Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
When I get to the top, I don’t even have to ring the bell or knock on the door. It’s already open.
“Hello, Miss Fitzgerald,” a maid says.
The mere fact that she tries to address me with that name, as though it belongs to me, makes my skin crawl.
Still, I smile, if only to keep up the veneer of fake happiness. “Hi.”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” the woman says. But I don’t even know her. “C’mon.” She beckons me inside.
“Isn’t he coming?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at Cillian, who goes back to his car.
“No, he’s got a job to do,” she replies.
I don’t think I want to know what kind of job that is.
I’m also way too occupied with staring at my surroundings, at all the beautiful tapestries and paintings hanging on the walls of this house, which reminds me of a nineteenth-century building. There are two rooms on each side of the hall and a big marble staircase in the middle that fans out when it gets to the top. Even the floors are made of marble, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of money they had to earn to afford this.
Blood money, I’m sure.
Suddenly, a woman in a dark red dress walks out of a room at the top of the stairs.
Mom.
Even though I haven’t seen her since I was a little girl, I still recognize that curly chestnut hair, puffy, round face, and signature lipstick from a long time ago.
My knees start to wobble as she clutches the railing, her light brown eyes boring into my soul.
“Harper …” The way she speaks my name makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I didn’t think I’d ever hear her voice again.
She goes down the stairs with elegance and grace, her hand on the railing, her body sliding down like a snake slithers down a tree. While I’m frozen to the ground, she walks up to me and clutches my hands. “I’m so, so happy you’re back here.”
Her voice and over-the-top Irish accent make me cringe.
Her voice is so warm and filled with love that it undoes me. “Mom.” Even though I don’t know if I can trust her or not, my whole body yearns for her touch.
And when she finally opens her arms, I fall into them with happiness. My head rests against her chest as we hug tight, and for a moment, I can forget every bad thing that has happened to me since the fire. Since I started looking for my parents’ murderer.
But she is not dead. She’s here, in the living flesh, finally in my arms.
And still, the fire of anger in my heart cannot be quenched.
I unfurl myself from her arms and look up at her. “I didn’t know you were alive … All this time, I thought you and Dad were dead. Why didn’t you ever come looking for me?”
“Oh, A leanbh.” She grabs my face and looks at me. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to be hurt by everything.”
A leanbh. I have no idea what it means, but it sounds like “honey” or “darling” to me, so I guess I’ll take it as such.
“What happened to you at the fire?” I ask.
She makes a face. “Oh, c’mon now, let’s not talk about that horrible night. We have so much catching up to do.” She places a hand on my back and guides me along. “Come. Let’s go into the living room.”
I’m partly surprised she brushes over it so easily, but at the same time, I’m too overcome with emotions to care.
We go into the room to the right, a place that’s filled with couches, a big fireplace, and windows that go all the way from the ceiling to the floor, lighting the entire room. My mother sits down on the big white couch right in front of the fireplace and flicks her fingers at a maid, who quickly dashes off.
Within a minute, she’s back, placing refreshing drinks on a glass table in front of the fireplace.
“Thank you,” I say to the woman, who just smiles and blushes.
My mother says nothing. Instead, she rolls her eyes. “Leave us.”
No thanks for the drinks? Was she always so coldhearted?
“I’m glad Cillian was finally able to track you down. After you escaped Marcello’s grasp, I was afraid we’d never be able to find you,” she says, picking up her drink with flair.
I frown. “How did he know where to look?”
“Oh, we’ve been tracking your every move since your father ambushed Marcello in that warehouse.”
Tracking my movement?
Does that mean she also knows about Marcello’s hideout?
She takes a sip of her drink, but all I can focus on is the fact that she knew my father ambushed Marcello. And it doesn’t seem to do anything to her. There’s no emotion coming from her at all, and it makes the room suddenly feel chilly.