“What’s the story?”

I smile. Ivy told me that’s how a lot of Irish people say hello.

My smile slides off as a dark mask takes over River’s face. “Don’t go home. Keep driving . . . No . . . And if they mistake you for him?”

I squeeze his fingers and his eyes fall to mine. “Guys waiting outside our house,” he whispers to me.

Guys? Does he mean . . .?

River’s attention is back to his phone. “Amber . . . She knows . . . Everything. I told her everything.”

I take a deep, shaky breath. Is it better that I know this? Had Duffy not shown up at my house yesterday, would I have made it until Sunday never finding out? Would I have climbed onto the plane with nothing more than ignorance and a broken heart?

“Where are you right now? . . . Okay. Listen. Go back to the pub and sit tight until I get there. I’ll call Aengus. This is his mess. He can clean it up.”

Wait. “How exactly is he going to clean it up?” I interrupt with a hiss.

Hesitation fills his eyes. “He’ll probably go there to find them.”

I grab his hand. “No. Call the police!”

He heaves a sigh full of frustration. “Gardai won’t do anything, Amber. They’ve already said that they won’t protect him.”

“They will. Just . . .” I scramble to remember everything my dad has ever said to me. Little bits of random information, complaints about how television shows mess everything up. Anything that will convince River not to send his maniac bomber brother there. Finally, an idea comes to me. “Tell Rowen to call and report it. Tell him to say that he’s pretty sure he saw a gun. Gardai will have to check it out.”

He opens his mouth, looking ready to disagree, but I squeeze his hands tighter, pleading with my eyes. “Please. Tell him to do it. If they can catch them with guns, they’ll arrest them. Then these guys can’t do anything to Aengus.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He sighs, saying into phone, “Did you hear that? . . . Do it. Then wait at the bar for me . . . I don’t know! Sleep in the office.”

I frown. There’s nowhere to sleep in that tiny place, unless it’s on the desk.

River sees my face and explains, “He was up all night finishing an assignment for school.”

And then River asked him to cover for him today, so he could take me to Wicklow. I sigh as the guilt settles firmly on my shoulders. “Tell him to meet us at my place. He can sleep there.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I’ve officially gone insane. It isn’t even my house!

But I’m also going to feel better knowing Rowen and River are safe.

At least for tonight.

Rowen’s sitting on my doorstep when River parks his car, his long legs stretched out on the walkway, his head resting against the cherry-red door, his eyes closed.

And Ivy is sitting beside him, arms folded over her chest, a scowl comfortably settled on her face.

Crap. This complicates things.

“She shouldn’t be here,” River mumbles at the same time that I think it.

This is why she texted me earlier, asking me what time I’d be home. She planned on staking out my place. I shouldn’t be too surprised after the message I left her, but for some reason I still am.

I slowly make my way up the path to meet her flat, unimpressed gaze. “Hey, Ivy . . . what are you doing here?”

One perfectly shaped eyebrow spikes halfway up her forehead. “Really?”

“Look, can I give you a call later and—”

“Nope.”

I give River a shrug, because I don’t really know what to say, and unlock my front door to lead everyone in, kicking my boots off, my feet sweaty and sore and in need of a long soak in the tub that I’m not going to get.

“Drink, anyone?” Rowen pulls out a bottle of Jameson before tossing his canvas backpack to the floor. “Swung by the pub,” he adds when River looks questioningly at him. “Figured I’d need it after I let that cab driver bend me over the backseat and rape me.”

“He didn’t really,” River assures me, a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Rowen just has a thing with taxi drivers.”

“Yeah. They’re all thieving bastards! Who wants a drink? I know I need one. Ivy?” He passes her with a knowing smirk on his way to the kitchen. She merely watches him from her perch on the armchair, having somehow slinked past us all. Her lithe body looks ready to pounce.

And she’s entirely unimpressed.

“I need to take a piss,” River mutters, escaping her severe stare quickly.

It shifts, settling heavily on me. “What was that you said to me that first night? You ‘hate drama’?” She air-quotes the words.

“I do.”

“Huh. Really . . .” She hops off the chair, sauntering over, her eyes flickering in the direction of the bathroom. She drops her voice. “Because that message I got today? It was steeped in it. Seriously, what the hell is going on? Why would you be giving me the name of some detective garda to contact? Why would something happen to you?”

I try to shrug it off with a joke. “Were you worried about me?”

She rolls her eyes, but the wariness is still there. “Should I be?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” Physically anyway. Although I’m not sure how much damage River will have done to my heart by the time Sunday rolls around.

“Okay.” She nods slowly, checking over her shoulder to make sure Rowen is still occupied at the kitchen counter. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t, honestly. All I can say is that it’s bad.”

“Of course it is. You Welles kids, always getting into trouble.”

I snort. “I can’t believe it, but you’re right. I can’t just blame Jesse anymore.” Which reminds me . . . “I need to talk to Alex. I should probably go and do that, seeing as that bottle of gasoline that Rowen’s pouring over there is looking pretty good right about now.”

“This must be really bad.” Ivy nods toward the stairs. “Go ahead. I’ll stay down here. I have nowhere I have to be.”

“Do me a favor? Keep them downstairs.” I’m not sure how this conversation is going to go, but I can’t have River pressing his ear up against the door.

Ivy reclaims her perch. On guard. “I’ll keep them occupied.”

She really is a fantastic wing woman. Though I’m not sure I want to know what “keeping them occupied” means. Hopefully it doesn’t involve spray paint.

Dismissing that worry, I run up the stairs.

Hey, Alex. How could you be with a criminal?

The second Alex’s pretty russet-colored eyes find mine on her laptop screen, I bite down on my tongue. Though I know that her husband was a bad guy and likely involved in plenty of illegal activity beyond what he did to her, we’ve never really talked about it. Alex seems intent on putting that all behind her, and focusing on her wonderful new life with Jesse.

Who I know has broken the law on more than one occasion.

She frowns. “What happened to your lip? It looks a bit puffy and,” she taps her own bottom lip exactly where the cut on mine used to be, “there’s a dark spot right here.”