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      For Bunny

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Prologue

      THE WINTER’S SNOW had melted and a damp wind blew off the Atlantic, bringing the scent of the ocean into the South Boston neighborhood around Kilgore Street. Dylan Quinn climbed higher into the old tree, scrambling up branches that were just beginning to show their springtime buds, branches that could barely hold the weight of a squirrel much less an eleven-year-old boy. If he could just get a wee bit higher, maybe he could see the ocean from his perch. His da was due home today after almost three months away.

      Winter was always a difficult time for the six Quinn boys. When the weather became too brutal in the North Atlantic, the swordfishing fleet drifted south, following the fish into warmer waters. And The Mighty Quinn, his father’s boat, followed the fish wherever they went. With the coming of winter came the familiar fear that always grew in the pit of Dylan’s stomach. Would Da remember to send them money for food? Would Conor be able to keep the family together? And would they all avoid the mistakes that might bring the social workers calling?

      “Can ya see him?”

      Dylan glanced down to find his younger brother Brendan standing beneath the leafless tree. He wore a tattered coat and his da’s cast-off wool cap and his breath frosted in the air around his head. Like all the Quinns, he had nearly black hair and pale eyes that were an odd mixture of green and gold, strange enough to cause comment whenever they all appeared as one.

      “Get away,” Dylan yelled. Though he and Brendan were close in age, lately he’d come to resent his little brother’s constant presence. After all, Dylan was eleven and Brendan was only ten. The kid didn’t have to follow him everywhere he went, hanging on his every word.

      “You’re supposed to be watchin’ Liam and the twins,” Brendan said. “If Conor comes home and finds you out here, he’ll eat the head off you!”

      Their older brother, Con, had left the two of them in charge while he walked to a nearby market to buy food. They were down to their last dollars and if Da didn’t come home today, Con would be forced to pinch whatever he could from the grocery to feed them for the weekend. They got breakfast and lunch at school, so it was easy to get through the week. But weekends were the worst—especially when the money ran out.

      “Ah, shut your gob, you maggot,” Dylan shouted, the ache of hunger acute in his stomach. He hated being hungry. It was the worst feeling in the world. When the pangs got too bad, he focused on his future, on a time when he’d be grown and living on his own. He’d have power over his own life then and the first thing he’d be sure of was that his cupboards would always be filled with food.

      He saw the hurt in Brendan’s eyes and immediately regretted his angry words. They’d always been the best of friends, but something inside Dylan had changed. Lately, he felt the need to distance himself, to rebel against the hand he’d been dealt. Maybe it would have been different if his mother had stayed. Maybe they’d be living in a nice warm house, wearing new clothes and having food on the table every night. But any dream of that ended six years ago, when Fiona Quinn left the house on Kilgore Street never to return again.

      There were still traces of her to be found, in the lace curtains that now hung limply from the kitchen window and in the pretty rag rugs that she’d brought from their home in Ireland. Dylan really didn’t remember much of Ireland. He’d only been four years old when they’d left. But Ireland was still thick in his father’s voice, and he held on to that—maybe because it was the only thing he had of Seamus Quinn that he could hold on to.

      But his mother was a different matter. He’d lie in bed at night and close his eyes and try to conjure a picture of her in his head, of her dark hair and pretty face. But the image was always faded and blurry and just out of reach. He remembered her voice though, the lilting sound of Ireland in her every word. He wanted to feel safe again, but Dylan knew that the only thing in the world that could make him feel that way was her. And she was gone—for good and forever.

      “If you fall out of that tree and break your leg, you’ll bring that witch from social services back down on us,” Brendan called.

      Dylan cursed beneath his breath, then slowly made his way down the tree. Usually Con was the one with all the common sense and Brendan was up for a bit of trouble. About ten feet above Brendan’s head, Dylan swung from a branch and then dropped lightly to muddy ground beside him. With a playful growl, Dylan grabbed his brother in a headlock and rubbed his skull with his knuckles. “Don’t give me any of your guff, boyo!”

      They both raced toward the house and once inside, kicked off their muddy boots and shrugged out of their coats. In comparison to the damp outside, the house almost seemed warm, but Dylan knew that within a few minutes, the chill would begin to seep into his bones and he’d wrap himself in his coat again.

      He wandered into the front parlor where Con had set up a small space heater. The floor was littered with blankets and pillows. The six of them slept