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"After she left my father. Before the cancer took her."

The house is dusty but beautiful, with high ceilings and large rooms. Conor runs through the space, claiming the bedroom with the view of the garden. He thinks it’s a castle.

"Security?" I ask quietly.

"Camera’s front and back. Reinforced doors and windows. Finn's men are watching the street."

Not exactly normal, but closer than we were.

I spend the afternoon cleaning while Declan makes calls to his brothers. Conor explores every inch of the house, excited by the adventure of it all.

By evening, the place feels almost homey. I make dinner with groceries Finn's men delivered. We eat at the kitchen table like a normal family.

"Can I go to school tomorrow?" Conor asks.

"Not yet," Declan says before I can answer. "A few more days at home."

Conor pouts but doesn't argue.

After dinner, while Declan helps Conor bathe, I venture outside to the small garden. The evening air feels cool against my skin as I sit on a bench, looking up at the darkening sky.

My phone buzzes with a text from my supervisor at the clinic, asking when I'll be back. I type a vague response about a family emergency.

How long can I keep my life on hold? How long before I lose my job, my apartment, everything I've worked so hard for?

The sound of the door opening interrupts my thoughts. Declan joins me outside, two glasses of wine in hand.

"Conor's asleep," he says, offering me a glass. "Passed out mid-story."

"It's been an overwhelming day for him." I take the wine. "For all of us."

Declan sits beside me, our shoulders nearly touching. "You did well with him today."

"We got lucky. He might wake up tomorrow full of Donovan rage."

"If he does, we'll handle it."

That "we" again. As if we're a team, a unit.

"I need to go back to work soon," I say. "The clinic won't hold my position forever."

"It's not safe yet."

"I can't put my life on permanent hold, Declan. I need to pay my rent, buy food. Conor's school fees."

He looks surprised. "I'll take care of all that."

"I don't want your money."

"It's not just my money. It's for my son too." He takes my hand. "Let me help, Maeve."

I pull away. "I've managed for six years without your help."

"And you did an amazing job. But you don't have to do it alone anymore."

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again. I pull it out, expecting another text from work.

Instead, it's a picture message from an unknown number. A photo of Conor at school last week, playing in the yard. The text reads.