Chapter 33 #2
"Callum." His jaw tightened. I waited until he met my gaze.
"You're here." That didn't erase anything, and it wasn't meant to. His eyes moved back toward Finn's note.
"I missed everything."
"You missed years."
"Aye."
"That's real." He looked at me, perhaps expecting me to soften it. I didn't.
"You lost time with people who were still here because you didn't know how to stay connected after what happened.
You hurt Eamon and Niamh. You hurt yourself.
You probably hurt Brigid more than she'll admit because she'd rather threaten you with kitchen equipment than feelings.
" A faint breath of laughter escaped him.
"But none of that changes what Finn wrote. He believed you'd come back because that was the brother he knew."
Irish stared at the page. After several seconds, he folded it carefully along its original crease and returned it to the envelope.
He didn't put the envelope away. He left it beside his hand.
The first oilskin packet contained copies of documents already represented in Declan's archive, though some were cleaner originals rather than duplicates: transfer lists, property names, medical invoices, and internal memoranda connecting the old Saint Brigid's Residential Trust to Covenant predecessors in England and Ireland.
The second packet was different. Inside were architectural photographs and project proposals.
I recognized one of the buildings immediately.
"Blackridge Hall." Irish looked toward me.
"You sure?"
"I've spent enough hours staring at that place to identify it from a chimney."
Several photographs showed the estate before the modern alterations that concealed residential sections.
Others showed work in progress, including framing around the hidden corridor Isla had eventually discovered.
Declan had known about Blackridge, or at least known enough to photograph it.
A note clipped to one image carried his handwriting.
Same consultant model. Historic restoration grants provide access without public scrutiny.
Check Scotland expansion. My attention sharpened.
"Scotland?" Irish leaned closer. Another page contained a list of companies. One was Calder Heritage. The same name I'd found among Thistle & Stone's old project paperwork. My stomach dropped.
"Callum." He heard it immediately.
"What?" I pointed.
"Calder Heritage approached us." His expression changed.
"Blackridge?"
"Not directly. They referred two historic residential projects to Thistle & Stone about eighteen months ago. We turned one down because the schedule was ridiculous. The other never progressed beyond preliminary drawings."
"Location?"
"Scotland." Irish reached for his phone. I stopped him.
"Wait." His gaze snapped toward mine.
"Why?"
Because my thoughts were moving too quickly.
Because Isla and I had spent years building Thistle & Stone into something that belonged to us, and suddenly a name sitting inside Declan O'Brien's hidden evidence was reaching into that business too.
I looked through the remaining pages until I found it: a development proposal outside Edinburgh for a large nineteenth-century estate converted into charitable residential accommodation.
It wasn't one of our completed jobs, but it was one we'd assessed. My pulse quickened.
"I walked this property." Irish went completely still.
"When?"
"Last year."
"Were you alone?"
"First visit, yes." His expression changed instantly. I recognized the fear before it became anger.
"Skye."
"No."
"You were inside an Order-linked—"
"We don't know that."
"Da had it in this case."
"Fifteen years ago."
"Calder Heritage approached your company."
"Yes."
"And you went alone."
"Before I knew any of this existed." His chair pushed back as he stood. The movement wasn't violent, but the emotion beneath it was. I stood too.
"Don't." His jaw tightened.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were about to decide I can't go near my own project files without armed protection."
"That's not unreasonable."
"There it is."
"What?"
"The part where fear becomes management."
Irish stared at me, and I knew immediately this conversation was different from the earlier ones, not because he had stopped learning but because loving someone did not permanently cure old instincts.
I wasn't immune either. The idea that Thistle & Stone had been brushed by the Order long before Isla disappeared had frightened me badly enough that part of me wanted Irish to take control precisely because surrendering responsibility would be easier than sitting with uncertainty.
I hated that realization. So I forced myself to slow down.
"I'm scared too." His expression shifted. That stopped the argument before it hardened. I touched the edge of the proposal.
"This isn't just your past anymore. It might have been around my business before we knew what to look for."
"Aye."
"And I don't want to react by handing you all the decisions because you're better at threats."
"Better?"
"More experienced."
"Thank you."
"Not a compliment." His mouth almost moved. I continued.
"Isla and I need to review every historic residential project we've touched. Every referral. Every consultant. Every charitable client. That's my responsibility." Irish's shoulders tightened.
"And if one is active?"