The elevator doors open. I step in. He stays behind.Good boy.
I watch as the numbers light up, slowly going down until they reach the letter L. The elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, but my pulse is already racing. Ronan won’t stay put. He’s not wired for stillness. He’s wired for pursuit. And I’ve given him a ten-second head start. That’s not nearly enough.
I step off the elevator like a woman late for mass and cut across the gleaming lobby, heels clicking hard and fast against marble. Heads turn. Concierge eyes flicker. The doorman shifts to open the door for me—But I don’t wait. I shove it open myself and spill out into the street like a storm.
The wind catches my coat. The city is loud, messy, alive. I don’t hesitate. I move. Down the steps. Across the pavement. Into the current of foot traffic like I’ve done this a hundred times. I duck between a pair of tourists fumbling with a map, pivot left at the pedestrian crossing, and vanish into the crowd before the lightchanges. I keep my head low, scarf tight, mouth set in a line of red warpaint.
Left again. Right. Then down an alley that splits off from O’Connell Street. I know this city better than it remembers me. And I’m not ready for him to find me yet. The moment I round the corner onto Abbey Street and see the black sedan parked half a block away, engine idling—hiscar—I raise my arm like it’s muscle memory. A cab screeches to the curb. Black paint, creaking doors. Perfect.
“Out past Lucan,” I tell the driver as I slide in. “Keep off the motorway.”
He nods, no questions asked. And just like that, I vanish from the city again. The further we drive, the quieter it gets. Grey turns to green. Noise fades to mist. The buildings thin out, traded for hedgerows and stone walls dusted with frost. The air shifts. Colder. Older. Like the land remembers what I tried to forget.
My childhood home waits like a secret at the end of a long, overgrown drive. It wasn’t a palace. Not a mansion with gates and guards like the O'Dwyers had. But it was elegant. Understated. One of those modest country manors with ivy-strangled stone, tall windows, and a door that always squeaked in protest no matter how well it was oiled.
Now it’s just... tired. The paint has peeled. The shutters hang crooked. One corner of the front step has crumbled into mossand rot. But it still stands. Just like me. I pay the driver and wait until he’s out of sight before stepping through the rusted gate.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I make my way up the path. Every step a ghost. This house used to smell like cinnamon and piano polish. Now it just smells like cold.
There’s a reason I came here. Not just for the ghosts. Not just for the memory of my mother’s hands on ivory keys. But for what she left behind—quietly, secretly, like a final gift sealed in silence. And for the person who’s been helping me dig it up.
The door to the music room groans when I push it open, like the house is trying to speak before it crumbles entirely. The air inside is stale, heavy with dust and memory. Shafts of cold morning light cut through the windows, illuminating the white sheets draped over every piece of furniture like shrouds.
Like the room is mourning itself. I move slowly, trailing my fingers along one of the sheets. Dust flutters in the air like snow. Beneath the fabric is the old baby grand, covered head to toe like a body waiting for burial. I don’t lift the sheet. Not yet.
There’s a creak from the hallway. Barely audible. I don’t turn. Just say, “You’re late.”
No reply. Just footsteps—soft ones—moving into the room. Slow. Deliberate. Careful not to step too loudly on the warped floorboards.
I keep my eyes on the piano. I don’t want to know who he is. Not yet. It’s better that way. Cleaner. Safer for both of us.
“I searched the crawlspace again,” I say. “The insulation’s been stripped. Someone already looked.”
A pause. Then, low and rough: “Not surprised.”
The voice is familiar. Irish. City-trained but country-born. He’s old. Careful. Not reckless. One of theirs? Or one of mine? I don’t ask.
“I need to know where it is. The ledger. Before Saturday.”
Another beat of silence. Then, behind me, the rustle of paper. The softthunkof something being set on the bench behind the piano. A single envelope. No markings. I turn slightly. Not enough to see his face. Just enough to register the weight of what’s been left behind.
“You’re sure it’s the real one?”
He doesn’t answer. Just shifts back toward the door. But before he leaves, he says—so quiet I almost miss it.
“You won’t get another shot.”
Then he’s gone. Like smoke. Like a secret swallowed by the walls. I don’t open the envelope right away. I just stare at it. Let the quiet settle around me like dust. Then I reach forward, pull ittoward me, and peel it open. Inside: a map of the O'Dwyer estate—one I’ve never seen before. Hand-drawn. Labeled in Irish. Detailed to the inch. And clipped to it: a note.
Ledger is kept in the vault beneath the library. Thumbprint access.
Code changes daily. You’ll need the print and the timekeeper.
Both are in Darragh’s study.
You have until midnight Saturday.
You owe me a name when this is over.
