Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

I’m guessing that I don’t have a choice here. “Of course.” I step back to make room for him, hoping I can get this over with before River arrives. Not that it would matter. As far as Duffy is concerned, he’s a friend I met at a bar.

“You certainly have some nice accommodations while you’re here.” He quietly takes inventory of the space, just like I’ve seen my dad do of any new place—his eyes drifting over the windows and doors and the empty couches. Identifying escape routes and potential threats, my dad would say, half in jest.

“I lucked out. The owner is away for the summer.” I lead him in to the dining room table.

“Were you on your way out?” Garda Duffy asks. “You look all . . .” His eyes drift over my dress and boots. When he catches me watching him, he quickly adjusts his focus to his folder.

“Yeah, I was two minutes from leaving, actually.”

“This won’t take long,” he promises. Then pauses. “How have you been? You seem to be fine.”

“I’m okay. The bruising is going away and my lip has almost healed.” The dark spot left after the scab fell off will likely remain.

“Good. You haven’t called, so I imagine you still don’t remember much about the man who fled the scene?”

“The man who saved my life?” I note his choice of words and I don’t appreciate them. They’re full of accusation. “No.” I swallow hard. It’s a lie, and I know it’s a lie, and yet it’s the only answer I want to give him.

“Right.” The slightest frown shades his gaze. “We’ve been given some information and I was hoping you’d be willing to take a look at these.” He lays a piece of paper out on the table. A mug shot. Duffy taps the face. “Does he look familiar to you?”

The picture is of a tight-faced man with a mop of bright orange-red hair and a sneer. He looks every bit the part of a criminal—his eyes narrowed, his jaw square, his lips thin and hard, his expression not just unhappy with the circumstance, but generally unpleasant. “No, I’ve never seen him before,” I answer truthfully. I would have remembered a head of hair like that.

“Okay.” Duffy stuffs the photo into his folder and lays down another. “How about this one?”

River’s eyes stare up at me.

I make a conscious effort to breathe, the shock a punch to my lungs. He looks to be a few years younger here, and clean-shaven. But there’s no mistaking him in this photograph.

This mug shot.

River’s been arrested before.

Even as nausea roils in my stomach, I remind myself that this could mean nothing. A fight that went wrong, a drunk-and-disorderly. River’s not exactly a saint. Neither is my brother.

It’s never come up in conversation, so it must not be a big deal, right?

Who did I just sleep with?

A guy who saved my life, who took shrapnel for me, I remind myself. Who has been nothing but kind and generous and sweet to me.

I feel Duffy’s eyes on me. Waiting for my answer.

And I know what that answer should be. I may have lied a minute ago about what I remember—something I can easily get away with because they’ll never see into my brain—but I know this man staring up at me from the picture. In some ways, very well. In too many ways, not at all.

And this is a police officer asking me.

“No.” The lie escapes before I can stop it. I clear my throat, keeping my eyes on River’s picture so Duffy can’t see the guilt. “I’m sorry.”

River’s face disappears into the folder. “Worth a shot, right?” I don’t miss the disappointment in Duffy’s voice. He was hoping for a different answer. “Thank you for being so cooperative, though. I know you probably want to just forget this happened and move on. Enjoy the rest of your time in Ireland. And here.” He drops a business card on the table. I still have his other one in my purse. “Just in case you remember something. Even down the road.”

I trail behind him as he walks briskly to the front door, my feet made of lead.

“Who are they?” I blurt out. “Those men you just showed me.”

“Two brothers who got mixed up in some bad stuff.”

Brothers. The redhead must be Aengus. “Bad stuff?” My voice is too shaky. I steady it. “What kind of bad stuff?”

“The IRA kind.” He offers me a smile. “But don’t worry. I’ve put them both in prison once. If they were behind this, I’ll put them there again.”

I grip the door for support as I watch him march down the path, closing the black gate behind him.

River said his family walked away from it all in the ’70s because of the violence, so what does this mean?

Don’t be stupid, Amber. It means he’s lying to you.

So, everything I know about River up until now has been an act? I can feel tears threatening to spill over. How could I have been so wrong about him?

And what has he done? What does “the IRA kind” mean? Has he hurt people? Killed them? No, that’s just not possible. I couldn’t have misread him that much. But, then, what did he do that would put him in jail?

I glance at my watch. River is supposed to be here in five minutes.

Beyond the shock and hurt and an inkling of fear, a new sensation bursts.

Anger.

I do the only thing I can think to do.

I grab my purse and Simon’s car keys, and I run.

TWENTY-ONE

River

My car whips around the corner at a quarter past six. Trying to make up for lost time, late on account of the shower I squeezed in between work and here and the flowers I grabbed for Amber, a last-minute decision and something I’ve never actually done before.

I can’t wait to see her.

An empty spot sits where the black Volkswagen normally sits out front. I don’t think too much about it, though. Maybe a neighbor borrowed it. This doctor guy seems generous enough to allow for that. I park in the space beside it and make my way up the path, to ring the bell.

No answer.

Frowning, I check my phone. The last text from her was forty minutes ago, responding to mine that I’d be there soon. I quickly punch out a message to her, telling her I’m outside.

And then I wait for a reply. Maybe she’s in the bathroom?

Another text and a phone call, and ten minutes later, she’s still not answering. On impulse, I try the doorknob.

The door’s unlocked.

“Amber?” My voice ricochets off three stories worth of walls.

No answer.

An edge of unease slides into me as I wander into the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, my footfalls slow and intentionally quiet. “Amber!”

She’s obviously not here. So where the hell is she?

A card catches my eye on the dining room table. On impulse, I pick it up. When I see Garda Duffy’s name printed on it, my blood turns cold. “Shit.” This must just be a coincidence. He was probably the one at the scene of the bomb, the one who questioned her. A connection I hadn’t made before.

But why is his card here?

And why is she now gone?

I dial Rowen’s cell.

The low buzz of the steady Monday night fills the background. “What’s the story?”

“Is Amber there?”

“Uh . . . nope. Isn’t she supposed to be with you?”