As I ran beside Thomas, my pulse pounding, lifting my skirts so I could keep up, I knew I’d only made things worse for myself. Michael Collins had leaned down and spoken in my ear as we’d stood waiting for his men to check the doors.
“I don’t want to kill you, Anne Gallagher. But I will. You know that, don’t you?” he’d said.
I had nodded. Oddly, I wasn’t frightened. I’d simply turned my head and met his gaze.
“I am not a good man,” he’d said grimly. “I’ve done terrible things I will have to answer for. But I’ve always done them for good reason.”
“I am no threat to you or to Ireland, Mr. Collins. I give you my word.”
He’d replied, “Only time will tell, Mrs. Gallagher. Only time will tell.”
Michael Collins was right. Only time would tell. Only time could tell. And time would not defend me.
The members of the wedding party moved up the alley toward O’Connell, joining the guests now streaming from the front entrance. The fog and smoke were mating and recreating, distorting the shapes and the shrieks of the guilty and the guileless. And no one knew which was which. Michael Collins and his entourage disappeared into the night, piling into cars that came out of nowhere and screeched away.
Clanging fire trucks and emergency personnel approached from two directions, and Thomas began moving among the people, creating triage across the street from the hotel, checking guests for smoke inhalation, sending those who seemed the worse for wear away in the St. John ambulances that had arrived on the scene, and releasing others to secure new lodgings. As I tried to stay out of the way and keep Thomas in my sights, the rain began to fall, aiding the efforts of the firemen. Curious onlookers and the milling crowd scurried for cover, effectively clearing the area. Our coats were still inside the Gresham and were as good as gone, at least for the time being. My dress was soaked, my hair streaming. Thomas took off his suit coat and slung it over my shoulders, and he found me waiting for him, huddled beneath it, as the last ambulance pulled away from the hotel.
“There’s nothing more I can do here. Let’s go,” he said. His shirt was plastered to his skin, and he swept his hair back from his face, running his hands over his soot-streaked cheeks, removing the water only to have it replaced again.
The water streamed from the eaves, running from the wrath of sodden skies, finding shelter in the cracks and crevices, and covering the streets and buildings in a wet blanket.
He held my hand as we rushed through the streets, steadying me on the red heels that slowed us down and made me slip, but I felt his tension against my palm, radiating from his tight fingers and sculpting the line of his jaw.
We had entered his neighborhood when Thomas stopped suddenly, cursing. He pulled me into an alcove, out of the rain, and began searching his pockets.
“My house key is in my coat,” he said.
I reached into the pocket of his suit jacket I was wearing before realizing he was talking about the overcoat still hanging in the Gresham Hotel’s cloakroom.
“Let’s go back. Maybe someone can get us into the cloakroom or retrieve it for us,” I offered, bouncing in place to keep warm. The alcove shielded us from the worst of the downpour but not from the cold, and we couldn’t stay there all night.
Thomas shook his head slowly, his lips pursed, his face pensive.
“One of the firemen I treated said the fire was started in the coatroom, Anne. All the coats were doused in petrol. The door was locked and the vents opened. It’s right next to the ballroom where the wedding party was gathered. Or didn’t you know that part of the plot?” He looked down at me and then away, water dripping from the lock of hair on his forehead, his expression as dark as the shadows where we stood. His voice was quiet, perfectly level but infused with bleak expectation.
I had no way to defend myself. Nothing I could say would make things any better, so I said nothing. We stood silently under the overhang, staring out at the storm. I stepped closer to him so our bodies were pressed together along my right side. I was cold. Miserable. And I knew his misery exceeded my own. He stiffened, and my eyes shot to his face, catching on the clean line of his jaw. It was clenched, a muscle ticking like a clock, warning me I had seconds to start talking.
I didn’t. I turned my head with a sigh and peered out into the deluge, wondering if the mist could take me home again, like the mist on the lake had brought me here.
“I talked to Daniel earlier this evening,” Thomas continued, his tone brittle. “He said the guns are gone, Anne. Liam thinks you might know something about that too. In fact, he’s convinced you aren’t Anne Gallagher at all.”
“Why?” I gasped, caught completely off guard. “Why would I know anything about Liam’s guns?” I latched on to the accusation that wasn’t true.
“Because you know all kinds of things you have no business knowing,” Thomas shot back. “Jaysus, woman! I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with the guns or their disappearance. I didn’t have anything to do with the fire at the Gresham or anything else,” I said, trying to maintain my composure. I stepped out of the alcove and began walking again, moving toward his house in the square. We were almost there, and I didn’t know what else to do.
“Anne!” Thomas shouted, and I could hear his desperate frustration. His distrust was the hardest thing to bear. I understood it, even sympathized with it. But it was corrosive and exhausting, and I was dangerously close to falling apart. I didn’t want to hurt Thomas. I didn’t want to lie to him. And I didn’t know how to tell him the truth. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to escape, to close the book on this impossible tale.
“I want to go home.”
“Wait until the rain eases,” Thomas said. “I’ll figure something out.”
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud, but I didn’t slow. “I can’t live like this.” Again, I spoke without meaning to.
“Like what?” Thomas scoffed, incredulous, matching his steps to mine.
“Like this,” I mourned, letting the rain disguise the tears that had begun to streak down my cheeks. “Pretending to be someone that I’m not. Being punished for things I can’t explain and blamed for things I know nothing about.”
Thomas grabbed my arm, but I pulled free, stumbling and warding him off. I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t want to love him. I didn’t want to need him. I wanted to go home.
“I am not the Anne Gallagher you think I am,” I insisted. “I am not her!”
“Who are you, then? Huh? Don’t play games, Annie,” he said, moving around me, heading me off. “You ask me things you should know. You never speak of Declan. You never speak of Ireland! Not like we used to. You seem lost half the time, and you’re so different, so changed, that I feel like I’m seeing you for the first time. And dammit if I don’t like what I see. I like you!” He ran an impatient hand over his face, wiping the rain from his eyes. “And you love Eoin. You love the boy. And every time I’m convinced you really are someone else, I see the way you look at him, the way you watch him, and I feel like a feckin’ lunatic for doubting you. But something has happened to you. You aren’t the same. And you won’t tell me anything.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” I cried. “You’re right. I’m not the same Anne. She’s gone.”
“Stop it. Stop saying that,” he begged. He raised his face to the sky, as if begging God for patience. Hands fisted in his hair, he took a few steps toward the long row of homes along the square, putting distance between us. The lights of his house beckoned weakly, taunting us. A shadow moved behind the drapes, and Thomas froze, watching the dark silhouette against the tepid smear of light.
“Someone’s already here,” Thomas said. “Someone’s in the house.” He cursed and supplicated the heavens once more. “Why now, Mick?” he said under his breath, but I heard the words. Thomas turned back to me, pulling me into his side, keeping me close in spite of it all. My control broke.
I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, clinging to him—and the impossibility of us—before our time ran out. The rain drummed against the pavement, counting off the seconds, and Thomas welcomed me into his body, his lips pressing against my hair, his arms encircling me, even as he groaned my name.
“Anne. Ah, lass. What am I going to do with you?”
“I love you, Thomas. You’ll remember that, won’t you? When this is over?” I said. “I’ve never known a better man.” I needed him to believe that, if nothing else.
I felt a tremor shake him, but his arms tightened around me, a vise of desperation that spoke of his turmoil. For a moment more, I embraced him; then I let my arms fall as I pulled back. But Thomas didn’t release me, not completely.
“It’ll be Mick. Inside. He’s going to demand answers, Anne,” Thomas warned, his voice weary. “What do you want to do?”
“If I answer every one of your questions, will you promise to believe me?” I begged, looking up at him through my tears.