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“I have no idea,” Nolan said. “Look for the envelopes, just in case.”
Nolan started copying all the folders onto the flash drive. There were more of them than he would have expected, surprisingly organized and clearly labeled with headings that corresponded to the IRA’s organizational structure as well as the names of certain locations under Seamus’s control, like the Playpen and the Cat.
He searched the desk for the envelopes. When he didn’t find them, he tapped his gloved fingers on the desk as the folders continued copying to the flash drive, his eyes drifting again to the picture on Seamus’s desk. It was hard to imagine Seamus really loving a woman. Then again, it had been hard to imagine him with a computer. Did he intentionally mislead his men, allowing them to think he was some kind of dinosaur who hadn’t yet moved into the twenty-first century? Or had they all been too lazy to dig beneath Seamus’s surface? What else would they find there if they really looked?
“No envelopes,” Will said. “He either hasn’t labeled them yet or he keeps them somewhere else.”
“It won’t matter,” Nolan said. “I have a feeling this baby is going to give us everything we need.”
“Makes me fecking nervous,” Will grumbled.
Nolan looked at him. “You’re nervous about copying files, something Seamus doesn’t have a shot in hell of tracing, but you weren’t nervous about breaking into his house?”
He shrugged. “It’s outside my comfort zone.”
“One more.” Nolan watched as a blue bar kept him apprised of the final folder’s progress.
“We really need to get out of here,” Will said.
“Almost there.” The blue bar hovered near the end of the progress marker, then finally filled it in. “Done.”
“Thank god.”
Nolan removed the flash drive, put it in his pocket, and made sure the interface looked like it had when he’d opened the computer. Then he shut the lid and looked at Will.
“Let’s get out of here."
19
Bridget stood in the kitchen and soaped up a dinner plate. They had a dishwasher, but her father was working late again and Owen hadn’t felt like eating. Bridget had happily agreed with her mother that it was a takeout kind of night, and they’d ordered pizza and eaten in the living room. They’d only dirtied a couple of dishes, and her mom hated to run the dishwasher if it wasn’t full.
Owen had sat with them, but Bridget could tell his mind was elsewhere. She wondered if she should ask him about the Dignitas brochure, if he wanted to talk about it. She didn’t want him to know her mother had found the brochure, but he wasn’t exactly overflowing with conversational options.
His friends from school still came by to say hello now and then, although less frequently lately, now that she thought about it. They brought video games Owen couldn’t really play and junk food he couldn’t eat, but they were trying. Still, Bridget didn’t see Owen bringing up his decision to euthanize himself with Red O’Reilly or Johnny Dolan.
Her throat closed around the thought of talking about it. She wanted to make sure she was up to the task, that she could have the conversation in a way that served Owen and not herself. Right now she didn’t trust herself not to bawl like a baby, not to beg him to keep fighting, not to tell him how much she still needed him — how much they all needed him.
Is that what you think is fair?
Her mother was right. This — all of this — was about Owen: what was best for him, what he wanted. Bridget wouldn’t have the conversation about Dignitas until she was sure she could do it right. He deserved that.
“I think you were washing that same plate when I left,” her mother admonished as she came into the room.
Bridget looked down. “Was I?”
“Something on your mind, love?” The question was casual, but Bridget knew her mom was giving her an opening to talk about the work she did for Seamus.
She appreciated the gentle opening, her mom was always good about that, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk, about the brochure from Owen’s room or her work for Seamus, especially tonight when Nolan and Will were breaking into Seamus’s house.
“Not really,” she said.
“All right then.” Her mom opened the fridge. “Pumpkin or chocolate?”
“Neither. My pants are getting tight.” They’d been working their way through the leftover Thanksgiving pie for the past four days.
“Bollocks. You’re as skinny as ever. My own Mum would have scolded me for being so thin.”
“Thank god you’re not like her,” Bridget said.
