She scoffs. “Bollox. You like to show off, is what you do.”
My temper flares, and I keep it in check with difficulty. It’s my downfall, every fucking time.
“Go,” Tiernan repeats softly. “I’ve got this.”
“Not until I know you’re okay,” I say in a whisper.
“She won’t touch me,” he says. “I can handle this. Don’t worry.”
But I do. I worry about all of them. I can’t sleep at night knowing they’re still under her roof. Wondering if they have food in their bellies.
Children shouldn’t be raised in squalor. I ought to know.
I take a look at the time on my phone. I really should be going. I feel guilty, though, leaving them for what one could argue is a selfish reason.
But I can’t save them. And I have a job to do.
I ignore mum’s ranting and bend to kiss Fiona on her cheek.
“Thank you, Sheena,” she says, giving me a smile. I pat the baby’s head and stand.
My mother’s rifling through the groceries I’ve brought. “Just what I thought,” she mutters. “All high end, posh stuff. A reminder of how much better you are than us.”
I want to tell her to go fuck herself, to shove those chocolate-dipped biscuits up her scrawny arse. Even a year or so ago, I would’ve. But not today. I have to go, and I don’t want her taking her rage out on the children.
“You’re welcome,” I say as pleasantly as I can, turning to leave, when I feel her grab me by the hair. I stifle a scream. I don’t want to startle Fiona. I’ve learned a thing or two the past few years, though. I swivel with my arm bent and raised. She’s weak. I easily smack her away.
“Don’t touch me,” I warn. “You really don’t want to do that.”
And she doesn’t. She knows I won’t take it.
Her eyes widen. It breaks my heart to see eyes that mirror my own, gray-flecked green. She was a pretty woman once, long before alcohol and misery aged her. She isn’t even forty years old, having birthed me in her teens, but she’s got the face and body of a much older woman.
The tattered gray top she wears sags on her, the black leggings filthy. She’s barefoot, her feet smudged with dirt, and there are track marks on her arms. I still, noting the details. This is a new fucking conundrum.
I grab her wrist and spin her arm over, but she yanks it away. “Go,” she spits. “Get your fancy arse out of here, and don’t come back.”
I step away and shake my head. “I’ll be back,” I say to Fiona, whose eyes have welled with tears at my mother’s words. I give her a reassuring smile.
I wait until I turn the corner, half hoping Cian comes out again. Even in heels and a skirt, I feel like I could take him right now. But he doesn’t resurface.
I walk to my car and think. Maybe I could get custody. If my mother’s shooting up and neglecting them, I might have a case against her. And I’ve made connections in my line of work. Connections that could help.
But if I were to take them, how would I finish the job I’ve set out to do? It requires flexibility and compromise. The very job I have to do tonight means if I’m successful, I won’t return home. And I can’t take men home if the children are there.
A part of me wants to call a friend to listen to me, to help me decide what to do. But I’ve hidden my past from the few friends I have. I don’t let on who I was or where I came from. The squalor of my past remains in my past, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep it that way.
Tonight, I’m going to The Craic. It’s party night at the club. It’ll draw all sorts, and I could get a lead on a story.
And I have a mission.
I avoided going there for a while, after one of the leads I followed blackmailed me. I was honestly scared. I knew my job as an investigative reporter was dangerous. I knew I treaded in shark-infested waters. But I’d managed to avoid getting caught and hurt so many times, I’d almost convinced myself I was invincible.
I was not.
I am not.
But after the incident at the club, I decided I wouldn’t run with my tail between my legs. I’d do what I had to. I’d get my work done. I wouldn’t let a bully and a run-in with danger push me away from doing my job.
So I went back, but I’m much more careful about who I interact with.
I tell myself I go back because I won’t cower in fear. But I know there’s another reason, one I don’t like to admit.
Nolan McCarthy.
I hate him. I’ve been tracking his family for years, and he’s onto me. He caught me on their property last year, he threatened and punished me, and I know I was lucky I got out alive. The McCarthy family is one of the most powerful mobs in all of Ireland. Spies don’t live to see the light of day, and I know this.