Page 50 of The Thief
"Sullivan says Trace knows things about the girl. Personal things. Details about her life in Belfast, her father's business, her mother leaving. Stuff that wasn't in any file."
My blood runs cold. "How?"
"Someone told him. Someone from Killian's past. Someone who knew them both well enough to have that kind of information."
A betrayal. Someone close to the family, someone trusted, has been feeding information to Trace. Probably for months, maybe years.
"Any idea who?"
"We’re working on it. But Freddie... whoever it is, they know about you too. They know you're the one who brought her back, that you're protecting her."
Which means I'm compromised. Every move I make is being watched, reported, analyzed for weaknesses.
"Changes nothing," I say.
"Doesn't it? Because from where I'm sitting, it changes everything. If Trace knows you're emotionally invested in the girl…"
"I'm not emotionally invested."
"Bullshit."
Stephen's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. There’s no point denying what everyone can see.
"It's complicated."
"It's dangerous. Trace will use whatever feelings you have against you. Against her."
True. Men like Trace Harrington are experts at finding pressure points, exploiting weaknesses. If he thinks Alastríona matters to me, he'll use her to get to me.
Which means I need to be more careful. Need to keep my distance, maintain professional detachment.
Even if professional detachment is the last thing I want.
"Where's the meet?" I ask.
"I'll text you the details. And Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"Watch your back. If there's a mole in the family, they could be anywhere. Anyone."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the implications. Someone we trust has been betraying us. Someone with access to Killian's secrets, to family business, to information that could get us all killed.
Someone who's been playing both sides while good people died.
Time to find out who. Time to make them pay for their betrayal.
Stephen's waiting for me at the docks, smoking a cigarette and staring out at Dublin Bay like it holds answers to questions he's afraid to ask.
"You look like shit," he says when I walk up.
"Feel worse."
"Long night?"
"Something like that."
We walk in silence for a while, footsteps echoing off wet concrete.
