead.

Eoin. Gut shot.

I arrived at the hospital on my hog with no recollection of how I got here. I don’t even remember entering the building. All I recall is an endless maze of identical white walled corridors, each ending with a set of revolving doors offering three choices.

Turn left. Turn right. Straight ahead. Turning back was never an option.

And people. So many people milling around getting in my way while getting on with their lives.

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