I forced a laugh and pressed a light kiss against her forehead. “Of course we can, Connie. Of course.”

We lay together, holding each other tight. “Why do you make me want to be so stupid?” she whispered into the crook of my neck, her breath hot against my skin. “And why am I even more scared to walk away than I am to end up getting caught?”

Chapter 11

March 1995

The seagull I had been watching with intense vigilance took off as soon as Connie approached it, expanding its vast wings and flapping away out of sight. There were three more of them up ahead, perched on the cliff face, and I could almost have sworn that they were surveying me just as I was them. Connie turned back to me and rolled her eyes.

“They’re fucking birds,” she grumbled, her voice laced with exasperation. “At this rate we’re going to reach the others sometime tomorrow.”

“I’m telling you, Con. They’re getting bolder. Little shits.”

“They’re harmless. Seriously. Just ignore them and hurry up.” At the sound of her voice, one of the gulls squabbled loudly before taking off, and his two companions followed him. I edged further up the path to where she stood with her hands on her hips. “Today, Alex. If that’s alright with you.”

Most people didn’t believe me when I told them that birds—or any winged and feathered creature—were my greatest fear. More than the dark, or death, or the unknown, I feared birds. It never helped to live in a coastal peninsula where seagulls were an inescapable pest that loomed somewhere overhead at any given time. I was constantly assured growing up by both Claire and my grandparents that I would eventually get used to their insistent presence but such an epiphany never came. They were the ever-impending horror that plagued my entire childhood and I attributed my fear of birds to my deep-rooted hatred for Halford’s outdoor attractions—namely the beach, the pier, and the cliff walk.

On some level, my hatred for the outdoors could have been down to any number of things. There was the weather, which rarely could be described as pleasant outside of those two weeks in the summer when Ireland was graced with a few rays of sunlight. On our hottest days I complained of it being too hot, when every other day of the year it was simply too cold. And then of course there was the wind. Unlike Connie, my hair failed to withstand the gales that hit Halford and I found solace in hats and caps, the only shields that prevented me from walking around outside with a head resembling a seagull’s nest. I hated the tourists who flocked to the outskirts of Dublin in droves greater than even that of the gulls and did everything possible to avoid them. I hated sand, particularly on a gusty afternoon, which often made the beach a no-go. I hated exercise unless completely necessary, which made the moderately steep cliff walks a needless pain. I hated water unless it was clean. I hated the stench of seawater that lingered throughout town.