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Her question gives me pause. She already knows I killed my uncle, so why is she asking me again? I wonder if she is testing me.
I don’t answer but give her a long look, trying to gauge what game she is playing.
Selene doesn't say another word for the rest of the drive.
I know when I told them the truth it was shocking, but the sooner my Brides knew, the better.
After all, if I overplayed my hand, they would suffer just as much as I did.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Selene
I LEAN AGAINST the frame of Niamh’s door, watching her stretch on the floor, utterly absorbed in her routine. Her limbs move with a grace that seems almost effortless, a stark contrast to the clumsy attempts I remember from my brief stints in sports. My parents never minded what I picked up or dropped as long as I was doing something. Hockey, track, dance—you name it, I’ve probably tried it for a season.
Niamh is different. She's like a piece sculpted with a purpose, her whole life molded around the perfection of ballet and the rigors of competitive swimming. There's something almost enviable about her dedication, her entire being honed for performance and precision.
She notices me lingering in the doorway and pauses, mid-stretch, her gaze lifting to meet mine. "Selene? Come in," she calls out, her voice light but curious.
I push off from the doorframe and close the door softly behind me, my steps cautious. We both know that walls have ears, especially in places like this. Diarmuid might be generous, but my trust has been hard-won and easily lost. "I was wondering if you’d like to go grab a coffee with me," I venture, keeping my voice low.
"Coffee?" Niamh frowns slightly, sitting up to face me fully. "What for?"
I scan the room as subtly as I can. It looks normal—sparse, tidy, nothing out of the ordinary. No hidden cameras in sight, but then, the best ones never are visible. I perch on the edge of the bed, watching as Niamh reaches back to stretch her leg, her hand brushing her heel. "I thought that we should meet someone today," I say, trying to gauge her reaction.
"Meet who?" Her brow creases, and she pulls her leg in, resting now. Her body tenses slightly, the casual ease replaced by guarded curiosity.
"Just a friend," I say quickly, "someone who might help us understand a bit more about… well, about everything." My mind races as I watch her, trying to read her thoughts. Has she grown too comfortable under Diarmuid’s protection, or does she, too, feel the prickle of doubt when the lights go out?
Niamh looks at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, not with suspicion, but calculation. "This isn’t just about coffee, is it, Selene?" she asks, her voice steady but low. She hesitates, her expression guarded. "I feel like I’ve met enough people lately, thanks."
I press, knowing how much rides on today. "This person is a relation of our mutual friend." The phrase 'mutual friend' hangs between us, a code that has come to mean only one person: Sofia Hughes.
At that, Niamh straightens, the reluctance in her posture melting away, replaced by a sharp spark of interest. "Okay, let's go then," she says, her tone shifting, infused with a new energy. This meeting, after all, has been weeks in the making.
Ever since the loss of the crucial evidence from Rian’s apartment, I'd been scrambling to piece together what could be salvaged. Rian had years on me, his collection extensive and meticulous, while I was playing catch-up in a game I barely understood. But Sofia Hughes' name was a beacon that remained clear in our minds, unerased and indelible.
Diarmuid had arranged everything—escorts, transportation, the works. I'd played my part, too, claiming a desperate need for normalcy, a break from the cloistered existence we’d been living. As if anything about my life could ever be considered normal.
We're picked up in a sleek black Audi, the anonymity of the vehicle doing nothing to ease the tight coil of apprehension in my gut. With two men in the front—probably more of Diarmuid’s people—it isn’t safe to speak openly. I can't just tell Niamh everything, not with potential ears in the driver's and passenger’s seats. So, I pull out my phone, open the notepad app, and start typing. Niamh watches, her eyes flicking to my screen as I hold it up for her to read.
Can’t talk here. Everything might be monitored.
She nods slightly, understanding, and takes the phone from my hand to type her response. We continue this silent conversation, our words hidden in plain sight, never sending anything that could be intercepted. After all, Diarmuid had provided these phones, and neither of us is naive enough to believe our communications are not being monitored.
Do you trust this contact? Her brow furrows as she hands the phone back to me.
As much as we can trust anyone now. It's our best shot at getting answers.
She reads the message, her lips pressing into a thin line, and then nods, handing the phone back to me.
The car hums softly beneath us, the cityscape blurring by as Selene and I maintain our dual conversations—one audible, light, and seemingly inconsequential, the other silent, heavy with the weight of our true intentions.
"Have you found anything nice to wear?" I ask aloud, ensuring my voice carries easily to the front seats. "The color restrictions are driving me crazy."
On my phone, I type swiftly, my fingers barely keeping pace with my racing thoughts.
I tracked down Sofia Hughes’ sister. Her name is Maura. That is who we are meeting today.
