He reads it, and the muscles along his throat shift once, then settle.
Roarke leans in. “What is it?”
Cillian doesn’t answer.
He hands the page to Roarke and turns to the driver. “You drove in on Wicklow plates,” he says. “You came to the wrong gate, you carried fake paperwork, and you brought me a note.”
The driver shakes his head. “I didn’t read it.”
Cillian’s gaze stays calm, but his voice drops lower. “You don’t need to read poison to deliver it.”
Roarke finishes scanning the page, then his eyes lift to mine for a brief second, then to Cillian.
“What does it say?” Kavanagh asks.
Roarke answers, and his voice is clipped. “It says the new girl isn’t new.”
My blood goes cold in a clean way, and my face stays still. Cillian’s eyes stay on the driver. “Who put that envelope in your van?”
The driver’s mouth opens, then shuts. Roarke steps in and grabs the driver’s collar and shoves him back against the van without slamming his head, just pinning him.
Cillian doesn’t flinch. “Name?”
“I don’t know,” the driver chokes out.
Cillian’s voice stays even. “You will.”
Roarke turns his head. “We can take him to the back room.”
Cillian nods once. “Do it.”
Roarke drags the driver away, and the man’s shoes scrape on the concrete, and his folder drops to the ground.
Kavanagh watches them go, then turns to Cillian. “That note’s O’Callaghan style.”
Cillian’s eyes flick up. “You sure?”
Kavanagh nods. “It’s a warning.”
Cillian’s gaze slides to me again. The note’s words still sit in my head, sharp and simple.The new girl isn’t new. I keep my hands at my sides and my posture relaxed, and I give him nothing. Cillian steps closer, then stops just outside my space. “Tell me something,” he says.
I lift my brow. “What?”
“Why would someone send me that?”
I let a second pass, then I answer with calm I have practiced for years. “Someone wants you to doubt your own hire.”
“Why?”
“To slow you down,” I say. “To make you start chasing ghosts instead of chasing paper.”
Cillian studies my face. “And you’re telling me it’s noise?”
“I’m telling you it’s strategy,” I say.
He holds my gaze. “If it’s strategy, whose?”
I keep my voice steady. “It’s not my job to know that, Sir. But I can find out, if that’s what you’re asking.”
