“That’s still a crime scene, sir! We haven’t released it yet.”

“But my daughter’s in there,” a gruff American voice answers.

Amber’s body goes rigid within my arms.

THIRTY-FOUR

Amber

“Dad?”

I blink several times, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me, just like my ears may have a moment ago.

They’re not.

Sheriff Gabe Welles, in his standard-issue blue jeans and plaid button-down—this one cotton and short-sleeved—is standing in the gaping hole where the door used to be, staring at me.

“Amber.” I can’t get a read on his tone—there’s a hint of reproach, but more, I think it’s just relief.

River’s arms fall from their embrace, releasing me to scramble around the debris and fall against my father’s chest, the knot that has suddenly sprung in my throat large and prickly. He pulls me into him tightly, the way I remember him doing years ago, when I was a little girl and he’d say that he’d had a really hard day. He smells the same now that he did back then—a mix of Irish Spring soap and Old Spice cologne.

I’ve missed him so much.

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

“Ivy called Alex and told her that you needed me right away. She said you were in some sort of trouble.”

“Ivy did?”

“Yeah. That little graffiti artist I almost arrested once,” he says, a smile barely touching his lips. “She even picked me up from the airport. I left her back there, behind the tape. I think she’s hiding from you, actually.”

I can’t believe she called for my father. “What did she tell you?”

“Not much.” His gaze scans the destruction. “Not nearly enough . . . clearly.”

“But . . . I don’t . . .” I’m stumbling over my words, still in shock. “You don’t even have a passport!”

“You think I’d let you out of our country with no way of reaching you?” He smirks. “I applied for one the day after you booked all those flights. Just in case.”

I shake my head at him. “Always two steps ahead.”

His eyes settle on River. “Not always.” I sense his demeanor shift, from loving father to suspicious law enforcement officer. I’m sure it’s imperceptible to anyone else.

“Dad . . .” I warn, as River limps over.

“Sir. I’m River. Amber’s told me a lot about ya.”

“Has she, now . . . River.” I feel his sideways glare but I ignore it. Finally he shakes River’s extended hand. “Gabe Welles.”

“This is my mother, Marion.”

Marion steps forward, wiping her hands against her blouse before taking Dad’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“And this is my father, Seamus.”

Dad, seeing the cane, takes quick steps forward to reach Seamus.

“You have a lovely daughter. Ya must be very proud.”

“We’ll see,” I hear my dad mutter under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear.

“Seamus, let me drive you back to the house so you can rest. There’s nothing more we can do here for now.” Marion hooks an arm through his and the two of them begin working their way around the rubble toward the entrance.

“You going to the hospital, Ma?” River asks.

“As soon as I drop your da off. They should have moved Rowen into a proper room by now.” She doesn’t mention a word about Aengus in front of Seamus, though we all know she’ll take the opportunity away from River’s dad to duck in to see his eldest, too. Which means she’ll finally see the gardai stationed by the door, waiting until Aengus is well enough to be released into their custody.

She doesn’t know that he confessed to the bombing yet.

River and I share a look. “I should be there for this,” River whispers. “She’s likely to take a swing at them.”

“Of course. Dad, you’re staying with me, right?”

“After what I just paid for a last-minute one-way ticket here? Yeah. I’m staying with you. I could use a meal and a nap soon. I feel like I haven’t slept in days.”

I smile. There was a time when his car would roll out the driveway before daybreak, and not roll back in until well after dark. His lifestyle has definitely changed since last fall. On a few occasions, I’ve caught him snoring on the couch in the afternoon. “Okay. I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

Dad’s gaze shifts from me to River and back. “Don’t be long. I’m afraid that friend of yours is going to ditch my bags on the side of the street and take off.”

I chuckle. “Ivy wouldn’t do that. I think she’s still afraid of you.”

“Hmm.” That seems to please him. I hear a mutter of, “Maybe I’ve still got it,” as he leaves.

River’s arm ropes around my waist. “You seriously had no idea he was coming?”

“I can’t believe she called him!” She must have done it the second they arrested me, which was just around the time the thought to call my father was going through my head. I smile. “She just did what I’ve always done. Call my dad. He always knows how to fix things.”

“But you’re in the clear, so what exactly are you going to tell him now? That she made a mistake?”

“I can’t lie to him, River. He’ll know.”

“I know. I just . . .” He groans. “I’d like him to not hate me for at least a day.”

I reach on my tiptoes to kiss him softly on the mouth. “How could he possibly hate you?”

“Now you’re lying to me.”

“You’re right. I am.” I chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

“You certainly haven’t been suffering,” Dad mutters. Ivy and I hang back as he strolls through the main floor of Simon’s house.

“I’m sorry,” Ivy hisses, “but they arrested you! It looked bad and I didn’t know what else to do. By the time you texted me last night, it was too late. He was already on his way.”

“It’s okay. I get why you called him. I’m not mad. But you didn’t think to warn me?”

A rare, sheepish look passes over her face. “Yeah . . . I thought about it.”

Dad nudges River’s duffel bag in the living room with his boot—I meant to move that upstairs—and his brow tightens, but he says nothing.

“He said it was an open-ended ticket?” Ivy asks.

“Yeah. What exactly did you tell him?”

“I’m not deaf,” he calls out, sizing up the bottle of Jameson that Rowen left here. “She didn’t tell me a damn thing. Kept pleading the Fifth, despite my best interrogation tactics.”

“And on that note . . .” Ivy slips out the door, leaving me to deal with Gabe Welles all on my own.

“So?” I wander toward the kitchen. “What do you want to eat? I have cold cuts and cheese, fruit . . .” I open the freezer. “. . .veggie burgers . . .” I don’t have to turn around to know that he’s rolling his eyes at that. “A lasagna?”

“Meat or vegetarian?”

Mom being a surgeon and a terrible cook, most of our meals growing up were frozen, pre-made grocery store finds. She’d buy a lot of vegetarian things, even though none of us were vegetarian. It drove Dad nuts, and he’d grumble about it, but in the end, he’d shut up and eat it. The first thing that changed when he retired was that he started doing all the grocery shopping. I haven’t seen a vegetarian casserole in our house in the better part of a year.