by K. A. Tucker
I grip the door for support as I watch him march down the path, closing the black gate behind him.
River said his family walked away from it all in the ’70s because of the violence, so what does this mean?
Don’t be stupid, Amber. It means he’s lying to you.
So, everything I know about River up until now has been an act? I can feel tears threatening to spill over. How could I have been so wrong about him?
And what has he done? What does “the IRA kind” mean? Has he hurt people? Killed them? No, that’s just not possible. I couldn’t have misread him that much. But, then, what did he do that would put him in jail?
I glance at my watch. River is supposed to be here in five minutes.
Beyond the shock and hurt and an inkling of fear, a new sensation bursts.
Anger.
I do the only thing I can think to do.
I grab my purse and Simon’s car keys, and I run.
TWENTY-ONE
RIVER
My car whips around the corner at a quarter past six. Trying to make up for lost time, late on account of the shower I squeezed in between work and here and the flowers I grabbed for Amber, a last-minute decision and something I’ve never actually done before.
I can’t wait to see her.
An empty spot sits where the black Volkswagen normally sits out front. I don’t think too much about it, though. Maybe a neighbor borrowed it. This doctor guy seems generous enough to allow for that. I park in the space beside it and make my way up the path, to ring the bell.
No answer.
Frowning, I check my phone. The last text from her was forty minutes ago, responding to mine that I’d be there soon. I quickly punch out a message to her, telling her I’m outside.
And then I wait for a reply. Maybe she’s in the bathroom?
Another text and a phone call, and ten minutes later, she’s still not answering. On impulse, I try the doorknob.
The door’s unlocked.
“Amber?” My voice ricochets off three stories worth of walls.
No answer.
An edge of unease slides into me as I wander into the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, my footfalls slow and intentionally quiet. “Amber!”
She’s obviously not here. So where the hell is she?
A card catches my eye on the dining room table. On impulse, I pick it up. When I see Garda Duffy’s name printed on it, my blood turns cold. “Shit.” This must just be a coincidence. He was probably the one at the scene of the bomb, the one who questioned her. A connection I hadn’t made before.
But why is his card here?
And why is she now gone?
I dial Rowen’s cell.
The low buzz of the steady Monday night fills the background. “What’s the story?”
“Is Amber there?”
“Uh . . . nope. Isn’t she supposed to be with you?”
“Ring me if she shows up there.”
“Right. Is everything okay?”
“Not sure.” I take the stairs two steps at a time, searching the bedrooms, my focus stalling on the bed I was in only hours ago, the sheets stretched out over the mattress, the pillows perfectly set. It doesn’t surprise me. Amber seems like the kind of girl who wouldn’t leave without making her bed every morning. I inhale, the scent of her perfume still lingering in the air. She was here not long ago.
But now she’s not. We were supposed to meet, and there’s a business card from the asshole garda who thinks I’m guilty of something sitting on her table. Her car is gone and the door was left unlocked.
I can’t see Amber doing that on purpose. It’s as if she was in a rush and forgot. Or a panic.
Fuck. What did he say to her? Did he come here? On the same day that he was questioning me about Aengus? This is too coincidental.
I search for a spare house key in the table by the door. Nothing. So I shut the door tight behind me, because I don’t know what else I can do, and head back to my car, dread taking over. I don’t want to leave the house open for her to come home to. This is central Dublin. It’s not a place you can leave your door unlocked, especially if someone knows the owner and thinks he’s overseas.
I pull my phone out again, and I dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail.
“Amber . . . Ring me.” I hesitate. “Please.”
TWENTY-TWO
AMBER
“I’m a disgrace to my heritage,” Ivy admits, twirling her chow mein noodles around her fork.
“Just don’t spill,” Ian mutters, eyeing her lithe body that’s wedged into the wing chair, one leg slung over the side. We both watched her douse the take-out with so much soy sauce that it pooled in the bottom of her bowl.
I’m not even hungry, but when Ivy said she was going to order Chinese, I numbly nodded. Now I simply shift the noodles around in their box. My eyes veering over to my phone. River has already left three texts and two voice messages.
“See anything ya like?” Ian asks me in that strange mock Dubliner’s accent, pointing his chopsticks toward the big binder of tattoo photographs. I’ve been flipping through it for hours, listening to Ivy’s needle buzz behind the walls.
“You did all of these?”
“It’s my portfolio. Proof of my level of skill.”
“He’s alright,” Ivy mumbles through a full mouth of food.
“Would you stop saying that to potential customers!” He throws an extra set of chopsticks at her, and they hit her boot.
“What’s wrong, afraid of a little competition?”
He simply shakes his head at his cousin.
“I think you’re very good,” I offer, turning to the next page, and the next.
“See?” Ian smirks.
“She doesn’t even know what to look for,” Ivy mutters.
I ignore the little jibe—she’s right, but there’s no need to be so condescending about it—and keep looking through Ian’s work. Until I come to a page with a black-and-red bird. It’s large, taking up the client’s entire bicep, the wings curling around on either side. And it’s too similar to River’s to be a coincidence. “Does this mean something?
Ian leans over. “That’s the phoenix. It’s represents the Irish Republican Army, back when they reestablished themselves after a series of riots in Northern Ireland, aimed at stopping the persecution of Catholics. If you visit Belfast, you’ll see the phoenix on the gates into the Catholic memorial. It’s quite something, really.”
So, it’s not an eagle. River has a tattoo that represents the IRA on his chest.
God, I’m so stupid.
Of course he’d never admit to being involved with something like that. But then, why would he have bothered telling me all that he did last night about his family? Why not just lie about that, too? I just can’t make sense of his motivation.
“What do you know about the IRA?” I ask casually.
“Oh, man. Here we go . . .” Ivy groans. “You’re asking a guy with a master’s degree in political science, who wrote his thesis on the politics in Ireland, what he knows about the IRA? We could be here all night.”
Ian rolls his eyes but smiles. “No we can’t, because I have places I have to be.” To me, he asks, “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. I guess, just . . . how dangerous are they?”
“The guys who call themselves IRA today? They’re pretty fanatical, and dangerous. The IRA today isn’t what it was a hundred years ago, or even forty years ago. Most Irish, including those who once actively supported the fight for independence, are living their lives quite happily now. They’ve accepted the way the country has been divided and don’t want any more violence. Sure, there are protest parades every July, up in Belfast, but even the Provisional IRA—that’s the organization who led much of the fight in Northern Ireland against the British and loyalist supporters; they’re the ones this phoenix represents—they just want peace.”
That coincides with what River said last night. So why has R
iver also been to prison for his involvement with the IRA? He’s only twenty-four—I snuck a peek at his driver’s license this morning while he was using my bathroom; it only seemed fair, seeing as he’s been through my wallet, too. If he’s been to prison, it’s been in the last six or seven years. So it can’t be something as terrible as murder.
“The problem is this Real IRA that sprung up after the ceasefire. They’re a much smaller organization—only a few hundred people in size—but they wreak havoc. The funny thing is that, aside from their army council—they’re quite official in the way they’re set up—not many of these rank-and-file ‘soldiers’ even know about what the IRA of the past fought for. They have no idea what you mean when you say ‘sovereignty.’They just want to bloody fight.”
His words are making my stomach curl. River does seem to fight a lot. “So that bombing in St. Stephen’s Green . . .”
“Likely IRA, sending some sort of message. They’ve waged war with the city’s drug gangs. They say they’re fighting against the drugs and corruption in our country, but their methods are murder and extortion. In the end, it’s all about making money. They’re just another gang, hiding behind the fear and respect the name gives them.” Ian frowns. “Though I don’t quite understand that attack on the Green. Normally their messages are dead bodies or cutting off limbs, or blowing up places where there are actual people.”
“Mmmm . . . yummy,” Ivy mocks, her tone full of sarcasm as a forkful of noodles floats in front of her mouth.
“Right. Sorry.” Ian gets up. “Make sure you bring the leftovers home and take the rubbish with you when you leave, okay? I don’t want this place stinking of soy sauce in the morning.”
Ivy sucks back a noodle in response, waving at her cousin as he disappears out the door, hitting the switch to the outside lights on his way out. A moment later, the lock sounds.
“You just made his day. He loves to geek out over Irish politics. You should listen to him when the IRA shows up in the news. He goes on these major verbal rampages. Not sure how we’re related.”
I wonder, too. I really know nothing about her. And right now, I could use the distraction of Ivy’s entire life story, from birth until tonight.
“So, what exactly is your background anyway, Ivy? You said you were born in Spain?”
She nods through a mouthful. “Mom was born and raised in Barcelona. My dad is first-generation American, but his parents are both from just outside Shanghai. They moved to California before he was born. Ian’s mom and my dad are brother and sister.”
“That’s where you moved to Sisters from?”
“San Francisco.” She heaves a sigh, muttering, “I loved it there.” Pointing the remote control at the stereo, she flips through the channels so fast that I don’t know how her brain processes what’s playing. “But my parents decided we needed to get away.”
“Why?”
She shrugs.
I have a feeling she could say more, but I don’t push it because my phone chirps, instantly stealing my attention.
Amber. Please answer me. I’m worried.
I can practically hear his deep accented voice coming through, making my guilt flare. What if this is all a huge misunderstanding? It has to be. I know River. No, you don’t, stupid Amber. Just because you’ve slept with him doesn’t mean you know him. I sigh. I can’t ignore him anymore, fear or not. Hurt or not. Anger, or not.
I’m sorry, I can’t make it tonight.
I power my phone off and toss it aside so I don’t have to read his response.
Ivy’s gaze bores into the side of my head. “This is the first time you’ve ever been stood up, isn’t it?”
I showed up at The Fine Needle just after six. Ivy, just about to take a girl of maybe twenty back for her tattoo, said I stormed in like Freddy Krueger was chasing after me.
I forced a stiff laugh when she told me. No, not Freddy Krueger. I asked her if I could hang out and she simply shrugged. She never pushed me, never asked me why I was dressed like I was going out, why I would want to hang out in a dungeon instead.
Unlike Bonnie or Tory, who would have drilled me until I gave something up. She hasn’t even mentioned River once. And I’ve appreciated it. It allowed me the chance to wrap my mind around what Duffy told me, and what I know of River, and how those two things just can’t possibly align.
But I guess all things must come to an end; the better they are, the faster.
Tonight’s the first time since I got on that plane out of Oregon that I’ve wanted to climb onto another one and go home. The sooner Sunday comes, the better.
“I wasn’t stood up,” I deny quietly.
By the flat gaze in her eyes, I don’t think she believes me. I brace myself for some smart-ass comment, some glib joke about the Sheriff’s Daughter or the Rodeo Queen or Miss Perfect not getting what she wants.
“I remember this one time I got stood up . . .” She sucks her Coke up through her straw. “I mean, I’ve been stood up a few times, but this one time stung especially bad. I was twenty-one and working at a shop in Portland. I had this super-hot customer and I was crazy about him. Anyway, Nine Inch Nails was coming to Portland and he had these special connections to get backstage. He knew they were my all-time favorite band. See?” She points to her shoulder, where a small “NIN” symbol fills one petal of a black iris. I can’t stand them, or any heavy metal, preferring country and pop any day, but I keep my mouth shut and simply nod.
“So he invited me and of course I said yeah. We were supposed to meet at the gates at seven. I was there, in the cold rain. I stood there waiting for him until almost ten, until I could hear the Nails playing from inside the stadium.” She snorts. “Of course I was worried, so I kept calling him. But it went straight to voicemail. I finally got a one-line text from him that said, ‘Sorry, I fell asleep. Next time.’ ”
“Did you believe him?”
“Does it matter? Why kind of apology is that? But no, I didn’t believe him. And I was pissed at myself for waiting so long. Then I found out through a friend that he was at the concert that night, but with some other girl.”
Wow. “Did you ever talk to him again?”
“Sort of.” She slides another mouthful of noodles into her mouth, so casually. “About three weeks later, he came into the shop with pictures of his shed that had been decorated with the Pretty Hate Machine album cover art on the side. He didn’t appreciate it. I guess he wasn’t as big a Nails fan as he claimed to be.”
I burst out laughing.
“But I didn’t tag it.” She pokes the air with her fork. “See? I’m not stupid.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
“He couldn’t prove it. But my boss somehow figured out that I’d taken a photocopy of his driver’s license and he fired me for that. So I moved back home and got a job with Beans at his shop in Bend. You remember him, right?”
I nod. The place where Alex got her work done. “You know a lot of tattoo artists.”
“It’s a close community, and having a female artist of my caliber working for you is always a bonus with the clients.”
“Well . . . I wasn’t stood up. But thanks for that story. For some reason it makes me feel less like an idiot right now.” I toss my barely eaten food onto the side table, stuffing napkins into the container.
There’s another long pause and then Ivy asks, “You know that first night, when you asked me how I remembered so much about you in high school?”
“Did I?”
She hesitates, as if she doesn’t want to admit something. “It’s because, for a long time, I wished I was you. My family and I moved to Sisters because my parents wanted to get far away from San Francisco. They decided a remote mountain town would be good. I didn’t know a soul, and we didn’t have a lot of money. I looked ‘different’ from other kids,” her fingers air-quote that word. “You seemed to have everything going for you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s flattering, but sad, and probabl
y not an easy thing for a girl like Ivy to admit. “Well, thank God you weren’t—otherwise your relationship with my brother would have been really inappropriate.”
For the first time, Ivy’s head tips back and laughter bellows out of her, making me giggle. It feels good.
“Does Alex know about you and Jesse?”
“No . . . At least, I didn’t tell her. Figured she wouldn’t want to hear about it. So, let’s keep that between us.”
A secret between Ivy and me.
Climbing out of her chair, she collects my food carton and heads over to dump it into a trash can.
“For what it’s worth . . . I’m sorry I never said hi to you in the hallway,” I offer with complete sincerity.
Her hands slow for just a moment, and then they’re tying a knot into the top of the bag, sealing the odors in. “So, are we going to sit here and be all depressed about whatever this asshole did? Or should we go do something?”
I take in her outfit—head-to-toe skulls and cheetah print. “Do you have something in mind?”
She loops her hands together and stretches her fingers. Loud cracks fill the silence.
She definitely does.
“Do you have something else in mind?” I ask, casting a furtive look to the left and the right of the narrow side street. Light streams on either side of the building, but where we stand next to this vast painted brick wall, we lurk in shadows, marginally visible by the lights shining from Ivy’s Civic. Technically, Ian’s. They share an apartment a block away from the shop, and she ran over to grab the keys.
“We’re not doing anything wrong.” She reaches into her trunk and pulls out a plastic bag. I immediately recognize the telltale sounds of spray cans banging against each other.
“Ivy!”
“Relax. It’s just like the bowling alley back home. They allow it as a way to keep the graffiti centralized. And this wall . . .” She takes big steps backward across the quiet road, without looking. “Just look at it! Such a clean, white canvas.”
