Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (28 page)

Simon’s car comes to a squeaking halt in its parking spot. I’m actually impressed with myself for making it to and from Ivy’s without crashing. And I owe that to River.

Having switched my phone back on, a message from Alex fills the screen, asking me how things are going. I’m hit with the sudden urge to call her and divulge my secret. Maybe she can help me make sense of everything I’m feeling right now. It’s only dinnertime over there, so there’s still plenty of time to connect with her tonight.

There’s also a text response from River:

Okay.

That’s all. Disappointment and hurt drag my body down as I unlock the front door and step into the house I fled from hours earlier. It’s exactly as I left it in my hurry. Turning the deadbolt behind me, I kick off my boots, grab a glass of water from the kitchen, and climb the stairs, hoping a night’s sleep will relieve me of the burn in my heart. This time last night, I was curled up in that bed with River, blissfully ignorant. Setting the glass and my phone down on the nightstand, I shed my dress and my bra, letting them fall to the ground in a heap that I don’t bother to hang, as I normally would, exchanging it for a thin cotton tank top for sleep.

I don’t see him there until I turn around.

Standing in the doorway, his hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes glued to me. Staring at me, his face—illuminated by the harsh streetlights that shine into the bedroom—easy to read. Apologetic, yes. But also filled with sadness, and frustration, and regret.

River’s here.

In my house, in the middle of the night.

Waiting for me.

At least ten heartbeats pass into the silence before I manage to speak.

“Is it true?”

He sighs, and hangs his head.

She knows.

I can feel her anger and her distrust radiating. The charade I’ve been starring in these past few days—the white knight, riding in to save her and sweep her off her feet—is effectively dead and buried.

She knows who I really am now, and she’ll never look at me that way again.

“Amber . . .”

Her eyes flicker to the bathroom. She’s planning to run from me. She could probably make it, too, though she’s not going to get anywhere beyond that, the bathroom on the second floor, her phone on the nightstand. I guess she could always open the window and scream until a neighbor calls the gardai.

“You left the door unlocked when you went out earlier,” I explain slowly, taking a step forward. “I was worried about you. I didn’t want anyone breaking in, so I waited for you.”

Her hard swallow cuts through the quiet room. “In my house. In the dark.”

“I didn’t know how you’d take to seeing lights on when you came home. So, yes, in the dark. I was in the living room when you came in, but you walked right past me.” For hours I sat there, staring out the front window for her car, for any other cars, wondering when she might finally return, my leg twitching with anticipation over how she might react to finding me in her house, despite my best intentions. It didn’t stop me from doing it, though.

When she finally did return, she moved past me in a blur, not noticing.

And I didn’t say a word.

She shudders.

“I know this doesn’t look good.”

She stands there, rigid, like a doe about to bolt from a hunter. “Where’s your car? It’s not parked out front.”

“I parked it down the street because, again, I didn’t know how you’d take to seeing it.” I was afraid she’d call the gardai and speed past.

“You just stood there and watched me change.” This time her voice is softer, sounding almost embarrassed.

“I did,” I admit. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say this, but you look beautiful tonight.” She had obviously made an effort for me. Until Duffy showed up, and ruined everything. I take another step. “I’m not going to hurt you, Amber.”

“Why are you here then?”

“I just want to talk. That’s all. I had to see you in person, explain everything.”

Her jaw clenches as the tears begin to well in her eyes. She’s fighting them. “Did you set the bomb in the park?”

“No. I would never do that. I swear. On my granddad’s grave.”

“But you know who did,” she whispers. “You lied to me, that first day in the bar. You weren’t just jogging in the park.”

That, I can’t deny. “It was for your safety. And mine. I figured it was best to leave you in the dark.”

“I don’t know how you could justify that with . . .” Her words trail off, her gaze flickering to the bed.

“I honestly didn’t think this,” I gesture between the two of us, “would happen. I mean, look at you.”

“I can’t believe I let it happen.” She hugs her arms over her body, hiding her chest. Her words—her regret—cutting into me.

We simply stare at each other from either side of the bed. I don’t know what to say, where to start. I don’t know exactly what she knows. I don’t know what she’s told Duffy.

Finally, she takes a deep breath. “Are you a part of the IRA?”

“No.” I make sure my eyes are level with hers.

“But you were?”

I hesitate. “Not in the way you think.”

She swallows hard again. “And you’ve been to prison.” She spits the word
prison
out like it’s toxic, just like I expected her to.

I never wanted her finding any of this out. I wanted to be better than this. “Yes.” I step forward, and she immediately takes steps away, until her back is against the wall.

“Amber, please trust me.”

“The IRA, River? I may be some stupid, ignorant tourist, but I know enough to know that they’re terrorists.
You
were a
terrorist
!” Her face twists up, as if she’s going to vomit.

“It wasn’t like that,” I deny, though I know it’s not a valid argument. “You’re right. The IRA today is a bunch of terrorists.” I slowly edge around the bed frame. “I have nothing to do with them anymore.”

“But you did.” She closes her eyes. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“No, you’re not.”

A weak chuckle slips through her lips. “Innocent people don’t run. You ran.”

“I had to. With my history, they wouldn’t have believed me. They would have arrested me.”

“And I fell for your entire act: that smile, that charm, finding my wallet . . . Oh my God. Was that staged? Did you get that guy to steal my wallet so you could swoop in and be the hero again? Play me for an even bigger fool?” Tears slip out at the corners of her eyes and crawl down her cheeks at an agonizingly slow rate. I can’t handle seeing her cry.

I use the moment with her eyes shut to close the distance between us. “It wasn’t an act.”

Her eyes spring open and she gasps slightly, hugging her body tighter.

“I won’t hurt you,” I say, realizing that beneath her anger, she’s actually terrified. “For Christ’s sake, I jumped in front of a bomb for you, and I didn’t even know you back then. Now?”

Thick, combustible air hangs between us.

“This isn’t me, River. I don’t do one-night stands, and sleep with convicted felons, and—”

“I know. I knew it the day you showed up at the pub.” I heave a sigh. “I should have put an end to it right then. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help myself. You were just so beautiful, so different from the girls I know, and . . .” I can’t resist reaching out to run my knuckles along her slender bicep. “The way you looked at me.” Then. Not now. Not ever again. “So you told Duffy I was at the Green?”

Wide eyes stare at me, panicked.

“I saw his business card downstairs, Amber. It’s okay if you did. I don’t want you getting in trouble for this. I’ll deal with it.” He hasn’t shown up at the pub with handcuffs yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. And I end up back in jail.

“I didn’t.”

It’s so soft, I’m not sure I heard it. I lift my gaze to her eyes, to her lips, willing the words to repeat themselves.

“I didn’t tell him. He came here with mug shots of both you and your brother, and asked if I recognized either of you. And I said that I didn’t.” She swallows. “I lied for you.”

I shouldn’t be relieved, because Amber could get into a lot of trouble, but I can’t help it. “Why would you do that?”

Her head shakes before the words slip out. “I don’t know.” She wipes the tears from her face, her hands moving aggressively, as if she’s angry at herself for crying. “Why does Duffy think you set that bomb?”

I let that question hang for what feels like an eternity, reminding myself of the promise I made to take my secret to the grave, of the danger of admitting it out loud.

“Because my brother did.”

A fresh wave of tears spill out. “Why?”

There’s just no way around this anymore. I reach out for her arms. They fall from their folded position easily, allowing me to slip my fingers through hers and pull her toward the bed. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“So, Aengus doesn’t know that I found you?”

I peer over at Amber lying on her back in bed, her delicate hands resting against her stomach, her eyes glued to the ceiling. Her thoughts hidden in the darkness. She’s been in that exact same position for almost an hour now, listening to me explain every last detail that I can remember about that day. And why.

Because my brother is IRA.

She looks like a frightened statue. Not frightened enough to run from me, though. I cling to that.

“No. And he didn’t let on that I was in any way involved, either.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Aengus is a lot of things, but he has always protected me when it counts. You and him are the only two who can ever say that I was there. Well, Eamon, too, I guess. The doctor,” I add when she frowns.

“Then why was Duffy asking about you today?”

“Because he figures that I’m somehow involved, or that I know something. He came into the pub yesterday, fishing for information. Threatening me with prison. He’s the one who put me in there the first time.”

A long stretch of awkward silence floats between us, so long that I glance over to see if maybe she’s fallen asleep. I’ve been doing most of the talking, with a question from her laced in here and there. Questions that I’ve answered with too much honesty, knowing it may burn me tomorrow, if she decides that what I have to say doesn’t make up for the fact that I lied to her.

Her eyes are still open, though. “Why did you go to prison?”

I swallow, trying to decide how to explain this in a way that she—a foreigner, and a daughter of a police officer—might understand. “I told you about my family history already. I grew up in a household of staunch republican supporters, even if they weren’t actively supporting the fighting. Generations of Delaney men fought for Ireland back when the fight was about freeing Ireland and protecting the right to be Catholic. They lived and breathed that fight with the strength of the army around them. Some of them died for it.

“It’s what my brothers and I grew up hearing about. So for us, the IRA isn’t about terrorism. It’s about fighting for what we believe in. We’d still join the marches every year in Belfast, protesting for the rights of Irish Catholics, because that was our heritage. It’s what we’d always done.

“When I was eighteen, I moved to Dublin, to the house that our nanny left us. Aengus was twenty-two and already living there, working in the bar. Rowen was still back home, finishing high school.”

I feel her eyes on me now and turn to meet them, only to have her look away, her attention on the ceiling again.

“Aengus and I were close, despite the four-year age difference and him being so hot-headed. He told me that he’d met a group of guys who supported the cause just like our family did.” I snort, remembering the conversation, how Aengus went on and on about Jimmy Conlon, who was second-in-command at the time, over pints and smokes, excitement flowing through his veins faster than the alcohol.

“He told me about this camp outside Dublin—just like the kind our da went to when he was a teenager. They taught you how to fight and load guns and stuff. I thought it’d be grand to know how to do that, because all Delaney men know how, right? I was eighteen and stupid and I thought we might be doing something important, following in some grand tradition. That maybe, if there was ever another uprising, we’d have our own stories to share with our kids, just like our da did with us.” I had always been the smart one. How I let a fool lead me into that mess is still unfathomable. “So one weekend, I climbed into Aengus’s car. We drove an hour, to this guy’s property. There was a lot of land there, with targets set up to learn how to shoot. Aengus was one of the fellas training us. He’d been there plenty of times already, so he knew what he was doing. I never connected it with this RIRA group, and I never had any intention of hurting anyone.

“Anyway, the gardai had caught wind of this place—a bunker, they called it—and had been watching it for a while. They busted it that same weekend.” I had an AR-15 in my hands when the shouts erupted and men emerged from the long grass surrounding us, the fluorescent garda name across their chests, barrels pointed at me. “We all pled guilty. The other fellas were sixteen and seventeen. They went to Oberstown, basically a juvenile detention center for boys. But because of my age, I got tried as an adult. And because of my family name, everyone assumed I was lying about not being involved with the IRA. I was really lucky, though. The gardai didn’t have enough to make the paramilitary group charges stick—some technicality, I don’t know—so I only got three years for firearms possession. Aengus got six for his part.”