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She shifts in her seat, her gaze dropping before she looks up again. "Sofia and I were very close, as close as sisters can be," she says, her voice thick with nostalgia. "She was full of dreams, wanting to see the world, make a difference. She took an internship in the office of Tyrone Lynch."
At the mention of the name, a jolt of recognition. Tyrone Lynch isn't just any name—it's a name that rings with authority and power across Ireland. "Tyrone Lynch," I echo, "the former Minister of Justice.” He is now our Taoiseach, selected by the President.
"Yes, and I think his office knows more than they're letting on about what happened to her," Maura continues, her voice hardening with a mix of suspicion and determination.
Maura's glance flickers to me, probing. "Do you know anything about the case?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shake my head, my face mirroring her solemnity. "Only what's been public, nothing more."
As she hears this, tears well up in Maura's eyes, and she turns her head away, looking back toward the distance she had been staring into when we first arrived. The haunted look in her eyes is painful to witness. It's a look that speaks of broken dreams and unresolved questions—a look that tells me she's far from finding the peace she deserves.
Maura's voice trembles as she gestures to the bustling street outside the café window. "This is the last place I saw her."
My heart sinks as I listen, the heaviness of her loss palpable in the air. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize," I reply, my voice soft, filled with genuine regret.
"I had not seen her for months," Maura continues, her gaze lost in the past. "Most of the family had written her off, but I knew she was off following her dream. We had a coffee, and I ended the visit... I wanted to get to a store before it closed. So stupid. When I look back—you just don’t know when these things will happen."
Niamh, who had been quietly absorbing the weight of Maura's words, interjects gently, "There is no way you could have known."
Maura nods, tears brimming in her eyes. "She crossed the street right there, waved at me, and disappeared from my life. I never saw her again." She pauses, her voice breaking. "I keep looking, expecting her to pop back into my life. But she won’t."
Turning to me, Maura's eyes plead for answers, for any shred of hope. "Please, do you know anything?"
I’m torn, the weight of Maura's gaze pressing down on me. I know that someone powerful was involved in Sofia's disappearance, someone who could change the course of our investigation and potentially our lives. Woman-to-woman, Maura deserves to know the truth, deserves any piece of peace that could come from it. But then, the image of Rian flashes through my mind, and the danger of drawing Maura deeper into this murky world holds me back.
"I’m sorry," I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I know as much as you know."
As Maura's face falls, the ease with which the lie slips out disturbs me. I’m becoming too accustomed to lying. The realization sits uncomfortably within me, a stark reminder of how far we’ve strayed from the straightforward paths of our past lives.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amira
THE NEARLY EMPTY room amplifies each sound with terrifying clarity. Echoes of screams fill the space, mingling with scratching that mimics the scurrying of rats. It’s damp, dark, and desolate—a stark contrast to the other rooms in the building, which hold remnants of normalcy and light.
From outside the cage, I watch. My mother is trapped inside, her body writhing as the LSD coursing through her veins conjures monsters from the shadows. Casually, I run a bat along the cold metal bars, the clinking sound of wood on metal sending shivers of fear through my mother with each contact.
I haven’t laid a hand on her—I don’t need to. The drugs are doing more than I ever could, more than I ever did. All those years of abuse, every moment my mother had made me feel small and scared; it's all being repaid now, tenfold.
My mother’s screams eventually taper off into whimpers. Eyes wide, she scans the room fearfully, every shadow a demon, every sound a threat. With a calculated swing, I hit the side of the cage sharply. The metal clangs loudly, and my mother’s screams shatter the brief silence again.
The act, while passive in its violence, is brutal in its intention. I stand there, a figure of calm vengeance, as each scream pierces the stale air of the room. I watch with a cold detachment, the bat hanging loosely in my hand. The echoes of my mother's terror are a chilling reminder of the years of torment endured, now returned in a twisted form of justice.
Her screams continue, piercing the fog in my mind. I don’t linger but drop the bat and leave the room.
Wolf waits for me in the hallway, coolly leaning against the wall as if I’m coming from a shower and not a torture session with my own mother.
Wolf pushes off the wall. “You know, I could add some ecstasy to that cocktail. It would be hilarious to watch her fuck that bat.”
"I'll keep that in mind," I mutter, the words hollow between us. My eyes flick away from Wolf's amused gaze, focusing instead on the cold, unwelcoming floor. Deep down, a tangled mess of emotions begins to surface. Despite the horrors my mother inflicted upon me, a tsunami of pity forms in my heart. It's unsettling, this softening. For years, I've cloaked myself in a guise of unrelenting cruelty to mask my own vulnerabilities. But now, as the tables have turned, the necessity of this cruelty seems... pointless.
Wolf, however, embodies a different breed of darkness. He revels in the suffering of others, his eyes sparkling with a disturbing glee at the prospect of pain, irrespective of any personal connection—or the lack thereof. It's chilling, his detachment, his ease in the face of others' agony.
He suddenly produces a long jewelry box, extending it toward me with an unsettling smile. I hesitate, my instincts screaming caution. Trusting anyone linked to the cult is a gamble I'm all too familiar with. "Take it," he commands, his voice a mixture of impatience and authority.
With a resigned breath, I accept the box, the polished surface cool to the touch against my skin. Slowly, I lift the lid to reveal a necklace, its emerald pendant glinting ominously under the harsh lighting. The stone’s deep green is mesmerizing, yet the weight of accepting such a gift feels heavier than the jewel itself.
"Thank you," I stammer, the words catching awkwardly in my throat.
