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"I do." He looks at me. "He showed me proof. Photos of the men who chased us that night. All dead."

"So, it's over? For real?"

"Looks that way." He squeezes my hand. "We can go home, Maeve. If that's what you want."

"What about Cormac? After what he did to you—to us?"

Declan stays quiet for a moment. "We talked about that too. He admitted everything. About Dad, about sending me away." He shakes his head. "He thought he was protecting me in his own very fucked up, twisted way."

"Can you forgive him?"

"I don't know. But I understand him now." He says. "He wants to meet Conor. Properly."

The thought makes my stomach twist. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"Me neither. But one day, maybe." He pulls me closer. "For now, let's just go home. My Irish skin was not meant for Mediterranean sun." We have bought shares in sunscreen since we moved, basically bathe in it.

"When?"

"Whenever you want. Cormac's arranging original papers. Our real names, no red flags."

I lean my head on his shoulder, relief mixing with a strange sadness. Our Spanish escape is ending, even if I hated it here.

"What about the Donovan business?" I ask. "Will Cormac expect you to join him?"

"No. That part of my life is done." He lifts my chin. "I told him I'm out. For good."

"And he accepted that? Just like that?"

"Not at first. But he gets it now." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Family comes first. Real family. You and Conor."

"Take me home," I whisper. "Take us home."

* * *

Two weeks later,we land in Dublin. The familiar damp air hits me as we exit the airport. It smells like three weeks of rain, and home.

Conor bounces beside me, pointing at everything. Before, his world was small—our apartment, his school. Now Dublin spreads before him, full of family history he's only beginning to understand.

"Where are we going?" he asks as we load our bags into a taxi.

"A new place," Declan says. "Near the sea. You'll like it."

The house Declan bought is on the outskirts of the city—a two-story brick with a garden and a view of Dublin Bay. Not his mother's old place, but somewhere untouched by the past.

"It's huge," Conor breathes as we pull into the drive. To a little boy it probably is massive.

It is big compared to our old apartment. Four bedrooms, a garden, rooms filled with light.

"Do I get my own room?" Conor asks, already heading for the stairs.

"Pick any one you want," Declan calls after him.

I walk through the ground floor, running my fingers along new furniture, clean walls. No memories here yet. No ghosts.

"What do you think?" Declan asks.

"It's perfect." I turn and wrap my arms around his neck. "Thank you."