Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(64)

“Who are they?” I blurt out. “Those men you just showed me.”

“Two brothers who got mixed up in some bad stuff.”

Brothers. The redhead must be Aengus. “Bad stuff?” My voice is too shaky. I steady it. “What kind of bad stuff?”

“The IRA kind.” He offers me a smile. “But don’t worry. I’ve put them both in prison once. If they were behind this, I’ll put them there again.”

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 * 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.