“Not as often as I should.” He swallows again, like this whole conversation is surprising him as much as it is me. “But I try to go as much as I can. I just don’t know how much good it does her.”
“Some days, yes. Other days, she thinks I’m… someone else.”
Those steely silver eyes flash to my face and then back to the road. “A man she fears and despises. The same man that’s responsible for her lifetime sentence in Drogheda.”
I don’t know how, but I already know the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Your father?”
He says it with so much venom that I find myself reaching towards him, fingers outstretched, longing to give him some kind of comfort. My hand lands on his thigh, close to his knee. He doesn’t acknowledge my invasion of his space—but he doesn’t throw me off, either.
“Do
