They all seem confident that Blake is going to prove that something was amiss and that Una had been tricked into believing David was dead. However, when Blake takes the stand, he denies all association with Una and firmly states that he never told her that David Murphy had died. Una claims that all of her dealings with Blake had been in person, so she has no proof that the meetings actually took place.

Again, Jay’s trickery is stamped all over this. I’m almost starting to feel sorry for Una. I’m also starting to wonder if Jay had been planning this entire thing since before she ever wrote a single word about him.

Which only brings forth a whole bucketful of other questions.

The judge asks the jury to retire to the jury room and consider their verdict. I have absolutely no doubt that they are going to decide in Jay’s favour. It seems like a forgone conclusion, really. Waiting for the verdict is not what has my heart pounding in apprehension. If I know anything about Jay by now, I know that there is a reason for everything he does, and what I really want to know is why he orchestrated all of this.

Why did he want to destroy Una Harris and Brian Scott?

Twenty-Nine

The jury’s deliberation carries on through the night and most of the next day. We all arrive in court the following morning bright and early for the verdict. Jay and I haven’t spoken much, but there has been a lot of meaningful eye contact going on, mine full of unanswered questions.

Brian Scott is there with his team, but Una Harris is nowhere to be found. Early this morning there were news reports claiming that after the scandal of phone and email hacking, The Daily Post is going to be shut down. And it wasn’t even Jay’s story that was the catalyst. It was the story of Una exposing Victor Nugent’s private affairs, which was shortly followed by him taking his own life, that has incited the anger against the publication.

The fact that Una came by her information illegally has had the entire country in uproar, with readers boycotting The Daily Post entirely. If the newspaper does close down, over one hundred people are going to lose their jobs, and I’m not sure how well that sits with me.

By the judge’s request, the forewoman of the jury stands up to give the verdict. A clerk asks her if the jury has reached a verdict, to which she replies with a simple, “Yes.”

“Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?” asks the clerk.

“Guilty,” replies the forewoman.

“Is that the verdict of you all?”

“Yes.”

Well, surprise, surprise. And when I say “surprise,” I mean no surprise. Dad and Jay shake each other’s hands and pat one another on the back in victory. I’m delighted for them, really I am. Dad just seems so happy, and it’s incredible to see that. I haven’t seen him smile like this since before Mum died.

Brian Scott beams rays of hate across the courtroom at Jay with nothing but his eyes. Jay doesn’t notice, though, and that’s mainly because his attention is fixed firmly on me. He seems…apprehensive.

As I said, the guilty verdict is no surprise. What is a surprise is the sum of money that gets awarded to Jay. Two. Million. Euros. No, I’m not joking. That’s a lot for this country. I’d expected one hundred thousand, maybe two, but two million? Wow.

As soon as he can, Jay makes his way to my side, his hands in his pockets. “Watson, we need to talk.”

“I’m…I’m not feeling very well. I think I might still have a touch of the flu. I’m going to go home and lie down.”

“But I’m treating everyone to a celebratory lunch. Come on, I want you there.”

Looking into his eyes, I can’t bring myself to say no to him, so I nod weakly. He puts his hand to the small of my back and leads me from the courthouse. The press are waiting in their droves, and Jay insists I stand by his side as he gives a statement.

I’m in a bit of a daze, because normally I wouldn’t agree to be on television like that. Jay’s statement is going to be on every news channel this evening, I’m sure. And I will be right there with him, probably wearing a comically confused look on my face.

Everything that happens after the verdict feels like a blur. Before I know it, I’m sitting in a nice Italian restaurant with Jay, Dad, and Will, eating spaghetti carbonara and trying to figure out why my brain feels like it’s turning to mush. I feel like I’m trapped inside one of those swirly optical illusions that make you dizzy just looking at them.

There is information in some dark recess of my brain, just dying to break its way out, to help me understand what’s really going on.

Jay has barely stopped staring at me, his gaze probing and intense. Dad and Will chat amiably about the success of the trial as I push back my seat and stand up, excusing myself to go to the bathroom.

I don’t go to the bathroom.

Instead, I walk right out of the restaurant and hail a taxi to take me home. When I get there, the prospect of going inside is too suffocating, so I decide to take a walk to clear my head. I cross the road and walk toward the promenade. When I find an empty bench, I sit down and stare out at the water.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been there when something drops down beside me. I glance to my left to see a stack of old letters tied together with some string. I can feel somebody looming over me. Jay.

I don’t turn to look at him.

“What are these?” I ask curiously, picking them up and setting them in my lap.

“Letters written by my mother,” he answers. “Why did you run out of the restaurant like that? We were worried about you, and you weren’t answering your phone.”

I face-palm. “Damn. I’m sorry. It’s on silent. I just needed to get some air. Letters?”

He walks around the bench and lowers himself to sit, his arm resting across the back of it. I can feel his heat. “Yeah, I want you to read them. When I was just a kid, I used to think she was writing in a diary, but that wasn’t it. She was writing letters to my uncle. She used to write to him every week without fail, and the prick never wrote her back. He’d read them and then set them aside. I think he was using it as an experiment to see how long she’d keep writing without ever receiving a reply.”

“That’s a little cruel. Is this the uncle in America? The one you went to live with?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch sending shivers through me. “Yeah. Just read them. They’ll paint a clearer picture for you. Then I’ll explain the rest.”

I look down at them again. “Okay.”

He smiles at me, sad and affectionate. “Come on. Let’s get you home.” Linking his arm through mine, he helps me up.

“Why do you look so sad?” I ask, stopping and putting a hand to his chest as I stare up at him.

His words are a whisper, a faint watery shine in his eyes. “Because I’m afraid of losing you. And if you decide you don’t want me, I’m not sure if I can let you go.”

Emotion catches in my throat. “Jay.”

“Just read the letters,” he pleads.

I gather myself, nod silently, and we walk back to the house. Jay stands on the doorstep as I put my key in the door. When I step into the hallway, I turn back to him, but he’s vanished, ever the magician.

Wanting privacy, I go straight to my room and undo the string that’s keeping the letters held together. I flick through them, noticing that they’ve been stacked in order of date. Carefully, I open the first one and unfold the paper.

Dear Killian,

I haven’t heard from you in months. I know you enjoy your solitude, but I miss our talks. We used to be so close as children. Do you remember? We made Dad move your bed into my room so that we wouldn’t have to sleep alone. I miss those days. Childhood feels so hard, but then you look back and realise they were the easiest days of your life.

We moved into a new house last year. It was a fixer-upper, but with a little TLC we managed to do it up nicely. It’s still nothing amazing, but the area is wonderful. So quiet. Peaceful. The neighbourhood has actually become quite sought after. Just the other day a property developer came and made an offer to buy the place. I invited him in for tea, and he told me about his plans to build a brand-new hotel right where our house is. He was a lovely man.

Sometimes I forget that there are nice men out there. I spend so much time with Luke that it feels like they’re all monsters. I’m not sure how much longer I can take being married to him. It’s not just me he hurts anymore. He’s started in on Jason and Jack now, too.

I want to sell the house, take my half of the money, and get away from him, take the boys with me. When I told Luke about the offer, he called the man up and told him he’d sell him the house for double. He’s being entirely unreasonable, and I really can’t see him getting that amount of money for the place.

God, it feels so good to tell you all of this. To vent. Please write me back if you have the time. I’d call you, only Luke still hasn’t had the telephone connected, and I hate using public phones.

Anyway, I heard about your new teaching job at the university. Aunt Moira visited a few weeks ago and told me. It must be very exciting. I’d love to hear about how you’re getting along there.

Your loving sister,

Phillipa.

Out of the whole letter, the part I fixate most on is, It’s not just me he hurts anymore. He’s started in on Jason and Jack now, too. Tears make my eyes grow watery. I read the next few letters. They mostly detail Phillipa, Jay’s mother’s, struggle with depression and dealing with her husband’s physical abuse. They mention the property developer coming over to the house while her husband is at work on several occasions. I get the sense of their friendship growing until it becomes something more.

Phillipa never mentions his name until the seventh letter. She’s terrified of her husband finding out, but the property developer is keen for them to continue their secret affair. And that’s when she finally does mention his name.

Brian.

I stare at the name for a long time, trying to figure out if it’s just a coincidence, or if this means something. Then I pull out my phone and Google “Brian Scott.” Sure enough, his Wikipedia page details how he came from a lower working-class background and that it’s rumoured he was a loan shark in his younger years before he ventured into property development, shortly followed by the launch of his newspaper, The Daily Post.

Christ.

Jay’s mother had an affair with Brian Scott.

I move on to the next letter, noticing how they become more and more desperate for advice. It seems that Brian is not the fairy-tale prince she originally thought. Apparently, he is now threatening to reveal their affair to her husband if she doesn’t somehow convince him to sign the papers and sell their house. She also mentions that Brian’s girlfriend showed up one day, shouting and screaming at Phillipa to stay away from her boyfriend.

It’s all becoming too much for her.

She tries to get her husband to sign the papers, but he’s a stubborn, greedy man, and refuses to sell the house unless Brian is prepared to pay an inordinate sum of money for it. Brian does not succumb to this. It seems that he, too, is a stubborn, greedy man. Philippa is considering taking what little money she has hidden away and leaving with her two boys. She cannot take much more of what is happening.

She wants to disappear.

And that’s when the letters end. My heart is racing. What occurred between Phillipa’s last letter and her death? Judging from the dates, they can’t have been written very long before Jay’s family died and he went to live with his uncle. I just have to know.

I slip on my shoes and call a taxi, instructing the driver to take me straight to Jay’s apartment. He gave me a spare key a couple of months ago, saying it was only fair since he still had a key to my place. I take the elevator up to the top floor and get out, walking down the hallway and stopping when I get to Jay’s place.

I don’t need to use my key, because the door has been kicked in.

My shock lasts only a moment before I force myself into action, taking out my phone and dialling emergency services. I whisper down the line just in case the person or persons who broke in are still there. The woman on the other end assures me that the Gardai are on their way.

I should go outside and wait for them to arrive. That would be the logical thing to do. But I’m not feeling very logical, it seems, because I step right past the kicked-in door. I still have the rape alarm, pepper spray, and Swiss army knife in my handbag. I dig out the pepper spray, which, might I add, is not exactly legal in this country. And when I say “not exactly legal,” I mean illegal. I had to order it online, deciding that breaking the law was a necessary evil in order to protect myself. There’s that phrase again. Perhaps Jay and I are more alike than I thought.

It’s quiet when I first step inside, but then I hear the voices, loud and desperate. They’re coming from the terrace balcony. Moving through the apartment slowly, I make my way to the door that leads outside, but stop just on the threshold, hiding myself behind the doorframe.

If my heart was racing before, now it’s catapulting into the stratosphere.

Jay is standing just by the railing that surrounds the terrace, and before him is a crazed-looking Brian Scott, a gun held out in front of him aimed directly at Jay.

“Why did you do it, huh? Why?!” Brian demands.

The professional way in which he’s holding his weapon leads me to believe this is not the first time he’s threatened someone at gunpoint. However, there’s a crazed air about him that is far from professional. I have no doubt he’s mad enough right now to use the gun.

“Put that f**king thing down and I’ll tell you,” says Jay, his voice sharp, yet way too calm for the current situation. He looks at Brian, who isn’t putting the gun down, cocks an eyebrow, and goes to sit on a deck chair. “No? All right, then, you keep on pointing it at me if it makes your dick feel bigger.”