"Did you?" Daithí asks quietly.
Tony looks at him, whatever he sees in Daithi’s face makes him look away first. "I never meant for any of this to happen."
Daithí laughs. "Daire isolated her."
Tony's face tightens. "Daithí?—"
"She bullied her." Silence. "She destroyed her life."
Tony closes his eyes briefly. "I know."
My jaw tightens, because that answer is worse than denial. He knew, and did nothing.
Daithí takes a step forward. "You knew?"
Tony looks exhausted. "I didn't know all of it."
"You knew enough." Tony doesn't answer, because there's no defense for it.
I decide we've wasted enough time. "Frederick Hightower."
Tony's head snaps toward me. There it is, the reaction I was looking for. Daithí sees it too, and the color drains from Tony's face. I smile. "Good," I say. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Tony swallows. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I laugh because, God, that’s such a pathetic lie.
"We found the shell companies." Tony goes still at my words. "We know about Frederick, and we know about Daire." Nothing, not a single acknowledgement. I take another step closer. "And we know you're connected to both of them." Tony's hands curl into fists, the first sign of fear. "I think," I say softly, "this is the part where you start talking."
Tony looks at Daithí, then at me, and then toward the front door. He’s calculating, looking for a way out, but there isn't one. Daithí blocks the only exit, I block the rest. Tony finally understands exactly how trapped he is, and for the first time since we arrived, he looks afraid. Good, he should be.
Tony lowers himself into an armchair like his legs have suddenly stopped working properly. "What do you want to know?"
Daithí lets out a short laugh, the sound is devoid of humor. "Everything."
Tony rubs a hand over his face. "I can't give you everything."
My expression doesn't change. "Try."
His eyes meet mine, then drop away. Because he knows exactly how this goes. "You've got this wrong," he stammers.
I smile. "No, Tony. We don't." The room falls silent again. I pull the file from beneath my arm and toss it onto the coffee table. Photographs slide across the polished wood, travel records, financial records, and phone logs.
Tony stares at them and then his shoulders slump.
"How long?" I ask.
He doesn't pretend not to understand. "A few years."
Daithí explodes. "A few years?" Tony flinches. "A few years?" Daithí repeats. "Orla is dead. My sister was blamed for her death. She was fucking innocent. And you’ve been sleeping with Daire for a few years?"
"It wasn't like that."
Daithí laughs, the sound is ugly. "Then tell me what it was like."
Tony drags a hand down his face and for the first time since we arrived, he looks every one of his years. "I never intended for any of this."
"That's not what he asked," I snap.
