14. Cillian
CILLIAN
I spot the pattern during my Monday security scan, three days after my father's birthday celebration. Every week, I review access logs - a habit that catches problems early. The IT report shows unusual files being pulled in our archived accounting records.
"These all trace back to Ms. Kelly," Wagner says.
"How long has this been happening?" I ask.
"Six weeks. Started out broad, then she narrowed it to specific subsidiaries from 2014-2015."
I nod at Wagner to go. Not random searching – a very targeted investigation of specific years and accounts. The dates match up to when we made some major financial adjustments. Restructured assets, and trusts none of the accounts are red flags if I scan over them.
I deep dive into the information she has been looking at.
Orla's digital pathway cuts through our archives with a singular purpose.
South Harbor Holdings. Emerald Shipping Logistics.
Cormorant Enterprises. All shell companies for moving money from the family business into the mainstream.
All of them with accounting ‘adjustments’ we made.
All of the companies my father had assigned to Thomas Nolan.
The name finally clicks in my mind. Our accountant, he died in 2015. One of only a few outsiders we ever trusted with sensitive work. My father liked him, and by the names of the accounts he managed, he had faith in his ability to keep secrets and do his job.
I pull up his old personnel file. Thomas Nolan, 48, survived by a daughter. Died March 8, 2015. Orla's focus on these exact dates can't be coincidence. I don’t believe in those.
Those quarterly reports contain transfer authorizations that we need to stay buried. I use my security code to access the restricted files. The March 2015 transfers grab my attention - they all have Eamon's signature on them. My brother hates paperwork. I have never seen him sign anything.
Three Cayman transfers, processed only days before Nolan died.
The timing alone raises my suspicions. When Nolan died we all presumed it was a threat, a message from our rivals and nothing more.
But my brothers signature, the fact that someone is digging into that short time frame—it doesn’t sit quite right.
My father was running things then, I didn’t have access to all the information.
I was getting my degree and making lofty plans.
A knock at my door interrupts my racing thoughts.
"Come in," I say.
Orla walks in. "The Jensen revisions you wanted me to do."
I watch her as she puts them down. She is calm and collected—still has no idea that I know she’s a fucking traitorous rat. Either she really is hiding nothing or she hides everything well.
"Thanks. How's the archive reorganization going?"
"On track. I've fixed the 2013-2015 files and out them in the new system. Much easier to find things now. That we have technology not brown folders piled to the roof."
She mentions that exact period of time. I make a mental note, that si where she chose to start her filing project.
"You didn’t need to do the years prior?" I say.
Her pause lasts a fraction of a second.
"Prior to that we don’t need to keep the records by law, so they can stay a mess." she answers. "I doubt the IRS will go back to the stone age if they ever do audit us."
It sounds legitimate. Any assistant might have done the same thing. But my gut says it is more than that, she is poking at 2015 for a reason, but what?
"I value your attention to detail," I say. "Show me what you've done."
We walk to the archives, and I watch how she moves among the files. She knows our system too well for the short time she has been here.
"These subsidiary accounts use different reporting methods," she explains, pulling South Harbor Holdings files - the exact company from her digital searches.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Quarterly reports don't match up to the yearly totals. Most companies have small variances, but yours usually match perfectly. These have manual adjustments, journals, corrections."
She found the exact discrepancies we created to move funds discreetly. Knowledge that an employee shouldn’t have—secrets she shouldn’t know.
"That goes beyond organizing files," I say.
Her hands shakes. "My last job included identifying errors and discrepancies. I notice patterns."
I take the folder and look at her notes. She notices far to fucking much.
"You have audited these companies very carefully."
"They had the biggest problems," she says, looking straight at me. I know we have a problem, that I am going to have to get rid of her.
Back in my office, I call the head of IT security. "Track Orla Kelly's system access. Every file, every search. Run deeper background checks on her. I have a bad feeling."
Logic points to her being an investigator, possibly even law enforcement. Yet I can't reconcile that idea with the woman who shared my bed, whose touch felt so genuine. Could she really be that good of a liar?
I watch archive room footage from past weeks. Hours of Orla working through files, taking photos with her phone when she thinks no cameras can see her. The same documents linking Eamon to large financial transfers before Nolan died.
Eamon texts.
Moran's crew are poking about at south docks. What must I do with them?
Family matters need my attention, but this security issue can’t exactly be ignored— or left alone. I need to know who she is, what she wants and why my brother was signing bank transfers?
I look again at Nolan's photo. A greying man with green eyes that I am sure I have seen before, he’s familiar but I can’t place the memories.
I decide that a security audit gives me perfect cover for a full investigation without alerting Orla. I need more facts before I confront her.
I close the files and text Eamon.
Keep them entertained. I’ll join you soon.
I need to hit something, anything to get rid of the anger that is building up inside me. I should want to kill her, to get rid of her, but when I see her it just stops and all I can think of his how badly I want to fuck her again.
The files spread across my desk tell a story I don't want to believe. Thomas Nolan's employment records. His daughter's obituary.
I lean back in my chair, studying the evidence my brother Eamon collected overnight. Financial accounts. Archive access logs. Photos of Orla meeting Detective Doyle at Parker Street Café—often.
My door opens without a knock. Eamon barges in, slamming it behind him.
"What are you going to do with her?" he asks, sinking into the chair across from my desk.
I tap the folder containing Orla's real identity. "She's Thomas Nolan's daughter. She has been out for revenge for seven long years."
"Dad's accountant who got himself killed." Eamon's jaw tightens. "The one?—"
"The one you shot, yes." I watch his reaction. "She's building a case for the cops. There is Federal involvement through Detective Doyle."
Eamon processes what I have said, his hands clenching. "What do you want me to do with her?"
"Nothing." I close the file. "She has information we need. She knows how much the feds know. And who else might be involved. For now, we keep our pretty little enemy very close, I will handle her."
"Are you going to interrogate her?"
"I want to extract everything she knows without her even realizing what's happening." I stand, moving to the window. "Confronting her directly gives her the opportunity to lie, or run away. But isolated, comfortable, thinking she's safe?—"
"She might reveal more." Eamon nods. "Where?"
"The beach house. No surveillance except ours. No interruptions. No family asking questions." I turn back to him. "I'll take her away for the weekend. Make it seem romantic."
"Risky move, getting that close to someone you know is hunting you."
"She's already close. Has been for a while." I return to my desk. "The question is whether she's working alone. Is this a personal vendetta or an official investigation."
Eamon shifts in his chair. "And if it's both?"
"Then we handle both." I pick up the photos from the café meeting. "But I need to know everything first.”
"Does she know you know?"
"Not that I can tell, she thinks she is very careful." I doubt she suspects we are on to her.
"So, she feels safe with you."
"For now." I check my watch. "Which gives me an opportunity to use that false sense of security."
Eamon stands. "Do you need backup at the house?"
"No. Too obvious." I don’t want her to get tipped off. "This needs to feel natural. The boss she slept with, making his romantic move on her."
"You think she'll buy that shit?"
I remember New York. The way she lost all control in bed with me. How real it felt despite everything I now know.
"She has feelings for me. That wasn't fake." I lock the files in my desk drawer. "I'll use that weakness to get what I need."
"And after you have the information?"
The question is stuck there between us, what I have to do and what I want to do. After seven years hunting our family, Orla Nolan knows too much to simply walk away alive. I know better than to leave witnesses.
"We'll see what she know," I say. "Then decide what is best for her."
An hour later, I find Orla at her desk, typing reports. She looks up as I approach, offering a small smile, and wonder how fake it is? Wass he ever happy to see me? Was New York fake too?
"Working hard?" I ask.
"Always." She saves her document. "The Richardson contracts need your signature on them by five."
I perch on the edge of her desk, invading her personal space the way I have for weeks. Watching her reaction, seeing every micro-expression.
"I was thinking," I say. "We both need a break after this week's excitement. How about getting away for the weekend?"
Her fingers pause over the keyboard. "Away? With you?"
"My family has a beach house. Private. Quiet. Good place to decompress." I lean closer. "Just the two of us. Fire place, cozy, nice view."
She looks me in the eye, and I search for any sign she suspects my true motives. Instead, I see what looks like genuine excitement at the invitation.
"That sounds wonderful," she says. "When do you want to go?"
"Tonight. We can leave after work, be there by eight." I stand. "We'll cook dinner, walk on the beach, forget about work for forty-eight hours."
"I'd love that." Her smile appears more genuine now. "But I doubt you ever forget about work."
"Perfect. I'll pick you up at six." I start to walk away, then pause. "Orla?"
"Yes?"
"Bring that emerald necklace you wore to the gala. It looks beautiful on you."
Her hand moves unconsciously to her throat. "Of course."
By Sunday night, I'll know exactly who Orla Nolan really is and what threat she poses to my family. The woman who invaded our lives seeking justice will face Kavanagh justice in return.