16. Ronan
Ronan
“We’ve got names now.” Finn’s voice is flat through the phone, the tone he uses when delivering intel he knows will detonate. “Viper’s people traced six women listed as ‘spiritual transfers’ to sister communities in Indiana and Missouri. None of them arrived. The communities don’t exist.”
I grip my pen hard enough that the metal clip bites into my palm. “How many total?”
“Confirmed missing—six. Suspected—another eleven, going back five years. Buyers are anonymous, but Viper’s team pulled financial breadcrumbs from a burner network routed through—”
“The land lease is in our name, Finn.” The pen rolls between my fingers. “If this breaks, if a single journalist or fed connects the O’Rourke family to a trafficking ring operating on our property—”
“I know.”
“Do you?” I stop. Breathe. The pen drops to the desk. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t aimed at you.”
A pause. “Accepted. You want me to loop in the legal team?”
“Not yet. Not until Viper has enough to move. If lawyers start circling, Buford will smell it. He’ll destroy the evidence and those women will disappear permanently.” I push back from my desk and rake both hands through my hair. “Keep me updated. Hourly if necessary.”
“Copy.”
I hang up and stare at the phone screen. No FaceTimes from Prudence.
She’s been off. Two days now, possibly three. The calls have dropped from four or five a day to one or two, and the last few were shorter, her smile thinner. She’s started asking permission again—May I use the shower? May I eat a piece of fruit?—habits she’d shed in the first week.
I need to be patient. Maybe I need to get her to a professional.
I pocket the phone, grab my jacket, and head home to change before meeting Cillian.
The penthouse is quiet when I step off the elevator. Prudence stands at the kitchen counter, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea she isn’t drinking. Her posture has reverted—shoulders drawn up, spine curved inward, making herself smaller.
I cross to her and press my lips to her forehead. “Hey, baby. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Might be late for dinner.” I’m frustrated, I know it and I’m doing a poor job of hiding it.
She looks up. Her brown eyes search my face, and whatever she finds there makes her flinch—small, quick, covered immediately.
“Is everything alright?” she asks.
“Fine.”
The word is clipped. I hear it land wrong. I should stop. Sit down. Talk to her. But I feel like I’m failing her. If I was doing things right, she’d be progressing, not regressing.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I squeeze her shoulder, grab a fresh shirt from the closet, and change in the bedroom. The whole stop takes under ten minutes.
When I pass through the kitchen again, she hasn’t moved. The tea sits untouched, and her eyes track me to the elevator with a look I can’t parse.
The elevator doors close between us.