It's not for money, either.
Connolly is always broke.
That leaves only two options—information or insurance.
I sit at the window, knees tucked under my chin, one hand flat on my stomach.
The sky is so black it's blue, and the only light is the intermittent blink from the security towers at the back gate.
I trace their pattern, looking for any gap or hesitation, but the rotation is perfect.
Ruairí has trained them well.
I close my eyes and try to reconstruct the night my father died.
The phone call, the shout from the kitchen, the single gunshot muffled by the sound of the radio playing some old, soft song.
I see the blood on the tile, the way itpooled with no respect for grout lines or boundaries.
I see the faces of the men who came after—the clean-up crew, the council, even the priest who tried to pretend he didn't know what happened.
What I can't see, no matter how hard I try, is who pulled the trigger.
It doesn't matter.
The bullet is just the last move in a game that started years before.
What matters is the why.
I stand and walk the length of the window, counting the panes, then the guards outside, then the hours left until dawn.
The pregnancy is a problem, but it's also an opportunity.
I run the numbers again—three months until it shows, if I'm careful.
Two months before someone notices I'm not drinking at dinner.
Less than a week before the Connolly meeting goes from rumor to reality.
I consider my options.
Telling Ruairí is an eventuality, but not until he himself tells me what is going on.
These measly freedoms, the little talks we have, all of it is veiled in obscurity and the kind of half-truths that make no difference in the context of the real war.
This is about my family, my father,mylegacy too.
If Ruairí wants a Crowley heir, he can have one.
But he should know by now—nothing born of Donnelly blood is ever so easy to control.
I stand, stretch the ache out of my legs, and make the bed.
13
RUAIRÍ
There's an hour of the night that belongs to no one.
