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“If you’re suggesting that Una is crazy,” I hiss dangerously. “Then we have a serious—”
“I’msuggestingthat the mind is a complex fucking thing, man.” He grunts. “Seamus O’Conor is dead, Cill. We both saw him—himandthe gaping hole where his heart was. You don’t bounce back from that, no matter how many fucking vitamins you take every day.” He shakes his head slowly. “You’re chasing a ghost, Cillian.”
This would be so much easier if I agreed with them. If I could remind myself that Unadoescome from a long history of abuse, violence, and major stress, even beyond whatever her monster of a father ingrained into her and Finn when they were kids, secretly visiting him at that psych ward.
Yes, she may be broken, and damaged. But that doesn’t make her crazy.
At least, notthatkind of crazy.
The problem is, Idobelieve Una heard her father’s voice on the phone the other day. Which means I’ve opened up a whole new level of crazy for myself.
Worse, that ghosts are real.
29
UNA
Cillian’ssecond in command is quiet as we fight our way through the gridlocked streets of Manhattan toward Hell’s Kitchen.
We’re on our way to my old apartment. A while back, Cillian brought a bunch of things from the place when he went to get Bones. But earlier today, I realized with a pang that I didn’t have the old photo album of Polaroids of Finn and I from our LA days.
It’s one of my most precious belongings, and I hate that it took me this long to notice it was missing. And I wanted to scream, realizing it was probably long gone by now, thrown out ages ago.
That is, until Cillian casually mentioned that he’s been paying the rent on the apartment this whole time. Which I obviously demanded to pay him back for.
Which he obviously ignored.
But, that means my stuff is still there. Hence, Castle driving me over to retrieve it.
I awkwardly clear my throat. “Thanks for driving.”
“No problem,” he responds in a clipped tone.
My brow furrows, my eyes watching him sideway as he maneuvers the tortuous traffic. I know he’s not always this gruff and stoic. I’ve seen the way he interacts with Neve and Eilish, and even Callie.
But with me, he goes full on strong and silent type.
“So, how long have you worked for Cillian?”
“A while.”
Okay, this is ridiculous.
“Do you not like me?”
He hides it well, but I catch the way his eye flickers, his jaw clenches, his hands grip the wheel a little tighter.
Castle’s got this classic all-American football star thing going on that I’m sure drives most women crazy. Blond, blue eyes, square, corn-fed jaw, six and a half feet tall, and built like a tank. I even looked for a flirtation between him and Eilish the other day, given that he was, and continues to be, her de facto bodyguard, and really, that salacious story writes itself.
But I was way off. The two of them are basically siblings, the way they behave—he the overprotective older brother; she the perpetually annoying kid sister. It’s actually pretty damn adorable.
But there’s nothing adorable about the hard look he gives me over the center console of the Range Rover.
“It’s a simple yes or no question. My feelings won’t be hurt if—”
“It’s more that I’m trying to figure out if I cantrustyou.”
I swallow as he suddenly yanks the SUV to the side, jams it into park, and turns to face me. His eyes narrow.
