“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 River 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.”