19. Orla
ORLA
T he security guards escort me through the lobby without touching me. A courtesy I don't deserve. Every employee watches as I pass—the assistant who fell from grace. Their stares burn into my back.
The building doors open to harsh afternoon sunlight. I blink against the brightness, legs unsteady beneath me.
"Your personal items will be delivered tomorrow," one guard says. "Provide an address."
I give them my real one. No point in lying anymore.
They disappear back inside, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. People flow around me—businesspeople, tourists, normal humans living normal lives. I stand frozen in the current.
My cover is blown. Seven years of planning destroyed in twenty minutes.
I walk to my car on autopilot, hands shaking as I fumble with the keys. The engine starts on the third try. I sit behind the wheel, staring at nothing.
My phone buzzes. Doyle.
"Where are you?" he asks without greeting.
"Parking garage near the office." My voice sounds hollow.
"Drive to Murphy's Diner. Now. We need to talk."
The line goes dead.
Doyle waits in a corner booth, coffee growing cold in front of him. His face shows the fury I expected.
"You blew it," he says as I slide into the opposite seat. "Two years of work. Gone."
I order coffee from the waitress, buying time. "Not gone. Changed."
"Changed? You're compromised. Burned. Useless to this investigation."
The coffee arrives. I wrap my hands around the cup, seeking warmth. "Cillian knows who I am."
"And? What did you tell him?"
"Nothing about you. About the case." I meet his eyes. "I couldn't do it, Doyle."
"Couldn't do what?"
"Destroy him. Destroy his family." The admission tastes like ash. "They're not what I expected."
Doyle leans forward, voice dropping. "They killed your father."
"Eamon killed my father. On orders from Vincent Collins." I pull out my phone, showing him photos I took yesterday. "Financial records. Collins embezzled for years. Dad found out."
Doyle studies the images. "Where did you get these?"
"Cillian's private files. Before he discovered me." I slide the phone across the table. "Collins used Eamon. Made him think Dad threatened the whole family."
"Convenient story."
"True story." I lean back. "Check the accounts. Follow the money trail. Collins vanished three years ago for a reason."
Doyle's phone rings. He checks the caller ID and frowns. "Kavanagh."
My blood freezes.
"Detective Doyle," he answers, putting it on speaker.
"I believe you've discovered one of my confidential informants," Cillian's voice fills our booth.
I close my eyes. He's hunting me already.
"Ms. Nolan has been gathering evidence about her father's murder," Doyle says. "Evidence that points to your lieutenant, not your father."
A pause. "Vincent Collins."
"You know about him?"
"I'm learning." Cillian's tone stays neutral. "We should meet. Discuss mutual interests."
"Twenty-four hours," Doyle says. "Then I proceed with what I have."
The call ends. Doyle stares at me across the table.
"He's protecting you," he says.
"He's protecting his family."
"Same thing now." Doyle downs his coffee. "You're in deep, Orla. Deeper than you realize."
I know. The thought terrifies me.
My apartment feels different when I return. Smaller. Temporary. I spread my father's evidence across the table—crime scene photos, financial records, witness statements. Seven years of my life reduced to paper and grief.
I pour whiskey into a tumbler. Dad's favorite brand. The one thing I kept from his house after the police released it.
The crime scene photo stares up at me. Dad slumped over his desk, blood pooling beneath him. Accounting papers scattered everywhere. The image that drove me to this moment.
"I'm sorry, Dad," I whisper to the photo. "I fell for his son."
The whiskey burns down my throat. I pour another.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
You have something that belongs to me
Collins. It has to be.
I grab my gun from the bedroom, check the clip. Full. Safety off. I place it on the table beside the evidence.
Another text.
We should talk. Before others get hurt.
I don't respond. Collins killed my father to hide his theft. Now he knows I have proof.
The apartment door's locks seem inadequate. Three deadbolts and a chain won't stop a determined killer. I check the windows—fire escape access, good sight lines to the street.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
"Orla Nolan," I answer.
"The accountant's daughter." Collins' voice sounds exactly as I imagined—smooth, cultured, deadly. "You've caused considerable trouble."
"Not as much as you will."
He laughs. "I doubt that. You're alone now. No Kavanagh protection. No police backup."
"I have evidence."
"Which dies with you."
The line goes dead.
I grab the evidence files, stuff them into a bag. Staying here means death. I need somewhere safe until?—
A knock at my door. Three sharp raps.
I raise my gun, approach the peephole. The hallway appears empty.
Another knock. "Orla. It's me."
Cillian's voice.
I lower the gun, open the locks. He stands in the doorway, fury and something else written across his features.
"How did you find me?" I ask.
"Phone tracker. Simple surveillance." He enters without invitation, closing the door behind him. "Expected anything less?"
The apartment shrinks with his presence. Gone is the polished businessman from the office. This man looks dangerous. Predatory.
"What do you want, Cillian?"
His eyes scan the evidence spread across my table, the whiskey bottle, the gun I still hold.
"Truth," he says. "Everything."
I set the gun down but keep it within reach. "Which truth? There are so many."
He moves closer, and I see the war in his eyes. Anger and desire. Betrayal and need. The same conflict tearing me apart.
"Start with your father," he says.
I point to the crime scene photo. "Thomas Nolan. Accountant. Father. Murder victim."
He picks up the photograph, studies it. "You found him."
"Seventeen years old. Came home from debate practice." My voice cracks despite my control. "He was supposed to help me with calculus that night."
Cillian sets the photo down carefully. "Tell me about Collins."
I pull out the financial records, spread them across the table. "Two million stolen over three years. My father discovered the discrepancies. Collins couldn't let him report it."
"So he used Eamon."
"Your brother thought he was protecting your family. Collins fed him lies about Dad planning to expose everything to authorities."
Cillian studies the documents. "You have proof of this?"
"Account numbers. Transfer dates. Communication logs." I meet his eyes. "Your brother pulled the trigger, but Collins gave the order."
He straightens, decision made. "I need those files."
"They're copies. Originals are somewhere safe."
"Smart." He moves around the table toward me. "Collins called you tonight."
Not a question. "Yes."
"What did he want?"
"To kill me before I testify."
Cillian's face hardens. "He won't touch you."
"Why?" I challenge. "I'm your enemy. I infiltrated your life, your family. Why protect me?"
He stops inches away, close enough that I smell his cologne. The same scent that clung to my skin after New York.
"Because despite everything," he says quietly, "you're mine now."
The words hang between us, loaded with promise and threat. My pulse races beneath his stare.
"I destroyed any trust between us," I say.
"Yes." He reaches out, fingers grazing my cheek. "But you're still mine."
My phone buzzes on the table. Another unknown number.
Cillian picks it up. "Answer it. Speaker."
I obey, hands trembling.
"Ms. Nolan," Collins' voice fills the room. "I hope you're reconsidering our conversation."
Cillian's eyes turn cold as winter.
"I have nothing to say to you," I reply.
"Pity. The Donovan crew is very persuasive. They'll be visiting soon."
The line goes dead.
Cillian grabs my shoulders. "Pack everything. We're leaving. Now."
"Where?"
"Safe house. Family protection." His grip tightens. "You're under Kavanagh care now."
I look around my temporary home. Evidence of my real life, my mission, my father's death. Everything that brought me to this moment.
"What happens after?" I ask.
"After, we find Collins." Cillian's voice turns deadly soft. "And he pays for what he took from both of us."