KEIRA
The next day, I take my hour at sunrise, beginning in the service corridor.
The window above the delivery hatch is just wide enough for my nose and one eye.
Outside, a van the color of nicotine stains idles with the lights off, one tire flat enough to sag into the mud.
The bakery logo is a faded sticker—a sheaf of wheat and a child with outstretched arms.
No one ever ordered the van to be painted over.
Ruairí's people don't see the point in appearances, not out here.
I time the delivery down to the second.
The van door slides open.
The supplier steps out, all bulk and navy windbreaker, the local accent thick enough to butter a tray of scones.
The man is new, or at least new to the job, which means the route is vulnerable for a week or two before it sets in.
He grunts as he hoists the first sack of flour, balancing it against his chest like a child that might squirm or bite, then trundles up the ramp to the hatch.
My hands are ready before he even knocks.
I have the kitchen clipboard—today's orders clipped to the top, yesterday's inventory already signed off—and the stub of pencil sharpened to a needle.
When I open the hatch, the cold hits me like a reprimand, but I smile with my teeth.
"Delivery's early," I say.
He shrugs.
"Roadworks at the canal. Missed the backup."
I sign the invoice with the blunt end of the pencil and hand it back, my left hand moving without hesitation, right hand palming the folded note.
He isn't looking.
No one ever is.
I wedge the note between the triplicate sheets, sandwiched tight, and slide it into the creased clear envelope that sits on top of the next flour sack.
There's a science to this.
Weight on the bottom, documentation on the top.
The man's hands are rough, fingers squared off, nails clean but not recently.
He does not check the order.
He just nods and sets the flour sack down on the steel trolley.
Inside the note, the question is simple, couched in handwriting that is not mine.
Was the Wexford shell company ever under a Donnelly alias before the transition?
Please confirm, N. K.
