Moonlight on Nightingale Way (On Dublin Street 6)

Reluctantly, Maia took out her keys and let us into the flat.

As soon as we walked in, I was hit by the smell.

“Holy fuck,” Logan muttered, and we shared a horrified look.

It smelled of stale sweat, cigarettes, piss, and vomit.

“I try to clean.” Maia’s complexion had paled, and there were tears of shame in her eyes. “I do. Honest.”

Tears pricked my own eyes, a lump of sympathy and anger burning in my throat. I squeezed her arm, but I had to look away from her so I could control my emotions.

“My, is that you!” a voice screeched from the back of the flat.

At that Logan stepped forward and put his hand on Maia’s shoulder. He looked like a giant next to the slender teen. I wasn’t exactly tall at five six, and she was even shorter. She was only about five three. He led her forward gently, and I followed, taking everything in.

The faded, stained carpets were so threadbare at the edges they were pulling away from the baseboard. We passed a tiny kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been modernized since the late eighties. There were stains all over the counters and even the walls, but the surfaces were wiped clean and there were no dirty dishes in the kitchen. There was evidence that Maia was trying her best here.

There were two doors on the other side of the narrow corridor, separated by yellow-stained walls. One door opened to a small, sparse but tidy and clean single room with posters of bands on the wall. Maia’s room? The other door caused Logan’s brow to furrow deeply as he passed it. Curious, I took a look inside and just managed to squelch a yelp of surprise.

There was a skinny naked man sprawled on his front across a rumpled bed. Around the bed the carpet had been swallowed up by beer cans, cigarette trays, clothes, and rubbish. There was a dresser at the bottom of the bed that had seen better days, and the bedside table closest to me was missing a drawer. It was also covered in gashes and score marks.

I felt ill at the sight of the needles scattered across the top of it.

Unfortunately, we were only greeted by worse when we walked into the small sitting room. Sprawled across what actually looked like a fairly new leather sofa was a skinny mess. The dark-haired woman was dressed in a dirty, oversized white T-shirt and skinny jeans. Her thin hair was pulled back in a disheveled ponytail. She wore no makeup, and when she opened her mouth I could see her teeth were yellow and decaying.

“My God.” Logan closed his eyes against the image of her.

Maryanne Lewis clearly no longer resembled herself. Although I had no clue what she’d looked like back when she was with Logan, I could see from her delicate features that she’d once been pretty. But now she looked ten to fifteen years older than Logan, and her sharp cheekbones stretched out her papery skin so she looked gaunt, ill. The color of her complexion was gray. Just… wrong.

There were a couple of open bottles of vodka in the room, empty beer cans, dirty ashtrays, unwrapped food, dirty plates, and more needles.

This was bad.

Very bad.

If anything, Maia had played down her home situation.

Maryanne narrowed her eyes. “Who the fuck are you?” She stumbled up onto her feet in jerky, frenetic movements. “My, who the fuck is this?”

To my surprise, Maia stepped in to my side, almost but not quite burrowing there. Despite my discomfort and apprehension in her mother’s presence, I put my arm around Maia, offering her support.

“Maryanne, this is my dad.”

I had to give Logan his due. He didn’t flinch at the word. “Maryanne.” He stepped toward her, and she jerked back, her eyes wide and glazed. She was agitated. Her skin looked clammy, and she was scratching at her arm constantly.

I didn’t know much about drugs, but I had a suspicion she was in withdrawal.

“Fucking bastard,” she snapped, stumbling away from him. “Logan. Logan. Oh my God, what did you bring him here for?” She glowered at Maia and then moved toward her.

As I shoved Maia behind me, Logan stepped in front of us. “Maryanne… when was your last hit?”

“Too fucking long. Too fucking long. I told that wee bitch to go and get Kells for Dom and me. Where’s my fucking money? Eh? Where is it, you wee cunt?”

“Watch it,” Logan warned, his tone dangerous, and Maia cowered against my shoulder.

“Who is Kells?” I asked Maia softly.

“Her dealer,” she whispered, and there was a rustling before I felt her press something into my hand.

I looked down at a wad of cash. “Logan,” I muttered. The idea of a mother sending her fifteen-year-old daughter to a drug dealer settled like oil in my stomach.

Logan glanced over his shoulder, and I held the money out to him. He took it, understanding what it was without my having to tell him. When he turned back to Maryanne, he said, “Is she mine? Did you lie to me?”

“I want my money!” Maryanne screeched.

“Is she mine?”

“Money!”

Logan threw it at her feet and grunted in disgust as she scrambled to pick it up.

“Give me your phone,” she begged as she stood up. “Mine needs to be charged and I can’t find my charger. Give me your phone.”

“So you can call your dealer? No way. Now, answer me.” He took a menacing step toward her, and she blinked up at him blankly. “Is Maia mine?”

“Give me your phone.” She pleaded again, scratching at her head. “Please. I’m fucked.” She stumbled over the coffee table, reaching for a bottle of vodka. “Kells said he would be here yesterday, but he never fucking came. He never fucking came.”