He breathes out, slow and bitter.
"Then it's drugs."
I ask, "Who's the buyer?"
"Could be Italian," he says finally.
"Could be O'Duinn.Could be Donnelly debt still running its legs. Or it could be you."
I almost laugh, but it doesn't make it past my throat.
"If it were me, I wouldn't be on the phone."
He doesn't apologize, which is why I still use him.
I let the silence thicken between us before I speak again.
"Track the container," I say.
"Pull timestamps. If anything changes, you call me first. If someone touches it, flag it. Do not intercept unless I say."
Another drag.
Another pause.
"If I get clipped watching a crate that doesn't exist?—"
"You won't," I cut in, voice flat.
"They're not ready to get loud. Not yet."
He exhales, and the line clicks dead.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and watch its glow fade to nothing, the room sinking deeper into shadow until only the pressure behind my eyes reminds me I haven't blinked in too long.
With a grunt, I rise and head to the window, still shut.
The lights on the estate perimeter flicker as the wind picks up outside.
The trees in the garden whip back and forth, bare branches rattling against the security glass.
I stand and watch the weather roll in, the cold front sweeping down from the north, the clouds dragging their bellies over the city.
I stare at the glass until my reflection disappears, until all I can see is the night, the lights on the road, and the constant, beautiful risk of being alive in a world that wants you dead.
10
KEIRA
Twenty-four hours later, I sit in the east library once again, and my mind is still a storm.
Ruairí is on my side, or so he'd have me believe.
Then why is he watching me like I might detonate at any point?
And curiouser, why won't he involve me in the business of finding out what my family name is being used to achieve?
Tonight, the rain is nothing but a rumor against the window, the drops more suggestion than sound.
