I shake my head to clear my thoughts. It isn’t time for a trip down memory lane.
We walk up the stairs to his house, thirty-five stone steps to be precise. I’ve counted every one of them. I’ve wondered if the location of this house, with so many large steps to get to the top, was intentional to deter visitors. There are no neighbors, and no one drops by unannounced.
The McCarthy brothers, who’ve taken over leadership roles since their father’s death two years ago, all live here. I know every detail. Keenan and his wife Caitlin, with two small children. Cormac and his wife Aileen, a woman with former connection to their rivals, the Martins. Their mother Maeve resides in the house as well since she’s been widowed. There are servants aplenty, and the rest of the men of the Clan, from the lowliest soldier, lives within walking distance of the McCarthy mansion.
We enter the front door, and his grip on my arm tightens. He stops when he sees Maeve by the entrance. She’s got a large bouquet of flowers in her arms, and she freezes when she sees us enter.
“Nolan.”
He nods to her. “Mam.”
She eyes me coldly, looking me over from head to toe. “And you must be Sheena Hurston, the reporter that’s been up our arses.”
I give her a broad smile. “Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. McCarthy.”
She inclines her head in greeting and doesn’t reply.
“Where’s Keenan?” Nolan asks his mother.
“Just helped Cait put the babies down for a nap. Want me to ring him for you?”
“Aye,” he says. “Tell him to give me a call when he has a minute. I’ll be in my room.”
She looks to me again and back to him. “Will you be needing the interrogation room, then?”
I wonder why she asks him this in front of me. Does she want me to know she’s complicit in what they do? I know this already. Or does she want me to know she hopes he hurts me? It’s an odd thing for her to say.
“All set, thanks,” he says. Then under his breath as we head to the stairs, he says, “I’ve got plenty of methods of interrogation in my own room.”
“I bet you do.”
He smiles wryly. Maeve turns away from us as we reach the large staircase. I’ve never been here before, though I know the entire layout of this house. The bottom floor houses their windowless “interrogation room,” as Maeve called it, as well as the library. This floor holds the dining room and meeting rooms and offices, and the rest of the floors are the residences. Nolan takes me to the second floor, still gripping my arm tightly as we march down the hall.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” I say, pretending to be friendly and even maybe a little nonchalant.
When he doesn’t reply I carry on.
“Have you lived here your whole life?”
I know he has. I want to pretend I’m not afraid of him. That I don’t fear what he’ll do to me when he has me alone. And it’s probably best he isn’t aware of how much I know about him.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he still doesn’t respond.
“Perhaps later you can show me around,” I try again.
His eyes narrow on me.
“Just trying to make small talk,” I mutter. “You don’t have to be so aloof.”
Still, no response. We reach the very end of the hall on the second floor. He opens the door, pushes it in, and drags me inside. My heart beats faster. This was a mistake, I know, and no matter how brave I pretend to be, I’m scared. My pulse races, and my palms are sweaty, slipping in his firm grip.
He slams the door behind him once we’re inside. It’s a small room, with a few bar stools propped up to a bar, an electric kettle and bags of tea besides cups nestled on a wooden tray, and behind that, a living room with huge windows that overlook the sea.
For what this room lacks in size, it makes up for with the view. From here, we can see the waves crashing on the shore, the beautiful cliff beneath wispy white clouds. But I can’t look for long, as he’s tugging me to his room.
I don’t know what I was expecting Nolan McCarthy’s room to look like. But it certainly wasn’t this.
I’ve seen the layout, I know some of what their mansion looks like, but the bedrooms are a mystery to me.
His bedroom’s three times the size of the anteroom. A huge bed dominates the center of the room, with large, sturdy rings anchored on posts. I shiver in fear when he tugs me along. The door to the bathroom’s to the right, and from here I can see a massive circular tub. It’s decorated in creams and browns, not the traditional bachelor pad. But neither the bed nor the bathroom are the focal point here. Along one wall is a large, sliding glass door with the shades pulled wide open. A balcony that overlooks the beautiful, tumultuous sea below. People would pay millions for a view like that. Hell, maybe he has.