Niamh reads upside down, never moving her lips.
She glances at Lena, then at me.
"They bought it," she says, voice so flat it might as well be Morse.
"The break. The whole thing. It was perfect."
Lena rolls her eyes, but she's pleased.
She drums her fingers on the table, then glances at the radio as if expecting it to erupt in applause.
"The council thinks you finally came to your senses. That you took what you needed from the Donnellys, then cut loose. It took one morning for them to believe you'd knife your own wife just to get back in the will."
I shrug.
"They're not wrong."
Niamh laughs, quick and dry.
"That's what makes it work."
She moves to the window, peels up the edge of the cardboard, and peers out at the street.
Her reflection is a ghost, barely there, but her eyes flick back to me in the glass.
"Your enemies are exactly where we want them. Hungry, hopeful, and not half as clever as they think."
I pour water for Lena, then for myself.
The tap still runs brown for a second, but we let it settle.
I hand her the glass.
Her hands are steadier now, but her eyes keep darting to the door as if expecting the past to show up and demand an explanation.
Niamh circles the room, trailing her finger along the edge of the table.
"You should've seen them, Ruairí. The looks. O'Duinn's lot were drooling. They're already running side bets on whether you'll crawl back to Keira in a week or if you'll put a bullet in her before the next council meeting."
I say, "What's the spread?"
Lena barks a laugh.
"Even money on your making herdisappear. Three to one she comes after you with a machete."
I let the smile curl at the edge of my mouth.
"They always underestimate her."
Niamh grins, all teeth.
"That's the genius of it. They think you've gone soft. That the new Crowley is a shell, a pawn for whatever girl gets to your zipper first."
I stiffen, but she's right.
That's the whole play.
Niamh slides into the chair opposite me, folds her arms, and leans in close.
