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JAMIE

O n Saturday morning, I’m getting ready to leave town when my phone rings with a call from Ireland.

I’d been on the hunt for an Irish cop willing to do favors for money and finally got a name.

Having already hacked the local police’s computer system years ago to look at the file on my brother’s case, I’d assumed there’d been no real investigation. But I recently learned that while details in the electronic record are sparse, there could be a lot more on paper.

I swipe to answer the call. “Hello?”

“O’Rourke, is it you?” The accent makes me homesick.

“It is, yeah. Find anything?”

The cop is in his thirties. He was new to the force at the time of the incident with my brother. Although he never heard about the case at the time, he has access to the case file.

“Yeah, I found the file. It’s got interview notes and some printed reports that weren’t entered electronically. But even in the paper records, there’s nothing concrete to point the finger at anyone.” The sound of papers shuffling comes through the line, as though he’s thumbing through the file as we speak. “I did find out why the case was designated as closed.”

My body tenses. Any mention of the fact that local law enforcement closed the file on my brother’s assault makes me want to gun down the asshole who led the investigation.

“It was actually not their idea to stop the inquiry.” He pauses, implying I should brace myself. “Your da wouldn’t let them talk to your brother or you. He said it was a misunderstanding. The local detective wanted to force your family to turn over the clothes for evidence, but the crown prosecutor wasn’t of a mind to push forward. He thought the parent’s wishes should be the priority, especially as it seemed like it was a foreigner who did whatever happened and he’d likely left afterward.”

If my father was in front of me right now, I might shove him against a wall and pummel him. That old school way of thinking—pretend it never happened, don’t think about it, move on with your life—directly contributed to Jude’s death.

I followed my father’s orders to never talk about it, even when Jude tried to bring it up. I trusted it would be better for my brother in the long run. But all the gag order really did was leave Jude to face his nightmares alone.

Our refusal to talk didn’t help him forget what happened. The things he wrote and drew in a secret notebook he kept under a loose piece of carpet were proof that, despite our silence, the memories of that day never left him. Never.

“I understand.” My voice is surprisingly level. “My father thought it was best to sweep it under the rug.” Irony has a cruel sense of humor since that’s exactly where the memories ended up.

No words pass between us for a moment.

“You sure you want to keep on, Jamie?” The man’s tone is kind, as if he senses there’s a part of me that’s tired of living with it and would like to finally let it go. “Nothing we do will bring the poor lad back, God rest him.”

Right, sure. God rest him , I think bitterly. I don’t believe Jude’s resting. Neither of us will until I see this through.

“Make a copy of everything.” It’s tough to keep my tone neutral when I want to smash something. “If there’s any physical evidence you can’t send, take a picture and send that instead. I want it all.”

“Not a problem.” He pauses. “And you have my account details? For the risks associated with this sort of favor?”

“As soon as I have the file, you’ll have the money. With thanks.”

“Fair play. Good luck to you.”