“Only the small laceration on her bottom lip from what we can see, and her vitals are fine. Though it’ll take a while for the shock to wear off. She’s had quite the scare.” That assessment’s delivered with a wink, and then she begins packing up her kit.

“She’s awfully lucky . . .” To me, the tall, average-looking officer says, “I’m Detective Garda Garret Duffy. This is me partner, Detective Garda Paul O’Brien.” The man next to him, a pudgy middle-aged officer with a shiny, bald head, offers a tight smile. “Can we ask ya some questions?”

Despite the situation, I smile. Duffy sounds exactly like the leprechaun in the Lucky Charms cereal commercial. “Sure. Okay.”

“And would ya mind terribly if our colleagues examined your bag? This is yours, yeah?” He gestures at a man with white gloves hovering at the side.

I look down at the limp black knapsack that holds my umbrella, a couple of bottles of water, and a bag of grapes, no doubt a mess of pulp and juices now. I don’t know why they’d want to, but . . . “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Duffy says, smiling kindly at me, his notepad already open in his hand and waiting to be filled. “Let’s start with your name?”

“Amber Welles.”

“And you’re American, from the sounds of it?”

I nod but then answer, “Yes.” My dad taught me to always answer verbally, to avoid misinterpretation.

“Do ya have identification?”

“My passport. It’s in my backpack.”

“Okay.” He nods toward O’Brien. “We’ll get that. What are ya doing here in Ireland?”

“Traveling.”

“Are ya here alone?”

“Yes.”

His forehead wrinkles in surprise. I get that reaction a lot. I guess I can understand it. It is a bit strange for a girl my age to be traveling alone. If he knew that I have thirteen other countries to visit after this, I’m sure he’d have a comment. “Do ya have friends or family, or acquaintances, in Ireland?”

“No.”

“And how long have ya been in Dublin?”

“Just landed yesterday.”

He scribbles his notes down quickly. “And what were ya doing in the Green this morning, so early?”

“I was late for my tour bus and I was running through here to try to make up some time.” I guess it’s safe to say that the bus has left without me.

“So . . . ya were running across the grass.” His eyes and finger trail through the air, as if trying to get his bearings. “From which direction, exactly?”

I point across the way.

“Right. And then the bomb just exploded?” His impassive eyes remain glued to my face, waiting, as if readying my answer for a scale, to weigh its truth. Just like my dad’s eyes weigh on a person whenever he’s asking questions, whenever he’s digging for information that he thinks the person may be hiding.

My heart pounds in my chest as I begin to see this for what it really is. You don’t grow up with a father like Gabe Welles without learning what distrust feels like. And you don’t grow up with a brother like Jesse Welles without learning what questioning a person who you think is guilty of something sounds like.

Twenty-five years in the Welles family has taught me the art of suspicion well.

I summon whatever calm I can muster and look at the blast site—cordoned off with a new, bigger square of blue-and-white tape—through new eyes. A marker sits where I was found. Another one indicates where I’m guessing the bomb went off. A man is measuring the distance between the two points. Another man photographs the oak’s tree trunk, riddled with gashes, while his partner waits behind him, with plastic gloves and bags and tweezers to collect evidence.

I can see why the police might be suspicious. They’re probably wondering how I could have been that close and not earned a single shrapnel wound, when that tree has been brutalized. But what do they seriously think happened . . . that I set the bomb and decided to play victim?

My stomach drops.

Maybe that’s exactly what they’re wondering. When I replay the detective’s words about being awfully lucky from a moment ago inside my head, it doesn’t sound as sincere anymore. I can’t believe this. One day in Ireland and I’m being questioned by the police. This is something that happens to Jesse. Not to me.

“No. A man ran out of nowhere and knocked me down to the ground. Then the bomb exploded.”

It’s so slight that it’s almost imperceptible, but Duffy’s brow definitely jumps. “What did this man look like?”

“I don’t . . .” I frown, trying to picture his face. “He was young . . . Irish . . . I don’t know. He ran off right after.”

“In which direction?”

I point toward the bushes where I last saw him.

“What else can ya tell us about him?” O’Brien asks. They both stare at me, waiting, their demeanor having softened somewhat now that I’ve given them reason to suspect that maybe I’m just an American tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I didn’t get a good look at him. I was in shock.” I’m still in shock.

“Anything at all. Was he tall, short? Twelve stone, fourteen stone . . .”

I frown.

Duffy smirks. “Ye Americans call it ‘pounds.’ ”

“Oh.” I shake my head. “I’m . . . not sure. A hundred and eighty pounds, maybe?”

“Think hard, Amber. We need to find him,” he pushes. “You said he was Irish. How do you know that? Did he speak to you?”

“Yes. He said that he didn’t do this,” I whisper, hearing his voice as I repeat the words. Remembering that pleading look in his eyes.

Duffy and O’Brien share a glance.

“You think he set it, don’t you?” I ask.

“Maybe,” Duffy says.

I frown. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he jump in front of it to save me, then?”

O’Brien shrugs. “Change of heart? He saw a pretty bird and didn’t want to be responsible for her death.”

My cheeks heat with the unwanted compliment, although I really want to roll my eyes. Sometimes people with the best intentions say the most stupid things. I mean, does it all come down to looks? If I were ugly, would the guy have run the other way and let me blow to pieces?

Duffy must see my irritation. “He ran. Innocent people don’t run.”

My eyes drift to the spot in the trees where I saw him vanish, and I start to question myself. Am I a fool for believing him the second the words came out of his mouth? I didn’t even question why he might say something like that. Maybe . . . he knew the bomb was there, lying in quiet wait in the grass. He knew exactly where it was and he must have known when it would go off, the way he ran at me. If he had nothing to do with it, how would he know those kinds of details?

Maybe a bomber’s word isn’t worth much when he’s . . . a bomber.

But he saved my life. He put himself in harm’s way to protect me. Maybe innocent people don’t run, but bombers don’t save lives.

I dismiss the detective’s suspicion. After all, five minutes ago, he was ready to accuse me.