Chapter 8
Aidan
The road back from the coast is a series of tight bends and slick asphalt. I keep the white hatchback at a steady, aggressive pace. The wipers fight the rain. My hands grip the wheel. I check the rear-view mirror every thirty seconds. Empty. For now.
Alanna Colthurst. The name sits in my head like a problem I haven’t solved yet. If the grandmother is involved, the calculus changes. The Colthursts don’t move for sentiment. They move for territory. If she was in that house, she was looking for the same leverage we just took.
I glance at the mirror again. Dervla looks out the window. She is too still. That stillness is a liability I can’t afford. She is processing the fact that her own blood might be the predator in this scenario.
The car hits a pothole. I steady the wheel. We are twenty minutes out. Twenty minutes until we find out if we hold the keys to the kingdom or if we just signed our death warrants. I don’t plan on dying today. I plan on winning. Anything else is not an option.
“Aren’t we swapping cars?” Dervla asks as we leave Athlone behind us.
“No. We need to get home more than we need to be covert,” I state.
“Fair enough,” she says and shakes her head. “We forget about my grandmother for now. It’s a loose thread that we can pull and pull, and it’s a distraction. If anything on the drive points to her, it’s a different story. She might’ve just been there to evaluate the house to sell it, or something.”
“Isn’t it yours?” Declan asks.
I see the look she gives him from the rearview and snicker. “Don’t think that matters. But I agree. We could be chasing Alanna and end up on a wild goose chase that leads to nowhere, and we’ve wasted time. It’s not great that she showed up, but it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s sinister.”
“Yeah,” Dervla says. “You’re right. We have to focus on what we know.”
The rain turns into a deluge as we hit the outskirts of the campus. I push the hatchback harder, the engine whining in protest. I don’t care about the car. I care about the two pieces of plastic in Dervla’s pocket that potentially have the power to burn St. Augustine’s to the ground.
We pull into the driveway a minute later. I don’t wait for the engine to die before I’m out. The air is cold and smells of wet stone and exhaust.
Dervla opens up the front door, and we pile in, closing it behind us and making sure it’s deadbolted before we move upstairs to Dervla’s room.
She grabs her laptop and places it on the desk before pulling out the decoder and the drive.
“The decoder needs power,” she murmurs, plugging her phone charger into the micro USB slot and waiting a beat.
A small red light flashes in the corner, and we wait.
“This could take ages,” she says, placing it carefully on the desk.
She’s right, but she’s also stalling.
“We give it twenty minutes, and then we try it,” I decide, giving her time to process what happened, but also enough time to get some charge on a device that has been lying dormant for God knows how long.
“Do you need anything?” Declan asks her.
She shakes her head, eyes on the prize.
The three of us leave, and Cormac instantly says, “I need a fucking drink.”
I follow Cormac toward the kitchen. My hand aches from the fight in the courtyard, a sharp reminder that Roisin is still lurking.
Declan stays near the bottom of the stairs.
I reach the counter and grab a glass. Cormac pours a heavy measure of whiskey and pushes the bottle toward me.
I take it. I swallow the liquid and feel the heat in my throat.
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Then we see what Cillian Callaghan died to protect.”
Cormac grunts. He has a bruise blooming along his jaw. “If it is just bank statements, I am going to find a way to kill him again.”
“I share that sentiment,” I say.
Cormac’s phone buzzes, and it brings Declan into the kitchen as Cormac glares at it and places it on the kitchen table. “Unknown number.”
“Answer it on speaker,” I instruct.
Cormac swipes the screen. The silence in the kitchen is heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge.
“Mr Byrne,” the voice says.
Cormac nods to say it’s the same man from last night.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Please don’t leave university grounds again, Mr Byrne.”
“I can go where I please. You have no say.”
“Wrong. I have every say.”
“Who are you?” I say, moving closer.
“Mr O’Connell,” the man says. “If I wanted to talk to you, I would’ve called you.”
“Ouch,” Cormac mutters, trying not to laugh.
I finish my whiskey in one swallow. I ignore the insult. This man thinks he owns the narrative. He is wrong.
“We don’t take orders from ghosts,” I say.
“You will take them from me,” the man says. “The alternative is a shallow grave. Stay on campus. Protect the girl. The Board is circling.”
The line goes dead.
Cormac stares at the phone. “He is a prick.”
“He is a prick with eyes on our front door,” I reply.
I set the glass on the counter. Twenty minutes have passed.
I do not care about the mystery man right now.
I care about the data. We head upstairs.
The carpet silences our boots. I lead the way into Dervla’s room.
She has not moved. She sits in front of the laptop screen.
The red light on the decoder is still flashing red, but it will have to do.
She looks at me.
I move behind her. Declan and Cormac flank the desk. I put my hand on the back of her chair.
“Plug it in,” I say.
Dervla picks up the hard drive. She connects it to the decoder. The light starts flashing green quickly.
“Let’s just hope it has enough charge to finish decoding it,” I mutter.
We stare at it for another few moments, and then it stops flashing.
Dervla pulls the hard drive out and plugs it into the laptop.
“Ready or not,” I murmur and lean on the back of her chair as she breathes out slowly.