His hands are large, knuckles scored with fine scars, the kind you get from punching more walls than people.
He pours two glasses, neat, and hands one to me.
Our fingers touch, just for a second.
His skin is hot.
Mine is cold.
The exchange feels less like a toast and more like a transfer of information.
We drink in silence.
The whiskey is peaty, the kind my father used to bribe parish priests with at Christmas.
I savor it, letting the burn settle in my chest before swallowing.
Ruairí drinks his in a single, thoughtful swallow, then sets the glass on the windowsill.
He sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and studies the space between his feet.
I stand near the radiator, arms crossed.
I know he expects me to speak, to initiate some kind of truce or at least a confession of intent.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
The clock downstairs chimes midnight, then falls quiet.
He looks up, meets my gaze head-on.
"You went through my phone."
I do not react.
I could deny it, but the game is past that now.
"I would have, in your place," he says.
"Did you leave it unlocked on purpose?" I ask.
He shrugs.
"If I wanted to hide something, you wouldn't find it."
We sit in the mutual discomfort of too much honesty, the whiskey softening the edges but not erasing the points of impact.
I am not afraid of him, not exactly, but I am aware of the fact that he could end me in a dozen ways, and each would be sanctioned by everyone in the city worth knowing.
He sighs, stands, and walks to the dresser.
He takes out a small black notebook, tosses it onto the bed.
It lands between us.
"You're the only Donnelly left who matters. That means you get the same deal the others got—a list of what you're supposed to know and a list of what you're supposed to forget."
I pick up the notebook.
