"I can afford it."
She turns.
The fire casts her features in harsh relief—cheekbones like the prow of a ship, mouth already set for the next line.
She holds her ground.
"Then pay," she says.
I close the gap between us.
I do not raise my voice.
I do not touch her.
I say, "Why are you here?"
She does not flinch.
"Because you brought me. Because you needed the city to see me at your table. Because the Donnellys still scare you, even when you're putting them to bed."
I take her wrist, just above the pulse.
The skin is thin, the veins delicate, but the muscle beneath is tense and ready.
I squeeze.
Her eyes go wide for a half second, then narrow again.
"If you wanted a hostage, you would have sent me to the cottage in Arklow," she says.
"You want something else."
I pull her closer.
"I want to know who you are."
Her voice drops to a whisper.
"No one ever does."
I let go.
She stands very still, the only movement the rise and fall of her chest.
I watch her for a long minute, then say,
"You're not what I expected."
She shrugs.
"No one is."
I step away, sit on the edge of the bed.
The mattress is new.
The sheets are cold.
