There's a moment—caught at 17:02, timestamped and burned into the chip—when she stands in the atrium, eyesfixed on the front door.
It's not a wistful look, not even a calculating one.
It's the look of someone rehearsing the route from memory, knowing she might need it one day, or maybe just hoping someone is coming through it.
I watch it three times, looking for a tell.
There isn't one.
I set the tablet aside, flex my hand to shake out the ache.
I think about the wedding, the way she stood at the altar like she was bracing for a firing squad, the dry crack in her voice when she said yes.
The marriage was always a deal—my name, her debts, the city split down the river and both halves pretending to be happy about it.
It worked better than anyone thought it would, at first.
But lately… lately, I'm not sure what I want.
The council says she's an asset, a trophy, a proof of concept that the Crowleys can take the old blood and do something useful with it.
But the longer she's here, the less I want her to be a chess piece.
The more I want her to stay, not because it's strategic, but because she makes the house feel alive in a way the rest of the city never could.
I'm still thinking about this, the glass of whiskey untouched on the desk, when Fiachra walks in.
He's wearing yesterday's shirt and a look that means trouble.
Natural, given that he is also awake at this ungodly hour.
He doesn't bother with small talk.
"We have a problem."
I lift an eyebrow.
"Just one?"
He sits, phone in hand, already loaded with whatever report he's about to dump on me.
"Logistics. One of the new hires—woman, early twenties, solid background, nothing flagged—was approached at a bar in Drumcondra. Not a known hangout, but they made her."
"They?"
Fiachra taps the screen, brings up a blurry CCTV still.
"Woman, thirty-five, maybe forty, blonde, Italian shoes. She's not local, but she asked about Keira."
"Directly?"
"Not at first. She started with payroll—said she was running a background check for a second job, wanted to know if our new hire was in good standing. Then she shifted to personal—Is Keira happy? Does she plan to stay? Is there any reason she might want to leave?"
I take the phone, zoom in on the face.
The image is shit, but the posture is perfect—relaxed, calculated, the angle of her body set to put anyone off guard.
"Connolly?"
