26. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
The conference table in Matt and Rachel's dining room is covered in files. Actual paper files, because Matt insists some things are easier to see spread across a table instead of on a screen. Personally, I think he's eighty-seven years old trapped in a thirty-eight-year-old body.
The operation itself is straightforward.
At least by Grayline standards.
A biotech company in Seattle has a senior researcher attempting to walk away with proprietary research and sell it overseas. The company can't prove it, the FBI can't move without evidence, and the board wants answers before millions of dollars disappear into a competitor's hands.
Which means we do what Grayline does best.
We watch.
We wait.
We collect enough evidence that nobody can argue with the truth.
Rachel sets a plate of cookies in the middle of the table before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Across from me, Bullet studies surveillance photos with the same unreadable expression he wears for just about everything.
Wheels is somehow upside down in his chair, balancing on two legs for reasons known only to him, while Matt quietly works through travel logistics with a yellow highlighter in one hand.
I should be paying attention.
Instead, my phone vibrates against the table.
Just once.
Before I can stop myself, I glance down.
The Gallagher feeds load almost instantly.
Maeve is curled into the oversized chair in the library with a book resting in her lap. From anyone else's perspective, she'd look completely absorbed.
Mine tells me she hasn't turned the page in almost four minutes.
The familiar ache settles somewhere beneath my ribs before I can talk myself out of it. My fingers move on instinct, pinching the screen to zoom in just enough to check her face.
"How's she doing?" Rachel's voice catches me completely off guard.
I look up to find her standing beside the table with a steaming mug cradled between both hands. Every conversation around the room has somehow stopped.
Traitors.
Every last one of them.
I flip my phone over, face down on the table.
"Fine."
Nobody says anything.
Which is somehow worse.
I don't have to look up to know they're all staring at me.
Waiting.
Judging.
Wheels is the first one to crack. "That answer felt emotionally unavailable."
I don't even look at him. "Thank you, Dr. Phil."
"You're welcome."
Rachel hides a smile behind her coffee mug while Matt doesn't even bother lifting his eyes from the file in front of him.
"Leave him alone."
"Why?" Wheels asks, pointing across the table at me. "Watching him panic has become my favorite hobby."
I lean back in my chair with a sigh.
I hate this family.
An hour later everyone has drifted into smaller conversations. Bullet is outside taking a call. Matt and Rachel are in the kitchen. Sloane showed up somewhere in the middle of the briefing and immediately started stealing everyone's food. Which apparently nobody has the authority to stop.
I find myself standing on the back deck staring out into the dark. Thinking. Which is always a mistake.
The sliding door opens. Then closes. A second later Wheels appears beside me. Beer in hand. Entirely too cheerful for a man his age. Neither of us says anything at first.
Eventually Wheels bumps his shoulder into mine. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"The thing where you think so hard you look constipated."
I stare at him. "That's offensive."
"It's accurate."
Unfortunately, it is. I sigh.
Wheels waits. Not pushing. Just waiting. Which means he's serious.
That realization alone is concerning.
For a while we stand there in silence.
Then he asks quietly, "You like her?"
The question hangs between us. I should deny it. I don't.
"Yeah." The word surprises even me.
Because it's the first time I've said it out loud. Wheels nods slowly. Like he'd already known.
"That's rough." I huff out a laugh.
"Helpful."
"I'm serious." For once, he actually is.
His gaze stays fixed on the backyard.
Not me. Making it easier somehow.
"I spent a lot of years convincing myself I didn't need people." The confession catches me off guard. Mostly because Wheels rarely talks about himself.
He jokes. Deflects. Distracts. But this? This is different. "I figured if I never got attached, nobody could leave."
The words settle heavily between us. I glance toward him. He's still staring into the darkness. Still speaking casually. Like none of this matters. Which somehow makes it matter more.
"And?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Turns out people leave anyway."
I don't know what to do with that. So I say nothing. Wheels takes another drink. Then shrugs. "The trick isn't avoiding people." His voice softens. "The trick is finding the ones worth getting hurt for."
The words land harder than they should.
Because suddenly I see Maeve smiling at her mother. Maeve laughing at her phone. Maeve drinking coffee on the balcony. Maeve. Everywhere. All at once.
I rub a hand over my face. "That's not helping."
Wheels bumps his shoulder against mine. "Good."
I glare at him.
He grins like he's just won an argument. "There he is."
The sliding door opens again. Neither of us turns. Mostly because we both know exactly who it is.
"Whatever he just told you..." Sloane's voice carries across the deck before she even reaches us. "...ignore it."
Wheels looks offended immediately, pressing a hand against his chest. "Excuse me?"
Sloane stops beside us, arms folded across her chest. Her expression is perfectly unimpressed. "You're not qualified to give relationship advice."
My eyebrows immediately shoot up. This should be good.
Wheels scoffs. "I've had plenty of relationships."
Sloane doesn't even blink. "None longer than a week."
"A month," Wheels corrects.
"Seven days."
"Twelve."
"Five."
Wheels points dramatically at her. "You keep records?"
Sloane shrugs one shoulder. "I have eyes."
A laugh escapes me. An actual laugh. The sound surprises all three of us.
Sloane notices first. Her grin appears immediately as she points toward me. "See? I'm helping."
Wheels throws both hands into the air. "You're not helping."
"I absolutely am."
Wheels shakes his head before pointing at her again. "You're impossible."
Sloane doesn't miss a beat. She smiles so sweetly it almost looks genuine. "You're dramatic."
Wheels places a hand over his heart. "I'm expressive."
"You're exhausting," Sloane says, rolling her eyes.
A grin spreads across Wheels's face. "I'm charming."
She snorts. "You're mean." Sloane tilts her head, pretending to consider it. "No." A slow smile curves across her lips. "You're weak.”
Wheels looks personally attacked.
"I walked right into that one."
"You sprinted into it," Sloane corrects.
I watch the exchange unfold. The effortless bickering. The complete lack of self-awareness. The fact that neither of them has stopped smiling once.
And for the first time in days, the pressure in my chest eases. Just a little.
Because maybe Wheels is right. Maybe the trick isn't avoiding people. Maybe it's finding the ones worth staying for.
The opening guitar riff of "Burn It to the Ground" suddenly blasts from Wheels' pocket.
Sloane jumps before slowly turning toward him. "...Seriously?"
Wheels grins as he fishes his phone out of his pocket, silencing it with a tap. "What?"
She points at the phone still in his hand. "Why in the world is that your ringtone?"
His grin only widens. "To remember the greatest night of my life."
Sloane lets out a disbelieving laugh. "You mean the night Skee broke that guy's wrist?"
I immediately groan. "We don't have to do this."
"Oh, we're absolutely doing this," Wheels says, pointing at me. "That idiot thought it'd be funny to grab your laptop."
"I asked him to stop."
Wheels snorts. "You told him once."
"He had fair warning."
"He was drunk," Sloane argues.
"So was everyone else."
She just stares at me for a long second. "...Keaton."
I shrug. "He touched the laptop."
Sloane turns back toward Wheels, unimpressed. "And this is the greatest night of your life?"
Wheels doesn't hesitate. "I've never seen Skee move that fast."
I rub a hand over my face. "You two realize I was the reason we got kicked out."
Wheels throws an arm around my shoulders. "No." He's grinning like an idiot. "You were the entertainment."
Sloane laughs, shaking her head. "I still can't believe you celebrated getting banned from the only place with decent mozzarella sticks."
Despite myself, I laugh. "They were exceptional mozzarella sticks."
Wheels sighs dramatically. “They were the worst.”
Wheels and Sloane disappear through the sliding glass door still arguing.
"I'm telling you," Wheels says over his shoulder. "Nobody makes mozzarella sticks like O'Malley's."
"They're frozen."
"They're handcrafted."
"They're freezer-crafted."
Their voices fade as the door slides shut behind them. The backyard settles into quiet again.
I pull my phone from my pocket. Just one look. That's all. The Gallagher feeds load almost instantly.
Library.
Empty.
Dining room.
Empty.
Kitchen.
There.
Maeve stands at the kitchen island with a mug wrapped between both hands. She looks tired. More tired than she did yesterday. I watch her wander toward the living room.
Without thinking, my thumb moves across the screen. A playlist starts. The opening guitar riff fills the room through the estate's built-in speakers.
Maeve stops. Looks around. Then smiles. A real smile. One I haven't seen in two days.
She shakes her head. "You are crazy, Taibhse."
I grin. Then the camera shifts just enough for me to see her better.
Her eyes lift toward it immediately. "You know..." she says softly, "you're a terrible influence."
Movement. Behind her. Every muscle in my body locks. Ronan.
He steps into the frame so quietly Maeve doesn't notice him until he's only a few feet away.
"Who are you talking to?"
The smile disappears so quickly it almost looks painful.
Immediately, I lean forward.
My fingers start tapping against my thigh. Twice. Pause. Twice. Pause.
"No one." She laughs softly. "I was listening to the music."
Ronan doesn't move. Doesn't blink. "You were talking."
"I didn't know you were home." Maeve turns toward him fully now. She smiles. Small. Careful. "How was your day?"
He's not listening. I know that look. I've seen it during interrogations. On targets. On men deciding whether the person in front of them is lying.
"...Fuck." The word leaves me quietly.
Ronan takes another step. "Give me your phone."
Maeve freezes. "What?"
"Your phone." Silence. She doesn't move. Not because she's refusing. Because she's confused.
"Ronan—"
"Now."
Maeve still doesn't move. Frozen, not defiant.
"Ronan..."
His jaw tightens. In three quick strides he's in front of her. His hand closes around her upper arm.
Hard.
Maeve gasps. Not loudly. Just enough that I hear it through the room microphone.
Every muscle in my body locks.
His voice stays calm. Almost conversational. "Give me the phone."
My eyes go straight to her arm. His fingers are too tight. She doesn't pull away. She freezes. Like she's learned that fighting only makes it worse.
Every instinct I have starts screaming. I stand so fast my chair crashes backward onto the deck. The sound echoes behind me. I don't even notice.
I shove through the sliding door. "Matt!"
Every head in the kitchen snaps toward me.
Matt is already on his feet. "What happened?"
I don't answer. I can't. Because my eyes are glued to the screen. Maeve's fingers slowly tighten around the phone. She's scared. I can see it.
Ronan reaches into his jacket. Not for a weapon. His own phone. He raises it to his ear without taking his eyes off her.
Says something too quietly for the room microphone to catch.
Then—Every monitor in my hand flickers.
One. Two. Three. Static. Connection lost. Camera offline. Camera offline. Camera offline.
Every feed from the Gallagher estate goes black.
The tapping stops. For exactly one heartbeat.
Then I throw my phone onto the table hard enough that it skids into the wall.
"Matt." I don't recognize my own voice. "They know."