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And once ID and money and Zilla were sorted, the plan was for Poppy to get as far away from me as possible. The sisters could hide out in Europe for a year. Or two.
And I would go back and kill every person who wanted Poppy hurt.
Even Caroline.
Especially Caroline if it came to that.
There was a knock at the door, unexpected but somehow not. I pulled my gun from where I’d put it on the mantel and walked silently to the door. Using the barrel of the gun to lift the curtains away from the side window, I wondered what kind of assassin just knocked on the front door.
Caroline, I thought. But I’d never told her about this place. That was why I’d brought us here.
I’d only ever told Poppy.
But it wasn’t Caroline standing there. It was Father Patrick looking very nervous.
Fuck. I’d forgotten the father and Poppy giving him Zilla’s number. I was tired and my thinking was shite.
I opened the door, making no effort to hide the gun in my hand. A cat, the cat Poppy had talked about, ran from whatever hidey-hole it had been in and out the door.
“The fuck you want?” I asked the priest in the traditional greeting of my people.
“Ronan,” he said and then stopped, probably all out of courage.
“Yeah?”
“I just . . . I’m checking on the lass. On you and the lass. I just want to make sure everyone is all right, like?”
“We’re fine,” I said, about to close the door.
“No. Stop—” He surprised both of us by sticking his arm out so if I did slam the door, I’d break his arm. Which wasn’t such a deterrent. But he had a blue file folder in his hand. Which was weird.
I eased open the door, my eye on the folder. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. “What is that?” I pointed the gun at the folder.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But I’d like to see your wife first.”
I laughed in Father Patrick’s face. “Look at you, playing the tough.” He stared me down and I had to give the man a little bit of credit. Here he was hours too late to do any good, but pretending to be courageous? That was exactly the way I remembered him.
“She’s sleeping. I’ll give her your regards.”
“You’re not really married to her, are you?”
“Sure, we are.” I didn’t bother to make it sound like the truth. I smiled into the roar of silence between us, but he only lifted his chin, calling my bluff.
“I texted her sister at that number.”
Jesus.
“Did she answer?” I asked. Please, God. Please tell me she didn’t fuckin’ answer.
“No.”
I blew out a long breath of air. That was something, at least. One thing breaking my way. Not that I deserved it, forgetting like I did that Poppy had asked the priest to reach out to Zilla.
“Not yet,” the priest added.
“What did you tell her?”
“That her sister was safe. That she was in a village outside of Carrickfergus.”
There were a hundred villages outside of Carrickfergus. If the wrong person was on the other end of that phone, they’d still have work ahead of themselves to find us. But they’d know where to start. The window I had opened getting Poppy out of the country and away from the people who wanted her dead or alive was closing. The clock was ticking. I needed to get my shit together and fast.
“Listen . . . if someone does get back to you, you need to tell me.”
Father Patrick smiled at me sadly. “I’ll tell her, son—”
“I’m not your fucking son,” I snarled.
“Sorry,” he said. “Part of the job, I suppose. Everyone is a child of the Lord in my eyes.”
“I’m not a child of anything.” I stepped back, starting to close the door again.
“Just a second, Ronan.” Father Patrick held out the file. “I wanted to give you this.”
I wasn’t touching that thing with a ten-foot pole. “What is it?”
“It took me a second to realize you might have been a student at the school. When I went to town, I spoke with Sinead who told me you weren’t Ronan Smith, but Ronan Byrne. You’re the boy who—”
“What the fuck’s in the file?” I interrupted, not needing any reminders of what I’d done or why I’d done it.
“When they closed down the school and sent Father McConal away, we were told to destroy the files.”
“Whose files?”
“The students.”
“The prisoners, you mean?”
Father Patrick nodded. “I suppose. Yes. That might be a fitting word. But I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t destroy them. The church was burying what had happened at St. Brigid’s, and it felt like burning the files would have been more of the same. And it just didn’t seem right.”
“So, you’ve been handing them out?
“Some of the boys who stayed local, I found them and gave them back.”
