Chapter 11: Da at the Gate

The call came from the gatehouse at seven the next morning.

"There's a man here," the guard said to Rafe, loud enough for me to hear through his phone.

"Says his name is Keane. Says he's the girl's father."

I was out of bed before he finished.

"Da," I said.

Rafe was already pulling on his boots.

We took the golf cart down the drive, faster than we should have.

Dermot Keane stood outside the iron gate in his flat cap and his good black coat, with his big hands folded in front of him.

Two of his men leaned against a car behind him, looking at nothing.

He looked smaller than he did in his bar.

Then he saw me, and his whole face lit.

"There she is," he said. "My girl."

I dropped out of the cart and ran.

He caught me through the bars in a hug that smelled of pipe smoke and bar soap.

"You came all this way," I said into his coat.

"It's six miles. I've walked farther for worse."

"You said you'd wait for me."

"Ah, I did." He held me back to look at me.

"But I saw ye on the news in that burning coat, and I thought, to the devil with waiting."

"I'm all right."

"Ye're all smoke." He looked over my shoulder. "And who's this?"

Rafe had stopped a few feet away.

"Rafe Hawkins," he said. "I run security."

"I've no doubt."

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