Fiachra nods, once.
"Confirmed by two sources. She's running under a fake name, but the accent slips in the recording. We think she's ex-police, maybe a cousin. They're testing the net."
I hand the phone back.
"Did our girl take the bait?"
"No. She played dumb, left after one round. But she flagged the incident. She's sharper than her CV."
I sit back, let the numbers run.
The Connollys don't probe unless they already have a plan in motion.
They're looking for a weakness, but they wouldn't waste time on a rookie unless they thought there was a real shot at flipping her.
Fiachra waits for me to say something, but I just stare at the photo, memorizing the lines of the woman's face.
He tries again.
"You want me to bring her in for questioning?"
I shake my head.
"Let her ride. She did her job."
He leans forward, voice low.
"This could be an opening. We hit back now, we send a message."
"That's exactly what they want," I say.
"We overreact; we look scared. We wait, we watch, we find out what they're really after."
He grunts, unimpressed, but doesn't argue.
I pour another finger of whiskey, hand him the glass.
He takes it, sips, and waits for the next order.
I give none.
When he is finished, he straightens his shirt and heads for the door.
Just before he leaves, he says, "You should talk to your wife. She's not as asleep as you think."
I laugh, but it's not funny.
"Neither am I."
14
KEIRA
It has been two weeks since I learned I was pregnant.
This morning finds me before the house does.
I wake to the electric hush of predawn, the glass of my window beaded with condensation, the sheets damp from the sweat that accumulates now, always.
