Later, I learn he took a detour through the back lanes to shake a tail, and when a man tried to snatch the parcel, he bit off a piece of the attacker's ear.
The rest of the boys call him "the cannibal" now, which is fine by me.
That night, sleep is as elusive as the moon outside, but I make do with what I get.
Just after dawn, Niamh returns.
She comes without warning, and this time she's not alone.
The two men flanking her are old Crowley associates from the Cork side—Rory Bannon and Jack Kelleher.
My methods have borne fruit.
Neither are loyal in the way dogs are loyal, but they've survived four cleanings and two internal wars, which makes them reliable in the one way that matters—they don't move without cause.
Niamh closes the door behind them and leans back against it like she's guarding the room more than resting.
"We need to talk," she says, voice flat.
21
KEIRA
Igesture toward the table.
We sit.
Rory doesn't bother with pleasantries.
"You know the seat the council offered you?"
I nod.
"It's a coffin with velvet trim."
Jack tosses a file onto the table, a thick one that lands with a thud and meaningful enough that my hands go cold before I even touch it.
"Go on," I say.
Niamh opens it for me.
Page after page of surveillance shots, most of them low-res and gray-toned.
Some recent, some weeks old.
All of me.
Walking through the church basement in Phibsborough.
Standing at the flower stall near the Rotunda.
Slipping through the back door of Aoife's home on a rain-soaked Tuesday, coat pulled tight, no tail I could detect.
"They've been watching you since the wedding," she says.
"The council didn't care at first. They thought it was all decorative. Political. But when Ruairí began asking questions about the Donnelly shell companies and product moving without your knowledge, when you started moving the message network again…"
"They got nervous," I finish.
