Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“Okay, I’ll try to stay awake,” she says through a yawn. “I’m exhausted from last night.”

“So am I,” I admit, unable to keep my wide grin from spreading. I can’t wait for a repeat. Tomorrow. “Get some sleep. If I don’t talk to ya again tonight, I will in the morning. First thing.”

“Okay.”

“’Night, Amber.”

She makes a soft sound—a mix between a moan and a purr—that gets my blood stirring. “’Night.”

“Is this what life is going to be like now?” Rowen mutters. “Me working while you whisper into your phone?”

“Shut up, dickhead.” He came in to help me with the last hour, letting Nuala go home early. I snatch the end of the wet towel just before he manages to snap my thigh with it and yank it out of his hand, reversing the move. He tears around the bar to get away before I can make contact.

A sudden pounding against the door has us both frowning at each other.

“Open up!”

There’s no mistaking Aengus’s voice.

“Fuck. What is he doing here?” Rowen heads over to unlock the door and let him in.

Aengus stumbles through, slamming the door shut behind him. I guess he didn’t lay off the beer, like I told him to. Good job taking care of him, Jimmy.

“You’re supposed to be gone to ground!” I yell. “What the fuck are you doing in here? Did anyone see ya?”

“No one saw me,” he slurs. “It’s dark, and I’m stealthy as an alley cat.”

Rowen snorts but says nothing, busying himself with the last remaining chairs needing stacking. Wanting to get away from him, I’ll bet. Aengus is a mean drunk.

“And besides, those two fuckheads who were waiting for me on our street are in prison, so I guess Beznick’s out of luck for now.”

“Why are you even out? Where’s Jimmy?”

“Ah . . .” He waves a dismissive hand. “Can’t I come see me brothers? Hang out in me own pub? This place is rightfully mine and I’m not even allowed to come in for a pint? I have to sneak through dark alleys and beg you to let me in!”

Rowen shoots me a warning glance, not that it’s needed. I’m not about to give Aengus a reality check about the future ownership of Delaney’s.

“Grab a stool, Aengus.” I sigh, holding a fresh glass up to the Smithwick’s tap. At least we haven’t cleaned it out for the night yet.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He kicks one over to sit opposite me.

“Rowen?”

“May as well,” he mutters. Aengus can be the true sense of the term barfly. A fucking nuisance that’s impossible to rid ourselves of once he’s in.

I’m just setting a pint down in front of Aengus when the door flies open and a short fella steps in, his face covered from the nose down by a black handkerchief. I see the smile in his cold, narrow eyes. “Tit-for-tat, Delaneys.” He rolls something onto the floor and disappears out the door as quickly as he came, slamming it shut behind him.

I have just enough time to see the long tube.

Just enough time to see the wick at the end, sizzling as it burns.

Just enough time to catch Rowen’s eyes.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Amber

“Amber.”

“Hey, Ivy!” I’m surprised to hear from her, especially at eight in the morning. I got an early start to the day, wanting to explore a bit more before heading back to Dublin. River told me he’d come pick me up at the house by three. “Have you been to Cork before?”

“No.”

“Ugh! You have to come. Even you would appreciate this place. It’s so charming. I’ve never seen anything like it.” My gaze absorbs a kaleidoscope of colors as I stroll down the narrow sidewalk. Each storefront is painted in vibrant hues—a bed-and-breakfast in gold and rust, a tea shop in peacock blue and brick, a woman’s dress shop in canary yellow and indigo—and adorned with flowers and kitschy signs.

I sigh, sipping on the latte that Mrs. Harrington made for me before I left the quaint little inn. Such a sweet old lady. Her husband, too. They let me leave my car in their driveway for the morning.

“I guess you haven’t seen the news yet?” There’s something odd in her voice that I can’t quite grasp.

I stop walking. “No . . . why?”

“You need to come back to Dublin. Like, right now.”

I clocked well over two thousand hours in the hospital last year. Enough time that I’ve gotten used to the smells and the beeping sounds and eerie quiet. Enough time that I find comfort within those walls, able to navigate wings and signage without a second thought.

Today, though, after a white-knuckled three-hour drive home, turning onto the wrong side—or right side, in my opinion—of the road a dozen times, a frenzy of terrified thoughts distracting my focus, I’m finding no comfort within these Dublin hospital walls.

“Hey.” Ivy’s face so rarely shows any emotion that just the sight of her now—her brow pulled tight, a black mascara streak on her cheek—nearly unravels me.

“Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing.”

I heave a sigh, but it brings no relief to the tightness in my chest. “Thank you. For calling, and for tracking them down.” I passed out five minutes after talking to River last night. I figured he was still sleeping this morning when I texted him, though I was anxiously awaiting a response.

Now I know why I haven’t gotten one yet.

She simply shrugs and then leads me down a hall toward the reception desk in the emergency room waiting area. A young, mousy nurse sits behind it, chewing on the end of a pen. Her badge says her name is Sally, and it makes me think of the McNally sisters.

“Hi, our friends were brought in this morning after an incident at their pub. I was hoping you could give us some information.” I cross my fingers, having no idea how willing she’ll be to share details with me, seeing as I’m not family.

“Names?” Sally’s voice—deep and husky and laced with a heavy Dubliner accent—is a complete contradiction to her appearance.

“River and Rowen Delaney.”

Her glasses shift with her frown. “Right. Terrible thing that happened.”

My stomach clenches with her words, tears ready to flood my cheeks. This doesn’t sound promising.

“You’re American. You must be,” she checks a sticky note, “Amber Welles?”

“Yes.”

When she catches my curious frown, she explains, “River’s been asking for you. Sent his mother here to make sure we let you in. Room 114—through that door and take a left.” Her gaze shifts to Ivy.

“She’s with me,” I say.

She hesitates. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Look, I get it, Sally. I’m a nurse too, back home.” I plead with her compassionate side, the one that may overlook policies. “She’ll be in and out. She just needs to see Rowen. Even if it’s for a minute.”

The nurse’s voice drops. “Go quickly, before the regular desk nurse comes back from break. She won’t let you back there.”

“Thank you.” Tugging at Ivy’s arm, I hurry her along as I follow the directions, my worry growing with each step. I hold my breath as I peek through the window of Room 114, unsure of what I’m about to see, fearing the worst.