Page 107 of Blindsided
We’re met at the airport by a driver holding a sign that reads “MacGallan.” Of course. Even in death, Tomas has arranged for his children to travel in style.
Two black SUVs wait outside, engines running despite the spring chill in the air. The driver loads our luggage efficiently, then hands Declan an envelope.
“What is it?” Wren asks as Declan tears it open.
“Directions,” he replies, scanning the contents. “And room keys for a hotel in town. We’re supposed to check in, freshen up, then proceed to the coordinates.”
“Of course we are,” Kane mutters. “Heaven forbid we just go straight there.”
I slide into the back seat of the second SUV with Kane, Lana following close behind. Rory and Kat join us, while the others take the lead vehicle.
The drive into Calgary passes in relative silence, the sprawling city giving way to glimpses of the distant Rocky Mountains on the horizon. I’ve never been to Alberta before, and despite the circumstances, I can’t help but appreciate its rugged beauty.
Our hotel turns out to be a luxurious downtown high-rise with spectacular mountain views. We’re given a block of suites on the top floor, each more opulent than the last. Kane whistles low when we enter ours—a corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows and a living area bigger than my entire condo in Toronto.
“Your father didn’t do anything by halves, did he?” I say, running my hand over the smooth marble countertop in the kitchenette.
“Apparently not,” Kane replies, dropping our bags by the king-sized bed. “Even his posthumous scavenger hunts come with five-star accommodations.”
We have just enough time to shower and change before meeting the others in the lobby. The tension from earlier has only intensified, everyone fidgeting in their own way—Declan pacing, Wren twisting her wedding ring, Kat repeatedly checking her phone. However, there’s clearly no one she’s expecting to hear from.
“Everyone ready?” Declan asks, though it’s not really a question. No one’s ready for whatever awaits us, but we’re going anyway.
Back in the SUVs, we follow the GPS coordinates out of the city, heading west toward the mountains. The landscape changes dramatically, urban sprawl giving way to rolling foothills of the Canadian Rockies.
“It’s beautiful,” Lana murmurs beside me, her face pressed close to the window. “So different from home.”
Home. The word catches in my chest. Where is home now? Not Toronto, with its memories of Mark and betrayal. Not Ireland, though Wavecrest had begun to feel like a sanctuary. Maybe home isn’t a place at all, but the feeling I get when Kane’s fingers intertwine with mine, as they do now.
“Almost there,” the driver announces as we turn onto a gravel road that winds through a dense pine forest. “About five minutes out.”
Kane’s grip on my hand tightens. I look at him, finding his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the roadahead.
The forest opens suddenly into a vast clearing, and collective gasps fill the vehicle. Before us stands not a ranch house as we expected, but a stunning modern lodge—all glass and timber, stretching along the edge of a pristine lake. Behind it, the Canadian Rockies rise in jagged majesty, their snow-capped peaks glowing in the afternoon sun.
“Holy shit,” Rory breathes. “That’s not a ranch, that’s a resort.”
The SUVs pull to a stop in the circular driveway. For a long moment, no one moves, all of us taking in the unexpected sight.
“Well,” Declan says finally, opening his door. “Let’s see what dear old dad left for us.”
We follow him up the stone pathway to the front entrance—massive double doors carved with intricate Celtic knotwork that echoes Kane’s tattoos. Declan uses the key from the envelope, and the doors swing open silently.
The interior is even more impressive than the exterior—soaring ceilings, a wall of windows framing the mountain view, and a central fireplace large enough to stand in. But what draws everyone’s attention is the massive portrait hanging above the mantel.
Tomas MacGallan stares down at us, his expression enigmatic. He’s younger in the paintingthan in the photos I’ve seen, perhaps in his mid-fifties, standing beside a gleaming chestnut horse. At his feet sits a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, with wild red curls and his same penetrating eyes.
“Ella,” Kane whispers, moving toward the portrait as if in a trance. “But how? She doesn’t exist.”
“Actually,” a voice says from the shadows of a hallway, “she does.”
We all spin toward the sound. A woman steps into the light—tall and slender, with the same red hair as the child in the portrait, though now streaked with silver at the temples. She’s perhaps thirty-eight, with lines of laughter and sorrow etched into a face that bears an unmistakable resemblance to Kane.
“Hello,” she says, her voice carrying a slight Irish lilt. “I’m Eleanor MacGallan. Though you know me as Ella.” Her eyes find Kane in the group, and her expression softens. “And some of you must be my half-siblings.”
The room falls into stunned silence. I can’t tear my eyes away from Ella—a woman who was supposed to be a fabrication, a ghost story created to bring the MacGallans together. Yet here she stands, flesh and blood, looking at Kane with an expression that mirrors his own shock.
Before anyone can speak, the sound of small footsteps patters down the hallway behind Ella. Alittle girl appears, no more than eight years old, with blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She peeks around Ella’s legs, curious blue eyes surveying our group.
