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I’m quiet, lost in my thoughts and thinking about Darcy and what she revealed about Liam Doyle.
Cian is helping me clean out the castle, and when he tries to playfully tackle me, I strike out and punch him in the jaw. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, one which I learned being locked behind bars with the depraved.
“Fuck!” he curses, cupping his chin. “I was just playin’.”
“I’m sorry,” I quickly apologize, flinching when I see I’ve busted his lip open. “Bad habits die hard, I suppose.”
“What happened to ya in there? Yer…different.”
Of course, he’d assume Riverbend House is a “normal” prison where officers look out for the well-being of prisoners. But there is nothing normal about that place.
“Whatever ya believe Riverbend House to be, it is not. The officers are more depraved and corrupt than the inmates.”
I understand he’s curious about what my life has been like for the past ten years. But the truth is, I don’t feel comfortable sharing that with him yet. I don’t want him knowing all the vile things I did and enjoyed doing.
“I want to know what happened to my best friend,” he presses with sincerity.
I appreciate it. “Maybe one day, but not today.”
He nods, accepting my reply.
“Let’s throw out the boggin’ couch next,” he says, changing the subject.
Cian has offered to help me clean the castle up because it’s more than a one-man job. A builder Hannah found online is coming out today to look at the damage. I’m expecting the worst.
I’ve told Cian not to stray too far without me. Not because I’m worried the unstable structure will collapse and render him unconscious, but rather, I don’t know who is lurking in the shadows—take your pick, it could be anyone.
The crunching of gravel has both Cian and I turning to see a police car coming up the drive.
“The fuck they want?” he asks while I shrug.
The guns and knives Cian brought over are hidden away, so we’re in the clear. The weapons are hardly the arsenal I need, but they’ll do until I can get my hands on something that packs a little more heat.
We wait for the officer to exit the car. I have no idea who he is, but when Cian curses under his breath, it’s obvious this peeler is known to him. He adjusts his belt, ensuring we see his gun. I roll my eyes at his desperate attempt to flaunt his authority.
“Mornin’,” he says, eyeing us closely when he notices Cian’s bleeding lip.
“Hi,” Cian replies while I don’t bother.
It’s obvious he sees me as nothing but a criminal.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” he explains. “I’m Constable Shane Moore.”
I merely look at him, hinting if he has a point, then to make it.
I don’t realize the significance of his surname and Cian’s reaction to him until he says, “Donovan Moore was my father.”
Cian waits for me to respond, and when I chuckle, he sighs, knowing this won’t end well.
“Ach, the chief constable’s son, here in the flesh. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I sarcastically say because this arsehole is not welcome here.
His father is the reason I was thrown into prison so he could climb the ranks, uncaring I was rotting in hell. I don’t fail to notice his use of past tense.
“What happened to him then? I’d love to catch up on old times over a pint.”
Cian conceals his snort of laughter behind a cough.
Shane’s cheeks turn a brutal red. “My da died two years ago. Heart attack.”
