Page 25 of The Thief
Silence. Too long. Stephen's never one for dramatic pauses.
"Stephen? What's happened?"
"Jer's dead."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I can't breathe for a moment, can't think. The phone feels heavy in my hand, like it's made of lead.
Jer. The man who pulled me off the streets, gave me purpose, and taught me everything I know about surviving in this world. The closest thing to a father I ever had.
Gone.
"How?"
"Trace Harrington. We had a meeting. Everyone, and I mean everyone important, was in attendance, and the fucking coward did his fucking shit again—took him out from a rooftop. Bullet to the head."
Trace. Ava's husband. The man who owned her heart while I was playing with borrowed time.
Everything connects. Everything clicks into place with sickening clarity. Ava's death wasn't random, it wasn't an accident. It was part of something bigger, something that's been building for months.
And now Jer's been caught in the crossfire.
"You there?" Stephen asks.
"Yeah."
The word comes out strangled. I have to clear my throat, try again.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"We're meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Maverick's calling everyone in. This means war."
War. The word lands like a stone in my gut. War means blood, means bodies, means everything I've been trying to avoid since I got back from London.
War means losing more people I care about.
"I'll be there."
"This means the girl you’ve got; she’s a real fucking target now, Freddie. All the women are. No one is fucking safe."
"Stephen—"
"We’ll figure out where that cunt is, Fred, and when we do, we’re going to gut him."
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a moment, trying to process what just happened. Jer's gone. The man who was the closest thing to a father I ever had is lying on a slab somewhere while Trace Harrington celebrates.
Everything inside me has gone cold, shut down. I’ve gone into survival mode. It’s the only way I know how to deal with loss this big.
"Bad news?" Alastríona asks.
Her voice sounds muffled, like she's speaking through water. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and who I'm with.
"Yeah."
I don't elaborate. I can't. If I start talking about Jer, I'll fall apart. And falling apart isn't an option right now. Not with her watching, not with Henry waiting, not with a war starting.
She doesn't push. Doesn't ask questions or offer sympathy. She just sits there, giving me space to process. Smart girl. She knows when to leave well enough alone.
The Dublin lights get closer. My hands are steady on the wheel, but inside I'm falling apart. Jer's dead. Ava's dead. Everyone I've ever cared about ends up in the ground while I keep walking around like some kind of fucked-up ghost.
