Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“It wasn’t like that,” I deny, though I know it’s not a valid argument. “You’re right. The IRA today is a bunch of terrorists.” I slowly edge around the bed frame. “I have nothing to do with them anymore.”

“But you did.” She closes her eyes. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“No, you’re not.”

A weak chuckle slips through her lips. “Innocent people don’t run. You ran.”

“I had to. With my history, they wouldn’t have believed me. They would have arrested me.”

“And I fell for your entire act: that smile, that charm, finding my wallet . . . Oh my God. Was that staged? Did you get that guy to steal my wallet so you could swoop in and be the hero again? Play me for an even bigger fool?” Tears slip out at the corners of her eyes and crawl down her cheeks at an agonizingly slow rate. I can’t handle seeing her cry.

I use the moment with her eyes shut to close the distance between us. “It wasn’t an act.”

Her eyes spring open and she gasps slightly, hugging her body tighter.

“I won’t hurt you,” I say, realizing that beneath her anger, she’s actually terrified. “For Christ’s sake, I jumped in front of a bomb for you, and I didn’t even know you back then. Now?”

Thick, combustible air hangs between us.

“This isn’t me, River. I don’t do one-night stands, and sleep with convicted felons, and—”

“I know. I knew it the day you showed up at the pub.” I heave a sigh. “I should have put an end to it right then. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help myself. You were just so beautiful, so different from the girls I know, and . . .” I can’t resist reaching out to run my knuckles along her slender bicep. “The way you looked at me.” Then. Not now. Not ever again. “So you told Duffy I was at the Green?”

Wide eyes stare at me, panicked.

“I saw his business card downstairs, Amber. It’s okay if you did. I don’t want you getting in trouble for this. I’ll deal with it.” He hasn’t shown up at the pub with handcuffs yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. And I end up back in jail.

“I didn’t.”

It’s so soft, I’m not sure I heard it. I lift my gaze to her eyes, to her lips, willing the words to repeat themselves.

“I didn’t tell him. He came here with mug shots of both you and your brother, and asked if I recognized either of you. And I said that I didn’t.” She swallows. “I lied for you.”

I shouldn’t be relieved, because Amber could get into a lot of trouble, but I can’t help it. “Why would you do that?”

Her head shakes before the words slip out. “I don’t know.” She wipes the tears from her face, her hands moving aggressively, as if she’s angry at herself for crying. “Why does Duffy think you set that bomb?”

I let that question hang for what feels like an eternity, reminding myself of the promise I made to take my secret to the grave, of the danger of admitting it out loud.

“Because my brother did.”

A fresh wave of tears spill out. “Why?”

There’s just no way around this anymore. I reach out for her arms. They fall from their folded position easily, allowing me to slip my fingers through hers and pull her toward the bed. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“So, Aengus doesn’t know that I found you?”

I peer over at Amber lying on her back in bed, her delicate hands resting against her stomach, her eyes glued to the ceiling. Her thoughts hidden in the darkness. She’s been in that exact same position for almost an hour now, listening to me explain every last detail that I can remember about that day. And why.

Because my brother is IRA.

She looks like a frightened statue. Not frightened enough to run from me, though. I cling to that.

“No. And he didn’t let on that I was in any way involved, either.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Aengus is a lot of things, but he has always protected me when it counts. You and him are the only two who can ever say that I was there. Well, Eamon, too, I guess. The doctor,” I add when she frowns.

“Then why was Duffy asking about you today?”

“Because he figures that I’m somehow involved, or that I know something. He came into the pub yesterday, fishing for information. Threatening me with prison. He’s the one who put me in there the first time.”

A long stretch of awkward silence floats between us, so long that I glance over to see if she’s maybe fallen asleep. I’ve been doing most of the talking, with a question from her laced in here and there. Questions that I’ve answered with too much honesty, knowing it may burn me tomorrow, if she decides that what I have to say doesn’t make up for the fact that I lied to her.

Her eyes are still open, though. “Why did you go to prison?”

I swallow, trying to decide how to explain this in a way that she—a foreigner, and a daughter of a police officer—might understand. “I told you about my family history already. I grew up in a household of staunch republican support, even if they weren’t actively supporting the fighting. Generations of Delaney men fought for Ireland back when the fight was about freeing Ireland and protecting the right to be Catholic. They lived and breathed that fight with the strength of the army around them. Some of them died for it.

“It’s what my brothers and I grew up hearing about. So for us, the IRA isn’t about terrorism. It’s about fighting for what we believe in. We’d still join the marches every year in Belfast, protesting for the rights of Irish Catholics, because that was our heritage. It’s what we’d always done.

“When I was eighteen, I moved to Dublin, to the house that our nanny left us. Aengus was twenty-two and already living there, working in the bar. Rowen was still back home, finishing high school.”

I feel her eyes on me now and turn to meet them, only to have her look away, her attention on the ceiling again.

“Aengus and I were close, despite the four-year age difference and him being so hot-headed. He told me that he’d met a group of guys who supported the cause just like our family did.” I snort, remembering the conversation, how Aengus went on and on about Jimmy Conlon, who was second-in-command at the time, over pints and smokes, excitement flowing through his veins faster than the alcohol.

“He told me about this camp outside Dublin—just like the kind our da went to when he was a teenager. They taught you how to fight and load guns and stuff. I thought it’d be grand to know how to do that, because all Delaney men know how, right? I was eighteen and stupid and I thought we might be doing something important, following in some grand tradition. That maybe, if there was ever another uprising, we’d have our own stories to share with our kids, just like our da did with us.” I had always been the smart one, so how I let a fool lead me into that mess is still unfathomable. “So one weekend, I climbed into Aengus’s car. We drove an hour, to this guy’s property. There was a lot of land there, with targets set up to learn how to shoot. Aengus was one of the fellas training us. He’d been there plenty of times already, so he knew what he was doing. I never connected it with this RIRA group, and I never had any intention of hurting anyone.