Page 17 of Blindsided
I look ahead at Declan, his shoulders tense as he walks with Kat and Rory. “Nothing that would help right now.”
“But something.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Look, Wren, there are things about this family that even Declan doesn’t know. Things that would change how he sees everything—everyone—he’s ever trusted.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me,” I admit. “But that’s not whatmatters right now. Finding Uncle Tomas is.”
She doesn’t push further, which I appreciate. Back at the hotel, we all retreat to our rooms, promising to meet at seven the next morning.
In our room, Rory is already in the shower when I collapse onto my bed. The whiskey from dinner sits warm in my belly, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough to quiet the thoughts that creep in when I’m alone.
I reach into my coat and pull out the flask I managed to refill at the pub when no one was looking. The metal is cool against my palm, familiar and comforting. I take a long pull, closing my eyes as the liquor burns its way down.
Chapter 6
Kori
Dublin sprawls before me as I exit the airport terminal, the morning sky a canvas of shifting grays. My head throbs from lack of sleep, and the wind flutters my hair, making me feel even more disheveled. The humidity instantly curls the edges of my hacked job, and I run my fingers through it self-consciously.
I join the taxi queue, shuffling forward with my single suitcase. When it’s finally my turn, I give the driver Wavecrest's address.
“County Wicklow?” he confirms, eyebrows raised. “That’s a fair journey, miss.”
“I know. I’m prepared to pay.” I slide into the backseat, grateful to be moving forward—literally and figuratively.
The driver, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes, introduces himself as Patrick. He tries making small talk as we leave the airport behind, but my short responses eventuallydiscourage him. Instead, he turns on the radio, filling the car with soft Irish folk music that somehow fits my miserable mood perfectly.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass, watching Dublin pass by. Georgian buildings with colorful doors line the streets, people hurrying along cobblestone sidewalks, umbrellas at the ready as the sky threatens rain. It’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache—this place that has nothing to do with Mark or Lana or my broken life back home.
As we leave the city behind, the landscape opens up. Rolling hills in impossible shades of green stretch toward the horizon, dotted with sheep that look like tiny white clouds that have fallen from the sky. Stone walls crisscross the countryside, ancient boundaries still standing after centuries.
“First time in Ireland?” Patrick asks, catching my awestruck expression in the rearview mirror.
“Second,” I reply, finding my voice. “But it’s been years.”
“What brings you to Wavecrest? It’s a bit remote this time of year.”
I hesitate, not wanting to share my humiliation with a stranger. “Just needed some time away.”
He nods knowingly. “Sometimes distance is the only cure.”
I don’t respond, but his words settle over me like a warm blanket. Distance. Space to breathe. To think.To figure out who I am when I’m not Mark’s wife.
The road narrows as we approach the coast, winding through small villages where colorful cottages huddle together against the sea wind. Patrick points out landmarks and shares bits of local history, and I find myself listening despite my exhaustion.
“Almost there,” he announces as we turn onto a gravel lane that cuts between two grassy hills. “Wavecrest is just around this bend.”
The taxi crests the hill, and suddenly there it is—a stone cottage perched on a bluff overlooking the Irish Sea. Gray stone walls, a slate roof patched with moss, windows like watchful eyes facing the water. It’s smaller than I remembered, but no less magical.
He pulls up to the gate and helps with my suitcase. “You sure you’ll be all right out here alone, miss? The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, though my voice wavers slightly. “I have the caretaker’s number if I need anything. And look,” I point across the road where cows graze in the tall grass. “They can keep me company.”
He looks skeptical but doesn’t press the issue. I pay the fare—wincing slightly at the cost—plus a generous tip that earns me a warm smile.
“If you need a ride back to civilization, here’s mycard,” he says, handing me a slightly bent business card. “Direct line, day or night.”
