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"The locals think he's a strange American kid," I say, not turning around. "An Irish boy would know better than to waste time chasing birds that shit on everything."

"You're in a mood."

I set my coffee down harder than necessary. "I got stopped by police on my way back from the market. Random ID check, they said."

Declan tenses beside me. "And?"

"And nothing. The forgeries work fine." I glance at him. "But my heart nearly stopped. Again. Like it does every fucking day."

He pulls me against him, chin resting on my shoulder. "We're safe here."

"Are we?" I turn to face him. "I wake up every night panicking that they've found us. I check Conor's room three times before I can sleep."

"The nightmares will fade."

"Will they? Three months and I still dream about Russians with guns." I look away. "I want to go home, Declan."

His expression shifts. "To Dublin?"

"I want to stop pretending to be someone I'm not."

He runs a hand through his damp hair. "It's not safe yet."

"It's not living either."

At least he doesn't argue. His hair's grown longer, sun-streaked from days with Conor. The bruises and cuts have healed, but new scars join the old ones.

He looks different here—lighter. The Mediterranean sun burns away some of the Dublin darkness. Yesterday at the market he grabbed my arm when a man walked too close to us. Last week he spent three hours following a car that drove past our villa twice.

"I saw the papers you've been checking," I say, nodding toward his desk drawer. "No Donovan deaths in three months. No Russian mob wars. Nothing's happened."

He tenses. "That we know of."

"Cormac would have warned you if there was trouble." I grip the balcony rail. "I can't live like this anymore, Declan. Neither can Conor."

"I'm trying to keep you safe."

"I know. But this isn't living." I face him. "I want to go home."

He looks away, jaw tight. "I'll think about it."

I can't blame him. The memory of bullets shattering our windshield still wakes me up at night. But fuck, I miss calling coffee shops by their real names. I miss hearing Irish accents that aren't our own. I miss home.

"Mom!" Conor shouts from the beach. "Dad! Look what I found!"

He holds up a large shell, waving it proudly.

"We should go down," I say.

Declan nods, but his phone rings. He checks the screen, instantly alert.

"I need to take this," he says, stepping inside.

Through the door, I watch him pace, phone to ear. His shoulders tense, hand raking through his hair.

I go inside. "What is it?"

He holds up a finger, still listening. "When?" he asks the caller. "Are you sure?" Another pause. "Text me the details."