“Are you not speaking to me now?” asked Irish.
Hannah glanced across the short space between them. Outside the fire truck, trees raced by and the sirens screamed the path to their next destination, but in here, it had been dead quiet until he’d spoken.
She hadn’t realized Irish had been reading the silence as tension.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not speaking to you?”
He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if she was yanking his chain. “Yeah. Because I stopped you from working the building collapse.”
So much had happened since the restaurant bombing that until now, she hadn’t even thought about how he’d told the chief to make her stay in the truck.
She probably owed him a thank-you, considering that she never would have seen Michael’s texts if she’d been actively working the scene.
“I’m just tired,” she said.
“Just tired? I’m pretty sure that’s the girl equivalent of ‘still pissed.’ ”
She smiled. “I am tired.” The smile fell off her face. “It’s been a long weekend.”
He studied her. “Thinking heavy thoughts?”
“Something like that.”
But it was exactly like that. She’d been thinking about her dad’s words all afternoon. She’d been full of vitriol and judgment when he’d started playing the overprotective parent, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he had been obligated to report Michael and his brothers. He wasn’t wrong—the Merricks were in trouble. A lot of trouble. She had no idea how deeply Michael was buried in debt or work or anything. If she lost her job or her car or ran into financial difficulty, she knew her parents would provide a safety net. Michael didn’t have that luxury.
“Want to share?” said Irish.
“I’m thinking about Michael. And my dad.” She frowned and looked out the window. “I still can’t believe what he did.”
“He said you’d be pissed about the arrest. I think he was more pissed that the attorney pulled strings with the county prosecutor.”
The words hit Hannah like an assault, completely unexpected, and just as unwelcome. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”
Irish raised an eyebrow. His level voice didn’t change. “I’m talking about your dad arresting your boyfriend.”
“He arrested him?”
“It didn’t stick for long. Like I said—”
“Wait.” Hannah thought her head might explode. “My dad told you all that? He talked to you about the case?”
“Not a lot.” Irish looked surprised that she was surprised. “He knew I was interested—”
“Do you have any idea how long I sat around that hospital trying to get information out of him, and he wouldn’t even answer my calls?” She wanted to punch the window. “He tried to arrest him? It wasn’t bad enough that the county took his brothers away?”
“Hannah.” He winced. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to come between you and your father—”
“You didn’t. He did.” She scowled and felt like a petulant teenager. “I’ve never wanted to move out as badly as I do right now.”
But she couldn’t. Because of James.
She’d never spent a second resenting her son, but sometimes she resented this situation, the way she was trapped by an obligation of her own making.
She thought of Michael’s brothers, holding it together in the hospital by barely more than a thread. She thought of Chris, the way he’d nearly broken down in the rain, or Gabriel, a hairbreadth away from picking a fight with hospital security to find out information about his brother. Even Nick and Hunter had seemed frayed at the seams, trying to maintain the peace while wanting answers just as badly.
And she thought of Michael, her own age, sacrificing his own life for an obligation not of his own making.
An obligation he took so seriously that he’d cried in the dark over losing it.
In that instant, she felt outrageously spoiled.
“If you need a place to crash,” said Irish, “I’ve got room.”
She gave him a look, wondering if he was mocking her—or worse, putting the moves on. “That’s sweet, but I can’t leave James.”
“I didn’t say you had to.” Irish shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m almost never there.”
“Big-time party animal?”
“Biggest time,” he said flatly. He paused; then his voice dropped. “It’s a standing offer, Hannah. Just know it’s out there if you need it.”
She stared at him, watching storefronts fly by along Ritchie Highway behind him. “Thanks, Irish.”
He inhaled as if he wanted to say something else—then hesitated.
She narrowed her eyes. “Say it. What?”
Another hesitation. “I don’t want to dig myself deeper, but . . . have you ever just asked your dad to tell you what’s going on?”
“I’ve heard the confidentiality lecture about a dozen times, thank you very much.”