Chapter 31
Skye
By the time the first emergency vehicles reached Saint Brigid's, the rain had eased from the hard sideways sheets that had followed us through the evacuation into a colder, steadier fall that turned the grounds silver beneath rotating blue lights.
Fire crews took control of the eastern wing almost immediately, their hoses disappearing through smoke while paramedics moved between the extraction vehicles and the residents we had brought out.
The old chapel still stood, though flames had eaten through part of the roof behind it, and every few minutes another section of timber collapsed somewhere inside with a sound that carried across the courtyard.
I stood near one of Maverick's vehicles with a blanket around my shoulders that somebody had insisted I wear and watched Saint Brigid's burn while the reality of the last hour caught up to my body.
My shoulder ached from the tunnel collapse, the scrape along my cheek stung whenever rain reached it, and enough dust remained in my hair that I suspected no amount of shampoo would make me feel clean tonight.
None of that mattered very much when Grace was sitting less than twenty yards away with her mother wrapped around her, Daniel was being examined inside an ambulance, and twenty-one other people who had expected another controlled transfer were beginning to understand that nobody was going to force them back through those doors.
Irish remained close without hovering. That difference would have been difficult to explain to anyone who hadn't watched him change over the previous weeks, but I felt it every time he checked where I was and chose not to turn the concern into an instruction.
He spoke with Trigger near the edge of the courtyard, one hand resting against his hip while the other held his phone, his attention divided between Cipher's updates, the approaching authorities, and every survivor being moved toward temporary shelter.
Several times his gaze found me. Each time I gave him the slightest nod, and each time he accepted it rather than crossing the distance simply because he could.
The man I'd met outside Alderwick House would have called that protection.
The man standing in the rain now understood it as trust.
A paramedic approached me carrying a small kit. "Miss Fraser?"
"Skye is fine."
"Skye, I'd like another look at your shoulder before you go anywhere."
I glanced toward Irish. Of course he had heard; his eyebrows lifted. I sighed. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"Possibly."
The paramedic looked between us with the tired expression of someone who had already decided neither of us was particularly sensible. "Sit."
Irish smiled. I pointed at him. "Not a word."
He lifted both hands and went back to Trigger while I allowed myself to be inspected.
Nothing was broken. My shoulder was badly bruised, the scrape on my cheek needed cleaning, and I had inhaled enough smoke to earn a lecture about headaches, coughing, dizziness, and every other symptom I was apparently required to report immediately rather than deciding I was fine out of stubbornness.
I agreed to everything with the intention of following at least most of it, which seemed to be the maximum commitment anyone expected from me by then.
When the paramedic finally released me, Irish was no longer beside Trigger.
He stood near Daniel's ambulance talking quietly with the boy's mother while Daniel sat on the rear step with his injured ankle elevated.
Whatever Irish said made the woman cover her mouth for a moment before reaching for his hand.
He let her take it. That image stayed with me.
Weeks ago, Irish had believed survival required distance.
Now people were touching him because he had carried their child out of a burning building, and instead of withdrawing from their gratitude because it frightened him, he stood there and accepted it.
I didn't interrupt. Storm came to stand beside me.
"You look terrible."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She handed me a bottle of water. I took it. Her gaze followed mine toward Irish. "He looks worse."
"He's not injured."
"Wasn't talking about the outside." I glanced toward her. Storm had a way of saying uncomfortable things without pretending they were profound. Perhaps that was why I liked her.
"He saw Harrow leave."
"I know."
"And didn't follow."
"I know."
She took a drink from her own bottle. "That's going to matter later."
"It already matters."
Storm studied me for a moment. "You okay?"
"Apparently I have a bruised shoulder, mild smoke exposure, and a personality defect involving walls."
"That last one's incurable."
"So I've been told."
She smiled, then became serious. "I mean you."
The question landed differently when it came without an audience. I looked toward the burning building. "I thought I was going to be trapped in that tunnel." Storm didn't rush to fill the silence.
"So did he."
"I know."
"For what it's worth, he didn't lose it."
I glanced at her. Storm's mouth curved faintly. "He came close. Trigger probably has fingerprints in the back of his jacket. But Irish listened when Cipher found another route. That's new."
It was, and I suspected Irish knew exactly how new the change was.
Before I could answer, Trigger called us toward the command vehicle.
Two uniformed officers had arrived with a senior detective from Clare Division, along with a woman from a national safeguarding unit whose expression changed significantly when she saw the number of residents gathered beneath emergency blankets.
Maverick had spent the last hour making certain the first official responders were people Cipher and Toxic's legal contacts believed could be trusted, which felt like an extraordinary amount of preparation until I remembered the Order had survived for decades by embedding itself inside respectable systems. The detective introduced himself as Inspector Patrick Brennan.
He was in his fifties, tired-looking, and sufficiently unimpressed by leather cuts and American accents that Raze seemed almost disappointed.
"I need to know who entered the building," Brennan said.
Trigger answered. "We'll give you the operational sequence."
"All of it."
"Through counsel."
Brennan's expression tightened. Maverick stepped in before it became an argument.
"Inspector, nobody here is refusing cooperation.
You have a building deliberately set on fire while people were locked inside, evidence of unlawful confinement, minors apparently being assigned into forced marriages, and a network crossing at least two jurisdictions.
We would all benefit from doing this correctly the first time.
" Brennan looked toward Saint Brigid's. Then at the survivors.
"Fair."
That single word lowered the temperature enough for conversation to begin.
The safeguarding officer introduced herself as Dr. Aisling Moran, though she clarified almost immediately that she wasn't there in a medical capacity.
She wanted survivors separated from investigative pressure, asked whether anyone had already been questioned, and visibly relaxed when Storm explained that nobody had been pushed for statements beyond what was needed to locate missing residents.
"Good," Moran said. "Keep it that way."
Irish stepped closer. "Some will want to talk tonight."
"Then they can. Others won't."
"Nobody forces it." Her eyes moved toward him.
"No."
The answer seemed to satisfy him. I watched the exchange with an odd sense of familiarity.
Irish had already learned that lesson at Croft House, but tonight he didn't need to explain it or fight anyone over it.
The people arriving to help were, at least so far, actually helping.
Cipher appeared on the laptop inside Maverick's vehicle, and the investigation changed shape almost immediately.
"We have the Saint Brigid's server pull," he said. "Not complete, but enough to establish current occupancy, transfer schedules, medical logs, internal security, and a partial identity index."
Inspector Brennan frowned at the screen. "Who are you?"
"Cipher."
"That's not a name."
"It's the one you're getting until lawyers are involved."
Raze made a choking sound that might have been laughter.
Brennan stared at the laptop. Cipher continued as though nothing had happened.
"More importantly, one server directory contains archived correspondence tied to the original Saint Brigid's Residential Trust. Some entries predate Covenant Renewal's current corporate structure. " Irish went still beside me.
"Da?"
"Yes."
Every person near the vehicle quieted. Cipher opened several files.
Scanned letters appeared first, followed by inspection reports and copies of Declan's requests for resident registers, medical licensing, and financial documentation.
Then came the internal responses. One was from Gideon Harrow.
Another from a director whose name I didn't recognize.
A third referred to Declan as an "external risk requiring containment." Inspector Brennan leaned closer.
"What date?" Cipher gave it, and Irish's face lost color when he realized the date fell five days before the O'Brien murders. Brennan noticed.
"Mr. O'Brien?" Irish stared at the file.
"My father." The inspector looked from the screen to him.
"Declan O'Brien?"
"Aye." Recognition settled across Brennan's expression.
"You’re Rory O'Brien." Irish's shoulders tightened. I felt the instinct to step closer and stopped myself. He could handle his own name.
"Aye."
Brennan studied him for several seconds. "I remember the case."
"You worked it?"
"No. I was stationed in Galway then. Everyone in the region heard about it."
Irish's voice remained controlled. "Nobody solved it."
"No." The answer held no defensiveness. That mattered.