Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

I stormed off then, with tears burning in my eyes. Not because he was so wrong, but because I was afraid he might be right.

“Yeah. It’s been great.” Maybe one day I’ll tell Jesse the truth about my morning in St. Stephen’s Green. Of anyone in my family, he’d be the only one who didn’t care that I lied.

“Good.” There’s a long pause and, while I know I won’t get an apology out of him over some of the things he said, I can feel it lingering there. “When’d you have your wallet last?”

I think back to my day. After the tea shop and the discovery of that T-shirt, I wandered around Dublin city center, deciding what I’d say if I saw the guy again. When I finally accepted that I had to try and find him, I hopped in a cab. So I know I had my wallet when I arrived at Delaney’s because I paid for the ride, but I don’t know if I left with it, seeing as I didn’t pay for my beer.

“I was at a pub,” I say, half-heartedly.

“Crowded?”

“Yeah.” I lost count how many times I was bumped into.

“That’s probably where someone lifted it. I’m sure you stuck out like a tourist who may have money.”

I definitely stuck out . . .

“Call them. Forget about your cash. It’s long gone. But the person probably ditched everything else. It’s worth a shot.”

“Good idea. Thanks, Jesse.” I hang up. A bubble of nerves erupts in my stomach as I search for the number. It’s ten at night and probably still busy. I don’t expect anyone to answer.

That’s why I’m surprised—and caught tongue-tied for a moment—when a man’s voice fills the receiver with, “Delaney’s.”

Is it River? It sounds like him. “Hi . . . I was there a few hours ago and I lost my wallet.”

“Lost it?” the guy repeats with his Irish brogue. Raucous music and clanking glassware compete in the background.

“Stolen, probably. I know it’s not likely, but is there any chance someone turned it in to the bar?”

“They haven’t. But I can keep an ear out. Where can we ring ya if it turns up?”

I give him my cell phone number. Thank God for my international plan and Simon’s WiFi; otherwise this trip would be two months instead of four. “My name’s Amber.” I hesitate. “River knows me.” Sort of.

“The pretty American bird who made my brother spill a pint, is that you?”

My face heats up, and I’m so glad that I’m alone in my kitchen and not in front of this guy. He must be the other bartender. I thought they looked related.

He chuckles, not waiting for my answer. “I’ll let him know you rang.”

I hang up the phone and exhale heavily.

Maybe they’ll find it.

Maybe I’ll have an excuse to see River again.

Nervous excitement grows inside me.

SEVEN

River

“This can’t wait?”

I ignore a hovering Rowen, my eyes glued to the computer monitor. And Amber, her slender back to the security camera as she sits perched on her stool, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles. Sipping the Guinness I handed her. I’ve already played back our entire exchange—the shock on my face when our eyes met was priceless. As was the tantrum Rowen just threw in our cramped office, watching the replay of me dumping the pint down the drain.

“I wish I hadn’t said anything until closing,” he finally mutters. “I need you out front.”

“I’m glad you told me. If I find out one of our customers lifted that girl’s wallet, and they’re still here, they’re going to wish they weren’t,” I mutter with cold determination, stewing in the anger that exploded earlier, when Rowen nudged me and told me that Amber had been robbed today. As if almost being blown up isn’t bad enough.

“How do you know her, anyway?”

“I just do.”

He sighs. He knows that he won’t get answers out of me unless I want to give them. “I’ll be at the bar, tending to the sheep.”

I watch patiently as Amber sits and drinks, her head shifting from Collin to me and back again. Wishing she’d turn around so I could see her face again. Selma bumps into her with her tray and she flinches. Customers close in at her sides and she curls into herself. I wonder if she’s always been like that or if it’s because of what happened in the Green.

I’m about thirty-five minutes into the recording and I know she doesn’t stay for much longer. I can see why. I did a bleeding good job of ignoring her. Too good a job. Part of me hopes this didn’t happen here, because she’s going to start tying all bad things about Ireland to me. But a bigger part hopes that it did happen here and I can catch the asshole who did it.

And have an excuse to see her again, because she’s lingered in my mind ever since she left Delaney’s a few hours ago.

My patience pays off when I see a patron bump into her from behind, and then apologize with a friendly arm stretched over her shoulder. The camera is angled in a way that shows his other hand slipping into her purse and retrieving a small black wallet.

“Fucking Benoit.” I recognize him by his ponytail of wiry black hair. He’s a regular here, a little Frenchman who comes in every weekday after his shift at the Guinness factory. Normally he’s gone by seven, which is why I was surprised to see him staggering past the bar on my way to the office not long ago. I’m guessing he’s getting drunk on her euro. Not a stealthy fella, if that’s the case.

I grit my teeth against the urge to march out there right now and pummel him. Instead, I keep watching the video. Two minutes later, after I hand him his pint with a grin, he heads to the back of the pub, leaving her completely unaware.

A surge of adrenaline fills my limbs as I charge past the crowd and into the men’s toilets. Yanking open the rubbish compartment, I dump its contents onto the dirty tile floor. It’s mostly balls of paper towels, along with a used condom—I don’t want to know—and a dirty needle.

But on top of all of that sits a small, black wallet.

I flip it open and find Amber’s gorgeous smile shining out at me. I have an address for her, too—Sisters, Oregon. Wherever that is. I’ve never been to America. I’ve heard of places like New York and Hollywood, and Florida, but it’s hard to keep track of that massive country. She’s twenty-five years old, which is what I would have pegged her at. The height and weight numbers mean nothing to me, but I don’t need them because I already know she’s the perfect size.

A few slips of paper sit tucked within but the cash is all gone, as I expected.

Back out front, I search the crowd of drunks, a few singing along with Collin, who’s now on his fifth hour of music and as many pints, livening the place up as he does with quick banter and terrible jokes. It doesn’t take long to find Benoit.

Ten steps before I wrap my hands around his scrawny neck, Rowen hops the bar and blocks my path. “River . . . you’ve got that look in your eye.”

I hold up her wallet. “In our pub.” I fucking hate thieves. So does Rowen.

“Just . . . don’t get yourself into trouble,” he warns, then shifts aside, knowing it’s not the time to interfere. I’ll admit it—the ripple of excitement that stirs inside me as I close in on an oblivious Benoit, that swells as I hold the wallet up and watch his eyes grow wide, that bursts when I grab him by the back of his collar and drag him out the front door, feels bloody grand.