Chapter 9: The Kitchen

Kieran slept that night in Orla's spare room, with one of her old drivers sitting outside the door.

Ronan took me home.

He said nothing in the car, and I said nothing back.

I held the black phone in my lap the whole way.

At two in the morning I was in his kitchen in a T-shirt of his, drinking water at the counter.

I couldn't sleep.

He came in barefoot, in sweatpants and nothing else, and stopped in the doorway when he saw me.

"Show me the phone," he said.

I slid it across the counter.

It was a cheap black burner, and the screen asked for six digits.

He tried three combinations.

Orla's birthday, the old head's date, the day of the pier.

Each time the phone buzzed and shook its head at him.

"One more wrong and it locks for an hour," I said.

"I know."

He set it down.

"Now tell me," I said, "what Kieran meant."

He stood very still.

"What did he mean, Ronan? You didn't tell her what?"

"It's between him and me."

"He's my brother."

"It's a debt," he said slowly.

"He owes it to me, and I have chosen not to collect it."

"It's not yours to carry, and I won't hand it to you."

"What debt?"

"Neve."

"How much? Money? Did he steal from you?"

"Not money."

"Then what?"

His eyes held mine, and they were more tired than I had ever seen them.

"I'll tell you when it's safe to tell you."

"When is that?"

"After Friday."

I put down my glass.

Something in my chest had gone cold, and a very small voice inside me said, you've known this man for four days.

"You've kept me in a locked house," I said.

"You took my brother out of a bar, and you've had me in your bed."

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