Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Aye? What do you mean?”
I poke at the white sauce over some no-name meat and shrug. “You have to guess what it is.”
My younger sister giggles, and my heart warms. It’s a good day when I can make her smile.
“Tell you what,” I say, pushing to my feet. “I’ll fetch you something better than this, alright?”
Standard caretaker script. It works eighty-nine percent of the time.
“Would you?” Her eyes have gone pale blue under the latest dose of meds, and her lips are the softest blush of pink. Pupil dilation suggests the prednisone dose increased. Blue-gray sclera indicates—
Stop it, Erin.
My stomach plummets when she turns, her hospital gown falling over her shoulder. I can see her bones poking through her skin. “I’d kill for a proper sausage roll. Can you get one, for real?”
Darling, I’ll give you the moon.
I reach for her too-thin hand and find it cold as ice. I tuck the blanket tighter around her. “Course I will,” I say softly.
I don’t want to leave her though. When she’s here at St. Vincent’s, I don’t even like to go home to sleep because I live in deadly fear that tomorrow might be the day I get the call that she’s gone.
Aplastic anemia, they call it, bone marrow failure.
I call it injustice.
Before I leave, I quickly check the color-coded notes I left for the nursing staff, double-check the locks on all her windows, and pat my pocket four times to make sure I didn’t lose my mobile or keys.
I kiss her wan cheek and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Mam’ll be in soon, after her meeting,” I whisper.
“Yay,” Bridget deadpans. “Can’t wait.”
I stifle a grimace. Bridget was her golden child, the beautiful angel of a girl with auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. My mother toted her around with her like a prize, dressed her in the prettiest dresses and frilliest bonnets. I was too awkward for any parading, and we all knew it.
Then Bridget got sick, and Mam won’t forgive her for it.
“Don’t fret, love. I’ll be back long before that.”
Bridget rolls her eyes. “I’m not fretting. Jesus, Erin, you sound like an old lady.”
I huff out a breath and roll my eyes. “There are worse things. At least men leave old ladies alone.” She laughs as the door shuts behind me.
Twice. I made her laugh twice. Sometimes it happens without me even trying. My chest loosens just a fraction.
I walk to the door with my head held high, shoulders back, chin up. People don't bother you when you look like you know where you're going.
My god, it reeks in here. Who the fuck decided that cabbage was a good idea for dinner? In a hospital?
I tug my cardigan tighter, pressing my lips into a hard line.
Outside Bridget’s room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed like some eternal sentinel, stands the ever-watchful shadow I can’t shake.
“Evening, Miss Erin.”
Darragh smiles and straightens, broad as a doorframe. He's been with us for years—long enough to know why he's really here. Not just to protect us from outside threats, but to keep Bridget hidden when she’s here. To make sure no one sees her wheeled to radiation appointments, no one asks why Padraic Kavanagh's youngest daughter hasn't been seen in public for months.
Can't let people know the golden child is tarnished.
“Have you been standing here the whole time?” I arch a brow.
“Where else would I be?” he says.
I sigh and push past him toward the door.
“I don’t need a watchdog, you know.”
“Good thing I’m not a dog, then.” His gaze flicks to the swinging hospital doors. “Your da pays me to make sure you don’t end up dead. That’s my job.”
“What about Bridget? Aren’t you gonna stay with her?”
“Her guard’s enough. Your da doesn’t like you out and about alone.”
Don’t I know it.
I roll my eyes and tuck my mobile deeper into my coat pocket, fingers tapping it four times. Just to be sure.
Keys too.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
The motion steadies me, but I feel his eyes catch the rhythm.
“I’m fetching a sausage roll for Bridget. The food in this hospital’s shite.”
“Aye,” he grunts. Just that.
He falls into step beside me as I stride down the hall. His boots thud, low and soft. My flats hit harder, sharper. Sounds echo in the hospital corridors.
Outside, the air is damp and cool, the kind that sneaks into your bones and stays there. I wince at the city noise—traffic, voices, that messy pulse that never stops.
Darragh scans the streets like a soldier.
The bakery on the corner smells like butter and sugar, but the moment I step inside, the heat and chatter hit me like a wall.
Too loud. Too hot. Too many fucking people.
Uncomfortable, I shift my weight, then tap my thigh. Fingernails in threes this time. A different rhythm… a quieter one.