Page 148

RUAIRÍ

Ihave been at the makeshift headquarters not too far from the Donnelly estate for an hour.

My shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, the fabric cut by a blade of light that sneaks in through the kitchen window where the tape has peeled.

I pace the length of the room—ten steps from the table to the sink, eleven if I count the hop to avoid the loose floorboard near the radiator.

The first thirty minutes I spend checking the perimeter, not because I need to but because I need to do something with my hands.

I run the tip of a key along every seam of the window frames.

I lift each edge of the carpet, searching for microphones, trackers, the seeds of tomorrow's betrayal.

The only thing I find is a mouse trap, sprung and empty, and the faintest line of blood along the baseboard.

I wipe it with my thumb, then lick it, out of habit.

I check the radio, then the phone.

The radio hisses static, the kind that never resolves into a voice, just a bed of sound that says the world is still spinning.

I thumb through the pre-sets, each click a small admission that I don't want to be alone with my own head.

Nothing on the frequenciesbut Russian pop and the screech of distant taxi dispatchers.

I turn it off and listen to the silence, which is worse.

The phone, at least, offers the possibility of violence.

I check the call log—nothing.

I check the contacts, finger hovering over each name.

Lena, Niamh, Fiachra, Killian, Keira.

I stare at her name longest, as if I could will it to ring just by the force of wanting.

I set the phone down face-up on the table, daring it to betray me with bad news.

The place is too quiet.

My nerves itch.

The skin along my jaw is tight, and I feel the old urge to break something just to prove that I still have the power to do it.

I resist.

Instead, I wipe down the table, then the chairs, then the handles of every drawer and cupboard.

I don't know who will come after us, or when, but I want them to find nothing but the evidence of desperation.

I sit at the table, arms folded, and watch the door.

In the dead hours, my brain invents footsteps in the hallway, hands on the lock, the soft clink of a gun being readied outside.

I play out every scenario—the ambush, the slow approach, the surprise of a friend turned enemy.

I think about Fiachra and the way he'd probably just rip the door off its hinges and announce himself with a joke.