Page 15 of Blindsided
I hang back while Declan sorts out the rental cars. We need two—one for Declan, Wren, and Kat, and another for me and Rory. I’m not thrilled about the arrangement, but nobody asked my opinion.
“You’re with me,” Rory says, tossing me a set of keys that I barely catch. “But I’m driving. You’re still drunk.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, but surrender the keys without much fight. Truth is, I’m seeing double, and the floor keeps tilting under my feet.
Outside, the Irish morning greets us with a fine mist that soaks through my jacket in seconds. It feels like coming home, even though I haven’t been back since I was a teenager. The damp air smells different here, earthy and ancient.
“The motel isn’t too far,” Declan says, consulting his phone. “Follow us and try not to get lost.”
I slide into the passenger seat next to Rory, resting my forehead against the cool window. “He’s enjoying this, you know. Bossing everyone around.”
“His father might be alive after we buried him months ago,” Rory responds, starting the engine. “Cut him some slack.”
I close my eyes, not wanting to argue. The truth is, I’m worried too. Not just about Uncle Tomas, but about what I know—what I’ve kept from them. The foreign man at the docks wasn’t just anyone. He was Russian. And what I overheard wasn’t just about Tomas being found.
It was about what he’d stolen.
“You’re quiet,” Rory observes as we follow Declan’s car through the rush hour traffic.
“Just tired,” I lie, watching Dublin materialize around us. The city has changed since my last visit—more glass, more steel—but the bones remain the same—Georgian buildings with their colorful doors. Narrow streets open suddenly into squares. The River Liffey cuts through it all like an artery.
By the time we reach the hotel, my headache has escalated to nuclear levels. The lobby is mercifully dim, all dark wood and hushed voices. Declan handles check-in while I collapse into a leather armchair, closing my eyes against the spinning room.
“Wake up,” Kat says, nudging my shoulder. “We’re heading up.”
I follow them to the elevator, trying not to look as awful as I feel. The rooms are on the fourth floor—Declan and Wren in one, Kat in another, and Rory and I sharing the third because, evidently, I can’t be trusted. Small mercies.
“Get cleaned up,” Declan orders as we gather in the hallway. “We’ll meet downstairs in an hour to get something to eat and figure out our next move.”
I salute mockingly and drag myself to the room I’m sharing with Rory. The moment the door closes behind us, I make a beeline for the bathroom and throw up everything in my stomach.
“Classy,” Rory comments from the doorway.
“Fuck off,” I groan, resting my cheek against the cool porcelain.
“One hour,” he reminds me. “Try to look human by then.”
I manage a shower, which helps more than I expected. The hot water pounds some life back into me, and by the time I’ve changed clothes, I almost feel like a person again. Almost.
Downstairs, the others are already waiting in the lobby. Wren says, “You look marginally better.”
With a wink in her direction to piss my cousin off, I drawl. “Thanks. The chunks of vomit really brought the whole look together before.”
I don’t get the reaction I wanted as Declan ignores our exchange. “There’s a pub around the corner that’s supposed to be good. Low profile, which is what we need right now.”
The pub is exactly what you’d expect—dark wood, brass fixtures, the smell of beer, and centuries of conversations soaked into the walls. We find abooth in the back, away from the few afternoon patrons nursing pints at the bar.
A waitress takes our order—food for everyone, whiskey for me, despite Declan’s disapproving frown.
“Hair of the dog,” I explained with a shrug.
Once she’s gone, Declan leans forward, his voice low. “Let’s focus. We know Dad isn’t in his grave. We know he wanted us to come to Ireland, specifically to the family property in Clare. What we don’t know is why.”
“Or if he’s actually alive,” Kat adds, her face pale. “The letter just said to check his grave. It didn’t explicitly say he faked his death.”
“Someone did,” Wren points out. “That coffin was empty.”
I take a swig of water, wishing my whiskey would arrive faster. “What exactly did Uncle Tomas do for the family, again?”
