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We’re interrupted by the crackling sound. It’s coming from the radio clipped to the waist of her jeans. She flashes me an apologetic smile and mouths sorry, before lifting it to her lips and throwing me a wave over her shoulder as she disappears around the corner.
I step out into the sun, looking to the left of the house. Immediately, I see who Orna was beckoning over. A tall, tanned man with a mop of dark hair is striding towards the house. He’s not dressed like the other henchmen that line the perimeters of the garden, instead, he’s in Nike shorts, running sneakers, and a wife-beater tank.
When he’s only a few feet away, I offer him a small, awkward wave, one that he doesn’t reciprocate.
Of course. Orna might be pleasant enough, but that personality trait probably doesn’t extend to anyone else who lives or works here. Lorcan’s men are probably used to sniping enemies from their watchtowers, not looking after their boss’s latest keepsake. And judging by the way this one is dressed, he’s not meant to be working today at all.
That’s fine. I’m not looking for good company, I’m looking for an escape route. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and keeps his distance, I couldn’t care less what he thinks of me.
He’s less than a foot away from me now when a feeling of familiarity washes over me.Was he at the restaurant when I was kidnapped?
No, I muse to myself. None of those men were that young, and this guy seems to be around my age. He probably passes by the museum window a few times a day on patrol. That’s how I recognize him.
But there’s a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me I’m wrong. It’s in the way he walks—stomps, across the grass to meet me.
The realization soccer punches me in my chest. But he beats me to it.
“Poppy Murphy,” he says, only inches from me now. His voice is low and he’s only talking out of the side of his mouth, like he’s concerned about who will hear. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I can’t breathe. “It’s you…” I just about manage, as my ears ring from shock.
It’s the boy with the Doc Martens from the funeral.
Poppy
“It’s you. From the funeral,” I gasp.
I feel like I’m staring at a ghost. A window into a memory that makes my skin crawl.
His dark eyes trace the outline of my face, before they drag over my head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, as I turn to follow his gaze.
A camera. Nestled between the leaves of the bushes. A few feet along, there’s another. I try to regain my composure, forcing a nonchalant veil over my face.
“Shall we walk?” I manage.
My plan to absorb every inch of the outside world that I’m allowed access to has gone straight out of the window. Elaborate flower patches bursting with colors pass by in a blur. I barely even register the sprawling manor that forms the heart of the estate. Big buildings. Colorful flowers. Cillian, the boy from the funeral.
Only one of those things do I need an immediate answer for.
He walks a few feet behind me at all times. Every gardener, maid, or landscaper I pass offers me a polite smile, before looking over my head and breaking into a grin at the sight of him.
Their reactions dash all possibility that he’s just like me. Held here against his will.
Is he a Quinn?
Nothing about this makes sense. The questions bubble up in my stomach, and when they threaten to overflow, I spin around to face him. “What are you doing here?” I hiss, not caring about the cameras or the henchmen watching us.
His face doesn’t move an inch. “Perhaps you’d be interested in the rose garden, Miss Murphy? It’s a personal project of mine that I’m truly quite fond of.”
I’m numb as I follow him down a cobbled path. It snakes away from the looming manor, shaded by a cluster of willow trees. At the bottom, there’s a wrought iron gate that lets out a heavy groan when he pushes it open.
I’m taken aback by the unexpected beauty of it, if only for a moment. From dusky pinks to sun-kissed yellows, roses of all forms burst from bushes and grass verges, snaking up the cobbled walls and stretching around a white veranda. A narrow stone path leads to the middle, where a water fountain and benches offer unwanted relief from all of the beauty.
Cillian stops to rub a velvety petal on a nearby white rose. “Marcus Murphy’s daughter. He finally came for you too.” My mouth opens but nothing comes out. “Relax. No cameras or microphones in here.”
His pale face is a cocktail of sharp lines and darkness. His gray eyes are framed with black circles, and the way his lips contort upwards tells me he hasn’t smiled properly in years.
