She hesitates.Too long.My pulse hammers. My jaw locks so tight I hear the crack of my own teeth.
“I said—who the fuck is your contact, Siobhán?!”
Her lips part. She takes a step back like she’s never seen me like this before. Like she doesn’tknowme. And maybe she doesn’t. Maybe I’m a fucking ghost she’s only now seeing for what I really am.
She whispers, “Cill…you’re scaring me…”
Good. I’m scaringmyself. “I need a name,” I growl. “Now.”
“I— I don’t know his name, alright?!”
Everything in me stills.
Her voice shakes. “He just said to call himM.That’s it. Just… M.”
The moment those words leave her mouth, I see fucking red. I stagger back like I’ve been shot.M.My knees nearly give out. The ledger. The slashed name. The pages she wasn’t supposed to see. And now him.
Oh, dove… what have you done?
“What did you give him?” I rasp, throat suddenly dry, like every word burns on the way up.
She stares at me, confused. Scared. “What are you talking about? I didn’t—”
“What did you give him?!” I shout, dragging both hands down my face, trying to fucking breathe. “Tell me you didn’t hand him anything. A file. A code. A copy. A fucking whisper.Anything!”
Panic flashes across her face. “Cillian—what did you do?”
“No,” I breathe. “What the fuck didyoudo, dove?”
Her lips tremble, but not from fear—rage, confusion, realization all twisting together. “I—God, I didn’tknow.I thought—” Her fingers dig into her scalp. “He said he could help me. He said he had answers about my mother. Aboutyou.”
“Who?” I bark.
“M!” she shouts back. “He sent the first message when I was in New York. Said he’d worked with your family years ago, that he knew the truth about Maeve Kelleher’s death. Said you were hiding something from me—”
“Christ.” I stagger back, pressing a fist to my mouth. “Hewashiding something. From both of us.”
Her eyes widen. “Cillian… who the hell is he?”
I stare at her—this woman I’ve loved since we were kids, standing there barefoot in the house I built for her, shaking because she doesn’t realize the fucking storm she’s just unleashed. “Malachi Boyle.”
The color drains from her face. She whispers, “I know that name.”
I step closer. “You should. Because he’s the man who killed your mother.”
She blinks, disbelief cracking her voice. “No. No, that’s not possible—he said—he said heworked for you!”
“He worked for my father,” I snarl. “And now he’s usingyou.”
The truth hangs between us like smoke. Thick. Poisonous.
She shakes her head, backing away. “You’re lying. You have to be lying.”
“Would I lie aboutthis?!” I shout, pounding my chest. “You think I’d carry her death on my name all these years for fucking fun?!”
Her hand flies before I can stop her. The slap cracks across my jaw, sharp and clean. I don’t move.
She’s trembling, tears bright in her eyes. “You already did.”
