Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(92)

“And how did you recognize him?”

“From St. Stephen’s Green, the day of the bomb. He’s the guy who pushed me down. He saved my life.”

“And do you know his name?”

“River Delaney.” It comes out scratchy. I can’t believe I’m naming River like this. I just hope that telling the truth will help him more than the continued lies could hurt him. And I hope he doesn’t hate me for it.

“When did you first meet River?”

“Two days after the bombing in St. Stephen’s Green.”

He frowns, confused. Or maybe doubtful, like he was expecting my answer to be different.

“Everything I told you about that day in St. Stephen’s Green was true. I was just an American tourist at the wrong place at the wrong time. I told you all that I remembered of him. It wasn’t until two days later when I was having lunch that something triggered my memory. A stag on a T-shirt, of all things.” I chuckle, though nothing about being in this cold, sterile room is particularly funny.

“The Delaney crest,” he murmurs, a small smile touching his mouth.

“Exactly.” I go on to explain how I tracked River down to the pub, and everything after that, glossing over the private details. I think he can read between the lines just fine, my crimson cheeks likely enough evidence.

“So, when I showed up on Monday and asked you to identify his mug shot, you knew River Delaney quite well.”

I swallow. “Yes. In some ways, I guess I did. And I panicked. It just didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be the same guy. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Lying to a police officer is a serious offense, Amber.”

I snort, the irony of this situation not lost on me. “Trust me, I’m well aware. My father is a retired sheriff.”

That seems to give him pause, but not for too long. “You can be charged and convicted. You can have a criminal record because of it. If that happens, you won’t be allowed back in Ireland again.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, until I’m sure I’ve stalled the tears that threaten to fall. I hear what that threat really means. Never see River again.

Duffy regards me for a moment, chewing the corner of his lip in thought. “So, what happened next?”

“I ran. Avoided River while I processed.”

“Because you were afraid?”

“Because I was angry.” I settle my gaze on him, hoping he can see River through my eyes for just a moment. “He’s made mistakes, but he’s a good person.”

Duffy watches me silently with that same steely look that my dad has, that tells me nothing. “And then?”

I know that I don’t have to answer any of these questions. That giving this information may implicate me further. But they’ll find out eventually. They’ll pull phone records and see all the calls and text messages between us. They could pull Ivy in here and ask her, and I don’t expect her to incriminate herself. In the end, I’ll end up having to tell the truth anyway.

One of Sheriff Welles’s many mantras: “Always cooperate with the police, and things will go a lot smoother for you.” I wonder if those words were cycling through his head when he was helping Jesse cover up evidence of the murder attempt on Alex.

“And then I confronted him, and he told me everything.”

“What is ‘everything’?”

“His criminal record, his family’s history.”

“About his brother, Aengus?”

I nod.

“Did River tell you why he was in St. Stephen’s Green the morning of the bombing?”

“Yes.” If River isn’t going to help clear their suspicions of him, I will. “He overheard his brother, Aengus, talking about delivering some sort of warning that morning. So he followed him, unnoticed, to the park, and witnessed Aengus set the pipe bomb in the field. He tried to stop him but he couldn’t. Aengus ran and River was about to run himself, and then he saw me heading directly into the path. If not for River, I would have been hurt. Killed, perhaps.”

“And that would have been quite a tragic end,” he murmurs, tapping his pen against the desk in thought, though his gaze is still glued to mine.

I add, with hesitation, “But that’s all hearsay, isn’t it? What he told me, and what I just told you.” I don’t know how many times my dad would scold Bonnie and me for sharing “hearsay”—gossip—at our kitchen table. If we didn’t personally witness it, it would never stand up in court, he’d say, and we shouldn’t repeat it. I think he really just wanted to stop our incessant thirteen-year-old babble.

Duffy smiles gently, then tosses his pen aside, giving his forehead a firm rub with his palms. “I wish you had been honest with me on Monday. Maybe last night could have been avoided.” He looks up in time to see my face fall—the blanket of guilt he just tossed over my shoulders weighing me down instantly—and quickly adds, “But probably not. What you’re telling me only confirms what we already suspected and couldn’t prove about Aengus. We still can’t, beyond your words, which, as you say, are hearsay.”

“So what are you going to do?”

He sighs. “Figure out how to get River to admit to it, and act as a witness. Given that he’s as stubborn as he is proud, I don’t see how I’m going to accomplish that.”