Chapter 22
Nuala
My body jerks, adrenaline spiking before I remember where I am. Connor’s mansion. Guest room three. Safe, supposedly.
Logan slips inside the room, closing the door softly behind him. The lamp on the nightstand casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension around his eyes.
“You’re back,” I say, my voice rough with sleep.
“I’m back.” He moves to the bed, sitting on the edge. His weight dips the mattress. “There’s food coming up.”
I push myself up, clutching the duvet to my chest. The towel slipped off at some point while I was sleeping. “What did you find out?”
“The notebook’s bigger than we thought. It’s not just debts. It’s blackmail material on half of Dublin’s criminal network.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” His eyes meet mine. “We need to figure out who it belongs to.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I mutter, chewing the inside of my lip. “We also need to find Lisa. If she’s still around. She might be dead or in Ibiza for all we know.”
“That brings me to the next phase. I need to go back to the Sailing Club to search through Stacey’s records.”
I bolt upright, forgetting the duvet. It falls to my waist. “Absolutely not.”
His eyes drop to my bare chest for a fraction of a second before returning to my face. “It’s the only way.”
“It’s a crime scene, Logan. The Garda will be all over it.”
“They’ve processed it. Connor says the hardware is still there, favor owed, but not for long. I need to get in tonight.”
I scramble for the towel, wrapping it back around me. My heart hammers against my ribs. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I worked there. I know the layout. I know where Stacey kept her files.”
“Nuala—”
“Don’t.” I stand, facing him. “Don’t tell me to stay here like a good little girl while you risk your neck. I’m done hiding.”
His jaw clenches. I watch the muscle tick, see the war happening behind those blue eyes. He wants to argue. Wants to lock me in this room and throw away the key.
“Fine,” he says finally. “But you do exactly what I say. No arguments. No heroics.”
We stare at each other.
“What? Just like that?”
He climbs off the bed and looms over me.
“I want to cage you, Nuala. I want to lock you up and keep you safe where no one but me can find you. But I know that will only make you resent me, and I don’t want you to hate me.
I want you to be your own person, but I also need you alive.
If you are coming, you are armed, even if you don’t know how to shoot, and you will do exactly what I say.
If I say shoot to kill, you do it and fuck your conscience.
Can you do that?” He grips my chin, forcing me to look at him as I drop my gaze.
“Can you get blood on your hands to keep yourself alive?”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. His eyes bore into mine, demanding an answer I’m not sure I can give. Can I? Can I actually pull a trigger and watch someone die?
The image flashes through my mind—the woman in the bathroom, her gray skin, the ligature marks around her throat. Someone killed her without hesitation. Someone massacred fifty-three people without blinking.
“I can. If it’s them or me…” I cup his face, “… or you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“This works both ways, Logan.”
His thumb brushes my lower lip.
A knock at the door breaks the moment. Logan releases me and moves to answer it. A woman in her fifties wheels in a cart laden with covered dishes. She doesn’t make eye contact with either of us, just arranges the food on the small table near the window, and leaves without a word.
“Eat,” Logan says, gesturing to the table. “We leave in an hour.”
The smell of whatever’s under those silver domes makes my mouth water. I lift the first one to reveal a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables, and creamy mashed potatoes.
Getting dressed can wait. I tuck in with an appreciative moan, thinking I could get used to this.
But that is dangerous thinking, and we are in enough danger as it is.
I shovel another forkful of steak into my mouth, savoring the way it practically melts on my tongue. Logan watches me from across the table, his own plate untouched.
“You need to eat too,” I say around a mouthful of potato.
“I will.” But he doesn’t move. His eyes track every bite I take, like he’s memorizing the sight of me eating his uncle’s food in his uncle’s house.
“Stop staring. It’s weird.”
“I’m making sure you finish.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re a woman who goes days without proper meals.” His tone is matter-of-fact, not pitying, which is the only reason I don’t throw something at him.
I finish the steak and move on to the vegetables. They’re perfectly seasoned, nothing like the sad, wilted things I usually buy reduced from the supermarket. My stomach is full for the second time today—a luxury I’m not used to.
When I’m done, I push the plate away and lean back in the chair. “Happy?”
“Getting there.” He finally picks up his fork. “Go get dressed.”
I rise and move to the bathroom, staring at the now dry clothes on the radiator. With a sigh, I put them on and run my fingers through my tangled hair, trying to work out the worst of the knots. It’s useless without a brush, so I settle for pulling it into a messy bun on top of my head.
When I emerge, Logan’s finished eating.
“Here.” He holds out a black hoodie. “Put this on over your shirt.”
I take it without argument. The fabric is soft and expensive. It swallows me whole when I pull it on, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips.
“Better,” he says, studying me. “Pull the hood up when we get there.”
“Won’t that make us look suspicious?”
“Everyone looks suspicious at a crime scene in the middle of the night.” He moves to the door, checking his gun before tucking it into the back of his pants. “Ready?”
No. Absolutely not. I’m about to break into a place where fifty-three people died. Where I nearly died. Where the Garda could catch us at any moment.
“Ready,” I lie.
We slip out of the guest room, Logan’s hand at the small of my back, guiding me to the stairs.
Connor appears as we reach the bottom. His eyes flick to me, then to Logan. “The window’s closing. Garda will clear the hardware by morning.”
“We’ll be as quick as we can.”
Connor’s gaze settles on me. I force myself not to look away, even though every instinct screams at me to hide behind Logan. “You sure you want to go back there, Ms. Quinn?”
My throat tightens. The honest answer is no. But I lift my chin. “I’m sure.”
Something shifts in his expression—respect, maybe, or the acknowledgment that I’m not backing down. “Don’t get caught. I don’t have enough favors to pull you both out of a holding cell.”
“We won’t,” Logan says.
Connor steps aside, letting us pass. I feel his eyes on my back as we cross the foyer. The cold night air hits me when Logan opens the door, stealing my breath. Logan leads me to the SUV we traveled over in.
“Another car,” I mutter.
Logan grins. “At least I can fit into this one.”
I roll my eyes and climb into the passenger seat. The leather is cold against my thighs, even through my leggings. Logan slides behind the wheel, the engine purring to life with barely a sound.
The drive back into the city is quiet. I watch the streetlights flash past, my stomach churning despite the full meal. I’m going back. Back to the place where I saw people dead on the floor. Where I hid in a bathroom while bullets tore through the club.
“You’re shaking,” Logan says.
I look down. My hands tremble in my lap. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine.”
“Yes, I do.” I clench my fists, trying to still them. “If I fall apart now, I won’t be able to do this.”
He reaches over, covering my fist with his hand. The warmth grounds me. “If it’s too much, tell me. We’ll figure something else out.”
“There is no something else. You said it yourself—the window’s closing.”
He doesn’t argue. His thumb traces circles on my knuckle, a steady rhythm that slowly eases the shaking. I focus on that sensation, letting it anchor me.
The familiar streets of Dublin appear. My chest tightens as we get closer.
The Sailing Club looms ahead, dark and lifeless. Yellow police tape crisscrosses the entrance, stark against the brick facade. My stomach lurches.
Logan parks on a side street, killing the lights. “We go in through the back. Service entrance.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. The building looks menacing in the darkness.
Logan pops open the glove box and reaches in. He pulls out a gun and hands it to me. He presses my thumb over a switch. “This is the safety. You need to flick it off before you can shoot.”
I nod mechanically, feeling ridiculous as I shove it in the back of my leggings and cover it with the hoodie.
We slip out of the SUV. The cold bites through the hoodie. Logan pulls my hood up, tugging it low over my face. His hand finds mine, squeezing once before letting go.
We move quickly, keeping to the shadows. My heart pounds so loud I’m certain someone will hear it. The alley behind the club is pitch black. Logan approaches the service door, pulling out something small and metal from his pocket.
“Lock picks?” I whisper.
“Something like that.” He works quickly, his movements practiced. The lock clicks.
The door swings open on silent hinges. Darkness greets us, thick and oppressive. Logan pulls out his phone, using the flashlight to light our path. I follow close behind, my breathing shallow.
The corridor is narrow, walls painted industrial gray. We pass the kitchen. Pots and pans sit abandoned on the counters, and a half-chopped onion, brown and wilted, is still on a cutting board.
We emerge into the bar area, and my stomach flips. It’s clear of all the dead bodies, but I can still see it in my mind’s eye. “This way,” I murmur, forcing myself to move toward Stacey’s office.
The door to Stacey’s office stands ajar. Logan pushes it open with his foot, his flashlight sweeping across the small space. Her desk is cluttered with paperwork, a cold cup of coffee sitting on a stack of invoices. Everything looks normal, frozen in time like she just stepped out for a moment.
Except she didn’t. She’s dead. Massacred along with everyone else.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and move to the desk where the PC still sits. I flick it on. The screen flickers to life, casting a pale blue glow across the office. My hands hover over the keyboard, suddenly uncertain. What am I even looking for?
“Lisa’s last name,” Logan says, reading my mind. He moves behind me, his presence solid at my back. “Employee records. Stacey would’ve kept them somewhere.”
I click through folders, my eyes scanning file names. Invoices. Schedules. Suppliers. My heart hammers as I open the HR folder.
I click it open. A spreadsheet loads, rows of names and details filling the screen. I scroll down, searching for Lisa.
“There,” Logan says, pointing. “Lisa Brennan.”
I click on her file. Her address is listed, not far from my flat. “That’s near me,” I murmur.
“Then you can direct us.” He pulls out his keys and shoves the USB drive hanging from the chain into the slot. “Copy everything.”
I click and drag all the files into the USB drive, and then we wait as it copies.
“This is taking too long,” I mutter.
“It takes as long as it takes,” Logan says calmly.
I ignore him. The progress bar inches forward with agonizing slowness. Thirty percent. Forty. Each second feels like an eternity. I tap my fingers against the desk, unable to stop the nervous energy coursing through me.
“Stop fidgeting,” Logan murmurs.
“I’m not—” A sound echoes from somewhere in the building. I freeze, my hand hovering over the keyboard. “Did you hear that?”
Logan’s entire body goes rigid. His hand moves to the gun at his back. “Stay here.”
“Like hell—”
He presses a finger to my lips, silencing me. The gesture is possessive, commanding. I want to argue, but the look in his eyes stops me cold.
He moves to the door, peering into the darkness beyond. I turn back to the screen. Sixty percent.
Come on, come on.
Another sound. Closer this time. Footsteps on the wooden floor of the bar area.
My heart slams against my ribs. The Garda? Or someone else?
Logan pulls his gun, his movements fluid and practiced. He positions himself beside the doorframe, ready to fire.
Seventy percent.
The footsteps grow louder. Whoever it is isn’t trying to be quiet anymore.
“Logan,” I whisper.
He holds up a hand. Wait.
Eighty percent. My palms sweat against the keyboard. I force myself to keep watching the screen instead of the door. If I look at the door, I’ll panic.
Ninety percent.
“Don’t move,” Logan’s voice cuts through the tension.
I look up to see a figure in the doorway and gasp in shock.