Page 15 of The Thief
"Come with me," I say when it's just us and Murphy.
"No."
"One drink. Somewhere that doesn't smell like piss and broken dreams. Let me tell you about your family."
"I said no."
"Why? What's keeping you here?"
She looks around the empty pub, at Murphy counting receipts, at the life she's built from nothing but stubbornness and survival instinct.
"This is mine," she says finally. "It's not much, but it's mine. I won't trade it for pretty lies about a family that never wanted me."
"How do you know they're lies if you won't listen?"
"Because men like you don't come bearing good news. You come with hooks and chains disguised as opportunities."
"Your father talked about you," I say, playing my last card. "Before he died. He had pictures."
Her breath catches. "You're lying."
"There’s a picture of you at sixteen, dancing in some school play. You were wearing a blue dress and had flowers in your hair. He carried it in his wallet wherever he went."
The fight goes out of her like air from a punctured tire. She knows I'm not lying about this. I can't be. I was too specific, too personal.
"Time to go, love," Murphy says, his keys jangling in his hand. "Some of us have homes to get to."
She unties her apron and hangs it on the hook behind the bar. For a moment, I think she might change her mind. That she might walk out that door with me and see what waits beyond Belfast's gray streets.
Instead, she heads for the stairs leading to her flat.
"Think about it," I call after her. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"Don't bother," she says without looking back.
But there's less conviction in her voice now. The mention of her father, and the picture, it's cracked something open. Not enough to break through, but enough to let doubt creep in.
Murphy eyes me as he turns the key in the lock. “Whatever it is you’re selling, she’s not buying. Don’t come back.” He pockets the keys and strides off, leaving me alone on the street. I should head back to my hotel, call Henry, and report that his granddaughter needs more convincing. I should follow orders like the good little soldier I’m supposed to be.
Instead, I find a doorway across the street and settle in to wait.
The street empties as Belfast settles into its uneasy sleep. A light comes on in the window above Murphy's. Her flat. I can see her shadow moving around, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.
She's thinking. Good. Thinking means doubt, and doubt means possibility.
I light a cigarette and let the smoke burn my lungs while I think about her blue eyes and sharp tongue. I think about fathers who die in explosions and daughters who inherit their stubborn streaks. About jobs that stop feeling like jobs when the target stops feeling like a target.
Henry's orders were clear. Bring her back to Dublin by any means necessary. He didn't say she had to be willing. But watching her shadow move around that tiny flat, and thinking about the way she carries herself like she's been fighting the world alone for too long, I know I can't just take her.
Which leaves me with a problem. Because Henry Gallagher isn't the kind of man who accepts failure gracefully. And I'm not the kind of man who walks away from a job half-finished.
The light in her window goes out. And I'm still here, smoking cigarettes in a doorway, trying to figure out how to do the right thing without getting us both killed.
Tomorrow, I'll try again. I’ll find the right words, and the right pressure points. I’ll make her see that Belfast isn't safe; it's just another kind of prison.
Because whether she admits it or not, Alastríona Gallagher-Grey is coming home with me. The only question is whether she'll walk to the car or be carried.
CHAPTER FOUR
