17. Orla
ORLA
I notice the changes immediately when entering the office.
The security guard inspects my badge twice, comparing my face to the photo.
Inside, nothing appears as it should. The archives entrance now needs fingerprint verification.
Cameras point at every corner, all the blind spots are now covered.
Someone worked very late last night doing this.
Cillian waits at my desk. "Morning." Cold. Distant. Nothing like the man who kissed me goodbye, or opened his door when a ran to him instead of running away.
"Morning," I say. "Extra security?"
"After the breech, we can't be too careful." He stares a moment longer than normal. "Where are we with the new manifests and changed customs paperwork?"
"I’ll have everything done by noon." I sit at my desk and turn on my computer as he walks away.
Two new guards roam the executive floor. The receptionist has to ID check each visitor. Conversations seem to stop when I walk past. They know I was at his house, that I arrived with him in the middle of the night—everyone thinks I am sleeping with the boss.
Michael from IT arrives at noon.
"Security upgrade," he says, eyes fixed on my computer. "It won't take long, go grab a coffee."
"Right now?"
"Mr. Kavanagh's orders." He glances toward Cillian's office. "Take a break while I do this, it is fast I promise."
I nod. "Want coffee?"
"No." He sits, already typing.
In the break room, I pour a cup while my mind races. This "upgrade" is a fishing expedition. Cillian needs to know what I know. Good thing I never kept anything on my company devices. Every photo, every document is encrypted, hidden away in my apartment and on a cloud drive no one will hack.
Through the doorway, I watch Michael. He is checking my device history, temporary files, searches, saved and deleted data. He spends extra time in the archive database, reviewing which files I've opened.
When I return with coffee, he closes a window. "All set. System runs faster now too. Call the help desk if anything acts up."
"Thanks."
After he leaves, I examine my desktop. The archive shortcut is two inches left of its usual spot. My recent files list comes up empty. They hunted for proof of my snooping in 2015 records.
Cillian walks past my desk three times before lunch. Each time with a different excuse. Each time he’s watching me.
At five thirty, I pack up to leave. The office is almost empty, everyone has gone for the day. In the elevator, I plan ahead. Time is running out faster than expected. I have to let go of Cillian and get the fuck out of this mess, now.
The parking garage echoes each step I take. My parking space is next to a pillar, and when I round it I see Eamon Kavanagh leaning against the driver's door.
"Working late?" he asks.
I keep my face blank. "It is five-thirty, not exactly late."
"You read any interesting things lately." His voice stays casual while his body looks ready to pounce. "Shipping manifests. Employee files from 2015. Financial transfers, asset registers."
"Your brother asked me to organize the archives," I say, holding my keys tight. "Make it more accessible, I am doing my job."
"Really?" Eamon moves off my car. "Cillian or my father?"
"Cillian."
"He never told me about that project." Eamon walks around me, forcing me to turn. "What do you want with Thomas Nolan's records?"
My father's name. A trap.
I keep still. "Who?"
"Our former accountant. He died a few years back. You pulled his files several times."
"I organize alphabetically. I don't pick which folders to sort. That place was chaos."
Eamon stops directly in front of me. "You’re a liar."
"What?"
"You accessed those specific files multiple times. Why?" He steps closer. "Are you working for the feds? State police? Or selling information to our competitors?"
"I work for Cillian," I say, standing my ground despite his closeness. "Call my references."
"We did." His smile turns cruel. "Found some gaps."
My heart races but I hold his gaze. "I don't understand, you’re cornering me in the carpark over gaps in my resume?."
"You’ll understand soon enough." He moves aside. "Drive safe, Orla Kelly. Boston roads kill people every day."
I unlock my car without taking my eyes off him, get inside, lock the doors. In my mirror, Eamon watches me drive away.
I stop at a coffee shop ten blocks from the office. After buying a drink, I sit in the corner booth for fifteen minutes, making sure no one followed me. The bathroom is private.
I text Doyle.
My cover is blown. Need to get out.
His answer comes quickly.
There’s a Family meeting Thursday. We need you to wear a wire, you can’t get out until then.
I stare at my phone. Seven years of waiting comes down to this choice. Justice for Dad versus what I feel for Cillian. Revenge matters more than my heart.
I type.
Are you fucking crazy? Eamon is on me like a rash. How will you wire me? Huh? He is watching me, they all are.
Park bench. Public Garden. Noon Thursday.
I erase our conversation, flush the toilet, wash my hands. My reflection shows Orla Kelly, a tired, overworked assistant. I don’t recognize her at all—she is really thinking about protecting the monsters that killed her father.
At home, I plan for Thursday, how to get away in the middle of the day.
How to make sure he invites me to dinner.
What to wear to hide a wire. How to avoid the additional security checks.
What to do if I get caught. How to stop feeling guilty about Cillian, and tell my heart that I can’t catch feelings for him.
While planning, I push away my thoughts of Cillian. How his touch felt. How he looked at me at the beach house. How betraying him will feel.
I focus on Dad instead. The blood pooling under his desk chair. The papers scattered across the floor. The justice I have been waiting seven years for.