Page 204 of Empire State Enemies

There’s something about Irish pubs that sets them apart, making them the best in the world. The Irish sure know how to have a good time.

The traditional band is absolutely killing it tonight. The fiddler is playing like his life depends on it, and the guy with the tambourine-looking thing (which I learned is called a bodhrán, because apparently, I’m uncultured) is creating pure magic.

The whole pub is alive with laughter and chatter, and everything feels right in the world. I feel like I’m part of something special.

Grace still works at Quinn & Wolfe, but she’s managed to get Connor and Killian to sign an agreement that anything she does or says on this trip is off-limits. It was a joke. I think. Connor jokes that she pretends not to know him at work, like he’s some sort of embarrassing secret.

As for me, next week marks my last week at Ascend before I start my new job at a PR firm in New York City. I have mixed emotions about it—sad to leave my team but excited for this next chapter. Plus, I’ll only be working three days a week so I can continue my psychology course.

As for the living situation, Mom is moving into Connor’s new Fifth Avenue townhouse next month, and I’m making the move permanent after our Ireland trip. Connor initially wanted to cover the costs of Mom’s carer, but I insisted on paying for it myself. He’s not charging me rent, which allows me to afford it, so I guess we’ve found a good compromise.

Even though I’ll be living in New York, I’ll still go back to visit the team in Ellicott City. I made some good friends there, and I don’t want to lose touch. Speaking of old friends, Tom is married now and has a kid. I’m genuinely happy for him and wish him all the best.

Connor and I have even talked about trying for kids ourselves when I’m around thirty. But for now, I just want to enjoy life and have some fun.

“I’m grabbing more drinks,” Killian announces as the band wraps up their tune.

Oh god. At this rate of Guinness consumption, I’ll need a dip in the cold Atlantic Sea to scare away my hangover. Connor and I agreed we’d make it our thing every time we come here, a sort of twisted tradition to commemorate our first visit. I still haven’t decided whether I have the guts to skinny dip again, though.

As the band takes a break, the lead singer announces, “Okay folks, this next one is called Eamon’s send-off. You’ll know this one. Our good man Eamon who left us too early.”

The pub erupts in cheers and whistles, pints of Guinness raised high in salute.

Suddenly, I’m hit with a weird feeling, like an icy finger just poked my forehead.

I look at Connor and he has the same questioning look on his face, but he grins and gives a shrug, taking a sip of his beer.

Eamon . . . surely not. It’s probably a different Eamon. It’s a common name in Ireland. It’s like the John Smith of Irish names. I’m sure lots of Eamons die all the time.

The song starts and it’s clear that it’s a crowd favorite. The locals are clapping and stomping along to the beat, like they’ve heard this tune a million times before. Maybe it’s the town’s “Sweet Caroline.”

As soon as I hear that first lyric, I spray Guinness all over Grace’s cheek in a mist of shock and disbelief.

“Hey!” she squawks, sputtering and wiping at her face with an indignant glare. “What the hell, Lexi? If I wanted a Guinness facial, I would have asked for one.”

But I barely hear her. I’m too busy trying to process the words that just came out of the singer’s mouth.

We were stood on the beach, all somber and sad,

Saying goodbye to Eamon, our dear old lad,

“Did he say thebeach?” I yell to Connor, trying to be heard over the music and the growing chaos of the crowd.

He looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.Sounded like it, he mouths back, fighting off a grin.

Shit shit shit. This can’t be real. There’s no way this song is about what I think it’s about.

But then, the next verse rolls in, and my worst fears are confirmed.

The priest had his urn, ready to chuck,

Eamon’s ashes into the sea, oh what the fuck!

I grip the edge of the table, trying to steady myself. The heat in my cheeks could cook an egg.

The woman, she shrieked and tried to hide,

Her naughty bits from our startled eyes,