Brendan pulled the papers out. He read a letter from the lawyer that stated that Alan’s will dictated that this letter be sent upon his death. A smaller envelope contained a handwritten note.
“I know your family is looking for answers. There are none. Michael Doyle is dead. Declare him so and move on. Let the dead stay dead.”
“That’s it?” Ronan asked. “No deathbed confession? No information about what happened or where his body is?”
Brendan turned the paper over as if there might be some other clues. Then he tossed it on the table. “Nothing.”
“But we were right. He knew. And now he took that information to his grave.” Anger boiled through Ronan. They had been close.
“If he did it, why not just confess now? He’s dead. Nothing can happen to him,” Killian said.
“He would never risk ruining his name,” Ronan bit out.
“Or,” Brendan said, “he wouldn’t take the blame for something someone else did. He’s not going to point a finger, but he wanted to close the book on that chapter in our lives. So we could finally lay him to rest and stop searching for answers. We know he’s gone.”
Ronan shoved away from the table. “It’s not answers, though.”
Ann stood beside him. “We might never get those.”
“I think we should lay him to rest. Have him declared dead,” Brendan continued.
Kieran and Gavin both said, “I agree.”
The others looked back and forth between Ronan and Brendan. The two oldest, at odds again.
“I thought you wanted answers, too. Now you’re just giving up?” Ronan asked.
“Not one fucking bit. But if we let them believe we are, they’ll let their guard down. Then we’ll get our answers.”
Ronan didn’t like it, but as a conniving plan, it made sense. “Where do we go from here?”
Killian grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a handful of glasses. “Tonight, we toast our father.”
They poured drinks and raised glasses.
“Your father would have loved seeing you all like this. Together,” Mom said.
“Drinking,” Killian added with a smile.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Laughing. This right here is everything Michael Doyle wanted in his life.” She raised her glass. “To family.”
They drank and then quiet fell over the group until Brendan cleared his throat. “I remember when I was about twelve, I wanted a Nintendo so bad. All my friends were playing video games, but Dad said if I wanted it, I had to earn the money.”
Ronan snickered because he knew that exact line. He’d suffered the same fate when he asked for a new bike.
“He took me on a side job to build a small deck. I thought it’d be cool learning to build with dad. Except it wasn’t about learning to build. He had some guys from the job working for him for cash, but man, he beat me down with the labor. He had a dump truck show up and pour a mountain of rocks on the woman’s lawn. All I did for days was fill a wheelbarrow in the front and dump it in the back. I don’t think I ever hauled so many rocks in my life. My back still hurts every time I think about it.”
Ronan tilted his head. “I don’t remember ever having a Nintendo.” And he’d know because even if Brendan had paid for it, his parents would’ve made them share.
“That’s because I didn’t buy it. I worked three more jobs with him on the weekends to earn that money. When I had it, I decided the game system wasn’t worth all that.”
“He always wanted you to know the value of hard work,” Mom said, a little misty-eyed.
“That explains what happened to Declan, then,” Nessa called out with a hoot of laughter.”
“Shut the hell up. I know how to work. I just don’t feel the need to be a slave to society’s expectations.”
Nessa leaned forward. “That’s his way of admitting that he hates to get up early.”
They all laughed and the floodgates of memories opened. They all shared stories about their father, describing their individual connections with a man who had been gone for two decades. Ronan couldn’t imagine ever leaving such a permanent mark on others’ lives.
But in this moment, he was glad they had each other. He was happy to finally be home.