Chapter 7: Hands

"Cousin," said Ronan from the kitchen doorway. "You're in my way."

Declan straightened off the counter without any hurry.

"Just saying hello to your guest."

"She has said hello."

For one second the two of them stood there, six feet apart, and I understood that they had grown up in this house.

They had eaten at that table as boys.

Then Declan smiled and walked out past Ronan, and I let out a breath that shook.

Ronan crossed the kitchen and turned off the tap.

My hands were red from the water.

He took a towel and dried them, one finger at a time, and said nothing.

"He said he can collect Kieran's debt," I said.

"He won't."

"You can't be everywhere."

"I'm not asking to be," he said. "I'm asking you to trust me till Friday."

"I don't trust anyone."

"Then trust that I want the same thing you do."

I pulled my hands away.

At the front door the blonde woman in the cream sweater stood waiting with my coat.

"Lena Kavanagh," she said, very low. "Declan's wife."

She held the coat out, and then hugged me quickly, hard, her cheek against mine.

She smelled like expensive soap and cigarettes.

I felt her fingers slip something into my pocket.

She let go and stepped back, and her smile was perfectly polite.

"It was lovely to meet you."

I said something back.

I do not know what.

Ronan said nothing in the car.

He sat with his elbow on the door and his chin on his fist, watching the streets go by.

My whole body was humming.

Declan's voice in my ear, his smile, his "sweetheart," the way the table had looked at me.

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