3. Orla
ORLA
I arrive at Kavanagh Import & Export at seven forty-five. The security guard checks my newly issued ID badge before waving me through.
"The executive floor is restricted access," he says, handing me a temporary keycard. "This will get you to the twelfth floor until Mr. Kavanagh's assistant programs your permanent credentials."
I accept the card with a polite smile. "Thanks. That would be me. I'm his new assistant."
He looks at me again. "Right. Good luck, Ms. Kelly."
The elevator requires both the keycard and a numeric code. I memorize the four digits as the guard punches them in. Every tiny piece of information is important.
Cillian Kavanagh's office occupies the corner section of the twelfth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Boston Harbor on one side, downtown skyline on the other. It’s impressive, if obnoxious wealth is your thing.
"Ms. Kelly." Cillian appears in his doorway. Today's suit is navy, his tie crisp. "Come in. We'll get started."
Mahogany desk. Leather chairs. Abstract art that costs more than my apartment. It reeks of money, and the blood spilled to get it.
"My schedule for today," he says, handing me a tablet. "Your desk is outside. Computer access is set up with basic permissions. Julie from IT will expand those as needed."
I scan over the schedule. "I see you have an eight-thirty meeting with Shipping Operations. Would you like coffee before they arrive?"
"Black, no sugar." He watches me. "You'll find the kitchen down the hall. Badge access. Mugs are in the cabinet above the machine."
I nod and turn to leave when an older woman enters without knocking. Blonde, elegant, wearing designer clothes. Her eyes—the same blue as Cillian's—judging me in one sweep.
Cillian stands immediately. "Mother. I didn't expect you this morning."
Mother. Niamh Kavanagh. I keep a straight face while noting details. Diamond wedding ring. Emerald on right hand. Chanel perfume. A woman who understands power.
"Can't a mother surprise her son?" She smiles with cold eyes. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"
"Orla Kelly, my new assistant," Cillian says. "Orla, my mother, Niamh Kavanagh."
I extend my hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kavanagh. Hopefully you’ll last longer than the last one."
Her handshake is firm. "How long have you worked in executive support, Ms. Kelly?"
"Four years," I reply. "Most recently at Beacon Financial."
"Hmm." She turns to Cillian. "Your father expects you to join us for dinner on Sunday. We’re starting early, three o'clock."
"I have plans—" he begins.
"Cancel them." She leaves no room for argument. "Bring Ms. Kelly as well. She should meet the family if she's managing your schedule."
My pulse jumps. The Kavanagh family home. Access I hadn't expected so soon.
"That won't be necessary," Cillian says.
"I insist." Niamh smiles at me. "Sunday at three, Ms. Kelly. Don't be late."
She leaves as abruptly as she arrived. I stand still, thinking about the possibilities having them all in one room.
Cillian sighs. "My mother enjoys bossing my staff around. You're not obligated to attend."
"I don't mind," I say. "You made it clear that I’d be expected to work outside of office hours."
He nods, attention shifting to his computer. "The coffee, please. Then tackle the filing disaster my previous assistant left."
***
The filing cabinets in the storage room overflow with disorganized papers. Shipping manifests. Contracts. Personnel files. Financial statements. A treasure trove of potential evidence. But it is complete and utter chaos.
"My predecessor had an unusual organization system," I say when Cillian checks on me an hour later.
"Karen had no system at all." He surveys the papers. "I need these organized by department, then chronologically. Priority on anything from the past eighteen months."
I nod, noting the timeline. "Any specific files you might need immediate access to?"
"South American shipping contracts. We have a situation with a Brazilian partner that?—"
The office door bangs open. A man strides in—younger than Cillian, similar features but harder edges. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, but while Cillian projects control, this man radiates raw energy.
Eamon Kavanagh. The enforcer.
"We have a problem," he announces, ignoring my presence.
Cillian's jaw tightens. "I have a meeting in five minutes."
"Cancel it." Eamon moves around the office. "We caught one of the night crew stealing from the Colombian shipment. The idiot took product from box three."
My hands continue sorting papers while my brain records every word they say. Box three. Colombian shipment. Product.
"How much?" Cillian asks.
"Two kilos. Street value is about fifty grand." Eamon stops, noticing me for the first time. His eyes narrow. "Who's she?"
"My new assistant." Cillian keeps his tone even. "Orla, this is my brother Eamon. Eamon, Orla Kelly."
I nod politely. Eamon stares at me. "You look familiar."
My heart rate increases, but I maintain my calm. "I don't think we've met."
"Where's the thief now?" Cillian asks, pulling Eamon's attention away from me.
"At the warehouse. What do you want me to do with him?"
Cillian glances at me, then at his watch. "I'll handle it after my meeting. Keep him there."
"He saw what was in the boxes, Cillian."
"I said I'll handle it." Cillian's voice drops. "Wait in my office. Orla, please finish the filing."
I retreat to the storage room, my mind racing. Drug shipment? Stolen product. A worker who "saw what was in the boxes." Whatever he saw was worth killing him over.
***
At six thirty, the executive floor empties.
Only the night security guard stays behind, stationed by the elevators.
I volunteered to stay late, I said I wanted to finish fixing the filing disaster so I could start fresh tomorrow.
Cillian approved, his mind otherwise occupied after a closed-door meeting with Eamon.
I've spent the day making a mental map of the security cameras. Four in the main office area. Two covering the emergency exits. Only one blind spot near the supply closet. The guard makes his rounds every thirty minutes.
I wait until he leaves for his round. My phone camera makes no sound as I photograph specific documents—shipping manifests from March 2015, the month my father died. Colombian imports. Special handling instructions for "box three" shipments.
A name catches my eye on a personnel file. James Marias, Dock Supervisor. The same Marais from Eamon's story. The same man who caught the thief today.
I photograph his employment record, then return everything to the folders. Three minutes until the guard is back.
The elevator dings just as I settle back at my desk, the picture of a dedicated assistant working late. The guard nods as he passes me.
In my purse, my phone now holds the first pieces of evidence. It’s not enough yet, but it is a start. Seven years after my father's murder, I am inside the enemy’s house.