Page 75 of Irish Vice

I start with email. There’s a message from Sonja Heller, uncharacteristically subdued. The ethics board has set a hearing date—June 4. We have five weeks to pull together all our evidence, every possible argument that I should be allowed to continue my career.

I make a note on my calendar with mechanical precision, and then I dig into the rest of the emails. Teddy Newland sent a bill, without a cover letter or comment. Connor Boyle wants to schedule a meeting about charitable donations. Cole Wolf asks for a formal legal opinion about the tax implications of loaning a Monet to a university in Lithuania.

Phone messages are next. There are dozens from Braiden. I delete them unheard.

I turn to texts from various colleagues at the freeport. I answer questions about statutes, about regulations, about government initiatives and international organizations.

I work through breakfast. I work through lunch. Trap comes in mid-afternoon, with an emergency inquiry about Swiss banking law. Alix stops by, but I tell her I don’t have time to chat. I work through dinner. Mary stays late, without my asking her to change her plans.

Once, I stand too quickly to cross the office for a file, and I sway on my feet, absurdly light-headed. But I touch my fingers to my desk and take a few deep breaths, and then I’m back to normal.

Normal. I’ve missed it.

This is what I’m supposed to be doing. This is who I am. A few more days, a few more nights, and I won’t even think about the unrecognizable woman I left behind in Philadelphia.

30

BRAIDEN

Iwait until Fairfax sets his platter of roasted tomatoes on the table before I say, “The door to the pool house needs to be replaced.”

“Again?” he asks, his voice perfectly toneless.

The glare I give him is meant to make him question his choice of profession and the likelihood that he’ll live long enough to spend his next paycheck. The effect is somewhat marred by Birte crooning, “Replace the door. What a chore. Someone’s sore.”

“Have it done by noon,” I tell Fairfax. I suspect that’s an impossible deadline, even for him. But I want to have something to holler about later.

“Of course,” Fairfax says, nodding and returning to the kitchen, as if my request is no more difficult than his providing an extra fork.

Birte is still chanting—sore, sore, sore. “Eat your breakfast,”I tell her, pointing to her plate. She picks up her fork and starts to eat her beans, stabbing them one by one.

Aiofe watches for a moment, curiosity tilting her head. She picks up her own fork, clearly intending to imitate her aunt, but she casts a quick glance toward me first.

“No,” I say.

She pouts, but she shoves her beans onto toast like a normal person.

I push back from the table and head to the sideboard, meaning to pour myself some tea. Reflexes take over, and I fill a mug with coffee first. I realize my mistake before half the cup is full, but the damage is done. The entire room smells like coffee. Like Samantha.

“Fairfax!” I holler.

He pushes through the swinging door, his face a carefully blank mask.

“Take this.” I hand him the mug. “And I want that samovar out of here by lunch.”

“Of course,” he says again.

My phone rings before he clears the room: “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” I answer, because I have no choice, not if I’m to keep my position as Captain of the Fishtown Boys. Trying to scrub a lifetime of rage from my voice, I say, “Boss.”

“Tell me yer diggin’ a grave this mornin’.”

Jesus Christ.But I say, “It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”

My answer irritates him as much as his demand grates on me. But whatever he starts to shout turns into the longest coughing fit I’ve heard yet from the old sod. His voice sounds like a broken reed when he finally croaks, “How long does it take fer a man t’ fire a pistol?

“I need some time.”

“Fer what, boyo? One last poke, t’ remember th’ good times?”