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“Aye.”

He drops ice into the glass, free pours a healthy measure, and adds a splash of cola. I knock back half to feel the coldness move through me.

The jukebox stands near the back wall, glowing blue around the screen. I carry my drink over and scroll through the songs until I find Metallica. The opening guitar of “Nothing Else Matters” fills the pub, and the choice snaps awake memories.

Fionn in a cap and dark sweatshirt, sitting across from me in this very bar while Eilish tried to force the three of us into a friendship.

I return to the bar and drain the rest of the rum. The barman replaces it after I slide the empty glass forward.

By the third, heat has spread across my chest and loosened the control I’ve kept on my guilt since leaving the Kinnane estate.

When a man takes the stool beside mine, I don’t bother to acknowledge him.

“You’re Sera Tallon, right?”

I stare at the rows of bottles behind the bar. “Unfortunately.”

He laughs and all it does is piss me off.

“Heard about the trouble at the docks,” he says. “Rafe got busted up?”

“He was stabbed,” I say, uninterested in conversation. “Not the first time, not the last.”

“My brother does work for Saint. Said the damage was bad.”

I lift the glass and drink, already bored. “Nothing we can’t fix.”

He leans closer. “You wanna talk about it over a few drinks?”

“Nope.”

“Heard the Harrington heir ditched his fiancée and pissed off his ole man,” he says to Paddy. “About time someone knocked that prick down a peg.”

“He built more than you’ll ever rent,” I say into my glass.

I sit there, stunned, listening to myself defend a Harrington in public.

“How come you’re sitting here all alone?”

“Christ,” I mutter. “Maybe because I want to drink alone.”

I keep my eyes forward and swill the rum in my glass, tinkling the ice while he collects his pint and finds somewhere else to sit.

My phone remains on the counter beside my hand. I open Eilish’s contact details again, press the button and listen as it cuts off, the line dead.

The screen returns to my recent calls.

Fionn Harrington’s name sits beneath hers from the night the docks were attacked. He’d rang me eighteen times, and I hadn't heard any of them because my phone was in Dane’s car.

I stare at his number until the digits blur, then for some reason, I tap it because maybe he can tell me what happened to her. It’s a slim chance, but I'm willing to take it. That's what I tell myself while I ignore how my pulse races.

He answers on the second ring. “Sera.”

“Me and you need to talk.”

“We do,” he replies, his tone calm and controlled. “How about now?”

“Okay. I’m at the pub in Black Heath.”