“Very real. Her name is Daisy. She’s the sister of an old friend. She knows what it’s all about and she’s okay with it because the arrangement benefits her, too.”

“I thought she hated you.” Joe leaned against the faded white picket fence that surrounded the visitor center.

“I think we may have worked that out.” He wasn’t sure how Daisy felt about him, but after the other night, he was pretty sure hate wasn’t at the top of her list.

“Well, good for you. I won’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve known her forever.”

“I have known her forever, but we’ve gone on dates to make it seem more real.” He pulled out his phone to show Joe the pictures of him and Daisy at the clothing store, the restaurant, the hockey game, and the one he’d taken when he’d declared her the winner of their Guitar Hero marathon.

Joe gave Liam a quizzical look. “You sure it’s fake? Looks like you two are having fun.”

Liam stared at the picture they’d taken at the hockey game. She’d kissed him, not the other way around. And it hadn’t been for show. He’d seen something in her face—something soft and raw and real. And then, just when he’d thought it was all over, when his past had come back to haunt him, she’d shown him just how strong she really was, and made him want her even more.

“It’s supposed to be fake.” He frowned, disconcerted by the question. “It has to be fake. She wants it to be fake.”

“What do you want?” Joe asked.

Liam shrugged. “I don’t do relationships. As you know, I didn’t have a good role model in that department.” He waved Jaxon over, and they walked together to the visitor center.

“You’re not your old man,” Joe said. “You’re your grandfather’s boy. I saw it in you then, and I see it in you now. That core of goodness. Inner strength. Selflessness. And the sheer Irish stubbornness that meant that no matter how many times you were knocked down, you kept getting back up. Your dad saw it, and he hated you for it. He knew he would never be half the man you were at thirteen. You were everything his father had wanted him to be. Your grandfather was so damn proud of you. He kept tabs on everything you did right up until his last days.”

Emotion welled up in Liam’s throat, the pain and grief he hadn’t allowed himself to feel when his grandfather died threatening to rip a hole in his chest. He pulled out his knife and closed it in his fist. “I lost all those years with him.” His voice cracked, broke. “I couldn’t forgive him for not helping my mother. I couldn’t forgive any of them. It was only when he got sick . . . when I knew I was going to lose him . . .”

Joe clasped his shoulder. “No one knew how bad it was with your mom. She didn’t tell anyone, and you boys didn’t say anything. You kept your secrets. We only found out about the abuse after your father died and your uncle Fitz called your mom in Florida to see if she wanted to come to the funeral. That’s when she told him the truth. Fitz and the others decided not to tell your grandfather. His health was already bad and they didn’t want to cause him any stress.”

No one knew. He couldn’t even begin to process what Joe had told him. All those years of thinking his family had turned a blind eye to the abuse, when they didn’t even know. And he was partly to blame. He’d kept his mother’s secrets, just as he was keeping secrets now. Secrets destroyed relationships. He didn’t want to make the same mistake again.

He left Joe to his work and took Jaxon for a tour of the malt house, one of three large warehouses where the whiskey was made, then went to the mash tun to watch the malt and water being stirred by giant paddles. They followed the liquid wort as it was passed into the old wooden wash back tanks where the yeast was added and fermentation began, and then walked into the stillroom.

“Look down here, Jaxon.” Liam squatted beside one of the oak casks where the whiskey was aging. “This cask came all the way from Ireland. This is where all the Murphy men leave their mark.” He pointed to the last name on the list. “That’s me. My grandfather gave me a knife to cut my name there when I told him one day I wanted to run the distillery.”

Jaxon squatted beside him. “Where’s Dad’s name?”

“Your dad and your grandfather were busy with the car business and didn’t have time to run the distillery.”

“I want to run it. I’m a Murphy man.” Jaxon stood up tall. “Can I put my name there?”

“Sure you can.” Liam pulled out his knife, and together they carved Jaxon’s name beneath Liam’s in the soft oak, and then blew out the sawdust for luck.

They had just started a game of hide-and-seek when Joe appeared in the doorway, his face creased with worry.

“You’d better come quick. There are a couple of contractors here. They say Brendan hired them to do site prep for tearing down the distillery. They’re planning to bring the demo crew out next week.”

His good humor faded in an instant. “What the f—” He cut himself off just in time. “Take Jaxon and give the estate lawyer a call. I’ll talk to them.”

He found the contractors in the visitor center, checking out the display of whiskey bottles in the tasting area.

“What the hell is going on?” His boots thudded over the worn, dark wood floor. The exposed beams in the ceiling had been painted to match, contrasting with the dingy, whitewashed walls covered in framed pictures of the Murphy distilleries over the years.

Usually the familiar scent of whiskey calmed him, but today it reminded him of everything he could lose.

“Just doing a site survey for the demo next week.” The taller of the two, a heavyset dude with thick arms and broad shoulders, held up a hand, palm forward. “We were hired by Brendan Murphy. I’ve got a work order in my truck. Do you want to see it?”

“Brendan doesn’t have the authority to sign anything,” Liam spat out. “The distillery is being held in a trust, administered by the law firm Abel & Ashford. Only they can sign off on a survey.”