“I am not contesting that,” Sully’s voice is low and calm like he is talking to a spooked animal. “What I am saying is that the man who sent you to buy my father’s trucking company wasn’t Seamus McDonough.”
“And neither was the man at the Gala,” I speak up. My hands twist nervously in my lap. This is a conversation I have been avoiding. He never believes me when I voice my doubts about Seamus, and I haven’t been up to feeling that same sting of rejection again. As a result, I’ve avoided talking to him about anything related to my mother and grandfather. The only reason he is here now is because Sully wants the sit down.
Liam groans. “Not this again, Ava,” he chastises. “We already discussed this and put it to bed.”
“No,” I growl. Pain lances through my heart at his words. We haven’t put it to bed as he says. He chose to ignore what is in front of his eyes. “You refuse to acknowledge what is right in front of your goddamn eyes. I understood your reticence when it was just me, but now you have someone else telling you the exact same thing. Something isn’t right about Seamus McDonough. If that’s who he even is.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Avaleigh,” he stands his ground. “This isn’t some?—”
“Actually, she does,” Sully interrupts. “Whoever is setting us up, he’s using Seamus McDonough as a patsy.”
“It’s more than that,” I whisper. “Whoever he is, he’s pretending to be Seamus, down to his very looks.”
“That’s insane.” Liam shakes his head. “There is no possible way that someone is impersonating your grandfather.”
“I have proof.”
“Let’s see it then.”
The pain in my chest deepens, the knife Liam shoves into my heart twisting deeper at his stubborn refusal. I told him once that I refuse to be the daughter of a man who dismisses my cares and worries as if they are nothing more than dirt underfoot. I warned him the strain it would cause. He was proud to call me daughter, he tolds me, but he isn’t acting like it.
At this moment, I am not proud to call him my father.
Vas, who has been sitting by my side, hands clenched into fists as his anger rises, shoves his phone at Liam. Both photos are time stamped. One is the photo of my mother’s graduation and the second is an airport security photo. Dated and timestamped.
The man in the photo is an exact match to Seamus McDonough with one glaring difference.
The silver crossed cane.
Liam stares at the evidence, eyes wide, searching for any proof that we are wrong. He can’t deny it anymore, however. The truth is before him, plain as day, and he would be a fool if he attempted to refute what is before him.
“This…” The disbelief in his voice kills me. The hurt and sadness reflected in his eyes makes me want to hold him. Comfort him. But now isn’t the time. Over time his face hardens, eyes narrowing at the man in the picture. He is coming to terms with the truth. “Tell me more.”
six
It is several hours later before the truth is finally hashed out and the facts laid bare on the table. Disbelief and pain linger behind my father’s eyes. We both know what it means if the man at the gala is not Seamus McDonough.
I recall the fear in Sheila’s eyes that night when the man parading around as my grandfather approached us. She knows he isn’t who he says he is.
How long has she known?
Is she aware of his true identity?
I highly doubt she is involved willingly. The panic and horror she displayed that night were real.
So why was she playing along? What does he have over her?
One thing is for sure, if Sheila knows that man isn’t her husband, then there is very little doubt in my mind that he is dead. From the crestfallen look on Liam’s face, he makes the same conclusion.
“I don’t understand.” Tears shine in his emerald eyes, unshed, refusing to fall. “How many years has this been going on? Why? What purpose…”
“There might be someone who can answer that for you,” Aine tells us gently. “She’ll be able to tell you her story.”
Brow creasing, my gaze fixes on the woman who has been nearly silent the entire conversation.
“Who?”
Her eyes meet mine and without hesitation she says, “Your mother.”