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She doesn’t look back.

“Sera!” Rafe calls when I push the barrow across the yard toward the dung heap. “We need to talk. Bring Ma with ya after you’ve emptied that.”

I leave the barrow at the dung heap and walk with Ma back to the house.

The kitchen is warm when we get there, the windows steamed at the edges, the smell of coffee and damp coats heavy in the air.

Saint is at the head of the table with Dane to his left and Shay to his right, whereas Rafe stands by the counter with his phone in one hand and a brown envelope in the other.

I walk inside and pull out a chair. Ma follows me in and sits beside me.

“I’ve got news,” Rafe says. “About the foreman at the port.”

My stomach tightens.

Rafe moves to the table and sets the envelope in front of Saint. “We couldn’t get in touch with Stan, the port foreman. Sera heard he was dead. So, I did some diggin,’ and it turns out she was right.”

Saint slides out the images and leans back. “And this person killed him?”

“Yeah, I got footage from the yard,” Rafe says. “Not the cleanest, but ya can see. The foreman didn’t wander into that container himself. Someone let the killer in through security.”

Saint flicks through the stills.

“Who let them in? One of our crew?” I ask.

“A lad on the night shift,” Rafe says. “Only he’s gone now. House cleared out, phone dead. No one’s seen him since.”

Dane swears under his breath.

Shay’s face hardens. “This has to be the Crowes. Harrington isn’t dumb enough to dump a body in his own container. Unless they’re trying to distract us.”

“Alasdair doesn’t get his hands dirty,” Rafe says. “Apparently, this was a bloodbath. There’s no way it was the Harringtons.”

My mouth goes dry. “Can you see the killer's face?”

Saint slides the photographs toward me.

“No, they were masked. Hood up,” Rafe continues. “Came in through the side access after our man opened it. Took the foreman near the east sheds, dragged him into one of the Harrington containers, then walked out alone seven minutes later.”

“And inside the container?” Saint asks.

“The Harrington’s removed it,” Rafe says. “The guy who found the body said it was butchered. Blood everywhere. Fionn Harrington sent the container off somewhere else.”

Icy cold pressure slides through my chest.

A mask and hood.

My mind goes straight to Fionn, to the black mask, to the way he moves when he takes his watch off.

However, the images are grainy, caught from high above the yard in the washed-out gray of security footage.

A figure stands near the container doors with a hood pulled up and a hard black mask covering the face, smooth and blank to hide an expression.

I scan the narrow shoulders and feet set too close together. Fionn always stands with one shoulder forward and his feet staggered, his weight balanced for a fight even when no one is threatening him. I’ve watched him too many times to mistake this figure for him.

My lungs unlock, and air rushes back in so quickly that I resent how badly I needed him to be innocent.

Saint watches me from the head of the table. “You know that mask?”