Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
He didn’t try to save me, no, despite how it may’ve looked.
He was wondering why I was there.
I hated the way the girls at St. Albert’s threw themselves at him just for a glance and a nod.
I hate his blue-eyed beauty and perfect body.
I hate the way he ruled everything.
I can still hear him call me a snitch, still see the curled lip and bared teeth. Still see that narrowed-eyed glare and hear his voice, low and venomous, whispering that he hated me too.
But I’m not that girl anymore.
“Let’s get back to Bridget,” I say, my head held high as I walk away from the McCarthy worshippers of Ballyhock.
I glance at the time, and my stomach sinks.
Goddamn it.
I hear my mother before I see her, on the other side of the frosted door meant to give us privacy.
“Sit up,” she snaps. “That’s a girl. Good. Now, are you going to eat this food or just play with it? You’re wasting away to nothing, Bridget.”
Her tone cuts. My sister’s is softer. “Leave it, Mam,” Bridget pleads. “If you think it’s so delicious, why don’t you eat it yourself?”
I step in with a pasted-on smile. “Got your sausage roll.”
My mother’s face twists.
“Sausage roll? Why would you get her that? She’ll break out.”
“Mam,” I say, with every ounce of forced calm I’ve got. Darragh fades into the hallway, shadow-like, watching again. “In case you missed it, Bridget’s not eating much.” I glance at her frail frame. “I figured food might help. She asked for a sausage roll.”
And in my head, I finish the sentence—whatever the fuck my sister asks for, she gets.
My mother purses her lips, then scans me from head to toe, her eyes widening in horror. Oh god. What did I do now?
“Erin, do you mean to tell me you just went out like that? In public?” When her voice gets to that high-pitched note…
I glance down.
Faded jeans. A jumper. Comfortable shoes.
“What’s wrong with this?”
She lifts her chin. The queen surveying her kingdom.
Not a wrinkle on her face, even her forehead is smooth as silk. Botox. Fillers. Whatever it takes to maintain the illusion. “You’re a Kavanagh woman. That’s what’s wrong.”
I sigh.
Mam was beautiful when she was younger, but she’s older now, and the thick makeup’s beginning to wear.
“Come here,” she says, as she pulls a hairbrush out of her bag.
I gawk at her. “Mom, no,” I say, pulling back when she reaches for me. “Are you out of your mind?” I push her hand away.
“Just let me fix your—”
“No!” My voice rises in fury.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I tap my pocket. It doesn’t help.
Fingertips to thumb. Still doesn’t help.
I turn to Bridget, who immediately reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. I let out a breath. It helps.
“Here,” I say, handing her the sausage roll. Bridget sighs and leans back against her pillows. She takes a bite of the sausage roll and smiles. “Thanks, Erin. It’s delicious.”
“Of course,” I say.
My mother sighs. “Did you hear about the McCarthys? Something about a bomb?”
I thought it wise not to tell them what happened when I was there. Mam’s eyes are on her phone as she taps her screen with one perfectly manicured nail.
“A bomb?” “, as our family was McCarthy family adjacent.
My mother’s voice is flat as she stares at the phone. “It’s a shame. They’re well-loved in Ballyhock. People are outraged.”
A beat passes. When I don’t respond, she pierces me with another look.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Erin, are you still holding that high school grudge?” she says, rolling her eyes so hard they might stay that way. “Kids play. It’s what they do.”
Why does everyone suddenly love the McCarthys?
“Since when are you friends with the McCarthys?” I ask, giving her a curious look.
She sets the phone down like it’s made of glass. Her face goes a little pale.
She clears her throat. “Since I discovered the McCarthys are friends with Dr. Rosenberg. The one in Glasgow,” she says, quiet now.
I give her a sharp look.
“The Dr. Rosenberg? The one doing… experimental procedures. For people with…” Aplastic anemia.
“Aye.”
Bridget sits up straighter, and my stomach clenches. My mother puts on a detached, impersonal front, but I know how it breaks her heart to see her daughter sick, knowing there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.
No amount of motherly fussing—like brushing our hair, making us sit up straighter, or fixing what was visible so we wouldn’t embarrass her—can fix what’s breaking now.
“Listen…” My voice cracks. “We’ve talked about this. You know he’s booking two years out. And he refuses to take clients now. Even for bribes. Won't even meet with Da—”
Or take his money or his bribes or anything.
Bridget’s eyes hold mine. She knows what I’m not saying.
We don’t have two years.
Six months, maybe eight if we’re lucky. That’s what the doctors said last week, the ones Mam doesn’t want to know about, as if denying reality will somehow keep Bridget here longer.