18. Cillian
CILLIAN
I slam my office door and pour three fingers of whiskey. My hands shake—rage, not fear. Eamon's words echo in my head from three days ago.
"She's digging into Thomas Nolan's files. That's not random, Cillian."
Thomas fucking Nolan.
The whiskey burns down my throat. I grab my phone.
"Matthews. My office. Now."
He arrives in two minutes. Good.
"I need a full investigation on Orla Kelly," I say. "Everything. Background, financials, phone records. I want to know what she ate for breakfast when she was twelve."
"How deep?"
"Ocean floor deep." I drain the glass. "And Matthews? This stays between us until I say otherwise."
He nods and leaves. I pour another drink.
Three days of waiting. Three days of watching Orla work at her desk, answering her questions, letting her touch me while suspicion eats at my gut like acid.
The first report arrives Tuesday. Bullshit employment history. References who remember her face but nothing else. A background that crumbles when you push.
Wednesday brings phone records. Multiple calls to Detective Fergus Doyle. The same cop who's been sniffing around our business for twenty years.
My blood turns to ice.
Thursday's delivery hits like a sledgehammer. A newspaper clipping. Obituary for Thomas Nolan, accountant for Kavanagh Import & Export. Survived by daughter Orla.
I stare at the photograph. Younger, but unmistakable. The woman who moaned my name in New York. Who let me inside her body while she planned my destruction.
I call my father.
"The accountant's daughter has been in my bed," I tell him without preamble.
Silence. Then: "Which accountant?"
"Thomas Nolan. She's been working for me as Orla Kelly. False identity. Meeting with cops."
"Bring her to my office," he says. "I'll extract what we need to know."
"Don't kill her. Not yet."
"I make no promises."
I hang up and watch Orla through my office window. She types at her computer, efficient as always. Beautiful as always. Lying as always.
My father appears in the main office, casual as Sunday morning.
"Ms. Kelly," he calls. "A word about the Robinson account?"
She follows him, trusting. Why wouldn't she? She's played this game for months.
I activate surveillance and spread the evidence across my desk like a war map. Every lie. Every deception. Every moment she made me believe.
The feed shows my father settling behind his desk. Orla sits across from him, hands folded. Picture of innocence.
"Your aunt in Chicago," my father begins. "Margaret, wasn't it?"
"She moved to Arizona," Orla replies smoothly. "The heat helps her arthritis."
Lies flow from her mouth like water. My father nods, cataloguing each one.
I think of her beneath me in that New York hotel. How she said my name like a prayer. How she fit against me like she was made for it.
All fake. All calculated.
My phone buzzes. Meeting concluding.
I wait outside my father's office, evidence file in hand. When Orla emerges, her step falters the moment she sees me.
Good. Let her be afraid.
"My office," I say. "Now."
She follows without argument. I close the door, turn the lock. The sound seems to echo forever.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"Should I be?"
I place the file on my desk but don't open it yet. "Seven years. That's how long you've been planning this."
Her pupils dilate. Fight or flight kicking in.
"I don't know what?—"
"Don't." I open the file, spread the contents across the wood. "Orla Nolan. Daughter of Thomas Nolan. The accountant who died in his home office seven years ago."
She goes very still. Like prey realizing the predator has found them.
"How long have you known?" she asks.
"Three days. Long enough to understand how thoroughly you've fucked me over." I move closer. "These meetings with Detective Doyle. Building a case?"
Her eyes stay fixed on the photos.
"You infiltrated my life. My business." I lean against the desk. "My bed."
"Your father killed mine."
"And you thought sleeping with me would balance the scales?"
Color floods her cheeks. "That wasn't part of the plan."
"What plan? Destroy the Kavanaghs? Get revenge? Wear a wire to family dinner?"
She flinches at the last part.
"I couldn't do it," she says quietly.
"What?"
"The wire. I was supposed to wear it three days ago. Record you and your family." She meets my eyes. "I couldn't."
Something twists in my chest. "Why not?"
"Because I—" She stops herself. "It doesn't matter now."
My phone rings. I answer it, watching her face.
"Kavanagh."
"Mr. Kavanagh, Detective Doyle here. I believe you've discovered one of my confidential informants."
Orla's eyes widen.
"Your informant," I repeat.
"Ms. Nolan has been gathering evidence about Thomas Nolan's murder. Evidence that points to your lieutenant, not your father. We can work together on this."
"How thoughtful of you."
"Call it mutual benefit. Twenty-four hours to decide."
I hang up.
"Confidential informant," I say to Orla. "Not even a real cop. Just bait they dangled in front of us."
"I came for justice."
"You came for revenge. There's a difference." I press the intercom. "Security to my office."
Her chin lifts. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did. Every day. Every lie. Every time you let me touch you while planning my destruction."
Two guards appear in the doorway.
"Escort Ms. Nolan out of the building," I tell them. "She's no longer employed here."
She walks past me, close enough that I catch her scent. The same perfume that clung to my sheets.
"This isn't over," she says quietly.
"Yes, it is."
I watch her leave, then turn back to the evidence scattered across my desk. Photos of secret meetings. Fake documents. Lies built on lies.
All to destroy the man she let inside her body.
The whiskey bottle calls to me from across the room, but I ignore it. I have work to do.
Starting with finding out exactly what Thomas Nolan discovered that got him killed.