Chapter 2 - He had seen gunshot wounds.
Knife cuts.
Broken bones.
This was different.
This was not the clean violence of a bullet.
This was fire.
Then he saw the pattern.
The worst of the damage covered her right shoulder and spread downward along her side.
Over the scapula, trapped within scar tissue, was a distinct raised circle.
An imprint.
The shape of an industrial pressure valve heated beyond tolerance.
Declan knew that shape.
He knew the valve.
He knew the temperature it could reach when a holding tank failed.
6 years earlier.
The O’Connor Chemical Warehouse in Charlestown.
It had been Declan’s first major operation after taking control of the syndicate.
The O’Connor crew had been moving untaxed weapons through the warehouse and threatening Hayes control of the docks.
Declan had ordered the building burned.
No half measures.
His men used chemical accelerant, white phosphorus, and industrial solvent.
The fire burned hot enough to deform steel.
The report the next morning had been short.
Total loss.
No one inside.
No one was supposed to have been inside.
Norah gasped.
She spun toward him and crossed her arms over her chest.
The gray sweater fell from her hand.
Her eyes widened.
The reaction was not embarrassment.
It was raw fear.
“Get out.”
Her voice broke.
Declan stepped backward.
His hand remained locked around the door handle.
He looked at her face.
The glasses.
The controlled expression.
Then at the edge of silver scarring reaching toward her collarbone, usually concealed beneath her high collars.
“The Charlestown fire.”
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Norah became completely still.
Color disappeared from her face.
She knew.
Declan could see it.
The secretary who typed 80 words a minute and never asked questions knew exactly who he was.
She knew exactly what he had done.
“Get out.”
This time her voice was flat.
Declan stepped into the hallway.
He closed the door.
The latch clicked.
He remained standing outside for a long time.
The hum of the air conditioning seemed deafening.
His chest felt constricted.
Declan had killed men.
Ordered beatings.
Destroyed lives.
He knew where he was going when he died, and he had made peace with that years ago.
But violence written in a report was different from seeing its consequences carved across the skin of the woman who brought him aspirin when he had a headache.
He returned to his office.
Instead of sitting at his desk, he opened a lower cabinet and removed a bottle of rye whiskey.
He did not use a glass.
He drank directly from the bottle.
The alcohol burned.
It did nothing for the cold in his stomach.
10 minutes later, his office door opened.
Norah entered wearing the oversized gray sweater.
It swallowed her frame, the high neck nearly touching her chin.
Her face was composed again.
The panic had been locked away.
She held a freshly printed manifest.
Norah placed it carefully on his desk.
“The container numbers for Pier 4.”
Her voice was flat.
“I’ll have the quarterly projections finished by 4:00.”
She turned.
“Stop.”
Norah stopped walking.
She remained facing the glass wall.
Declan put down the whiskey.
He moved around his desk.
Part of him wanted answers.
How long had she known?
Why was she there?
Was she wearing a wire?
The instincts that had kept him alive were telling him to lock the door, call a cleaner, and make the problem disappear.
Instead, when he looked at the slight curve in her shoulders, he felt guilt.
“Who are you?”
His voice was not threatening.
Norah turned slightly.
“I’m Norah Jennings. Your executive assistant. My typing speed is 80 words a minute. I don’t ask questions.”
“The O’Connor warehouse was empty.”
Declan heard the strain in his own voice.
“We checked. It was supposed to be empty.”
Norah turned fully toward him.
The professional mask shifted.
Her eyes were dark behind her glasses.
“My father was the night watchman.”
Declan stopped moving.
“He went back inside to get his coat.”
Her voice lowered.
“I was 18.”
A pause.
“I went inside to pull him out.”
Declan felt the floor disappear beneath him.
A civilian night watchman.
A man being paid to sit inside a booth.
“He didn’t make it out.”
Norah continued.
“I barely did.”
Her voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“The chemical tanks exploded. The pressure valve hit my back.”
“Why are you here?”
The office suddenly felt smaller.
“Revenge?”
Declan looked at her.
“You want to kill me?”
For the first time, Norah looked completely exhausted.
“If I wanted you dead, Declan, I would have poisoned your coffee 6 months ago.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact.
“You leave the cup on my desk every morning. It would take 3 seconds.”
“Then why?”
Norah looked down at her hands.
“Because the medical debt from the burn ward destroyed my credit.”
Her fingers tightened.
“Because I lost my college scholarship.”
She looked back at him.
“Because legitimate companies don’t want a secretary who misses 3 days every month because her skin grafts tighten and split.”
Then:
“And because the Hayes Syndicate pays 3 times market rate for someone willing to keep quiet.”
Declan stared at her.
She was not an assassin.
Not an informant.
She was a casualty surviving inside the aftermath of an order he had given.
“You’ve worked 10 ft from me for 8 months.”
He spoke slowly.
“You take my calls. Order my lunches.”
His voice became quieter.
“And the whole time, you knew I ordered the fire that killed your father and burned you alive.”
“Yes.”
“How do you look at me?”
Norah adjusted her glasses.
Professionalism returned.
“I look at my paycheck, Mr. Hayes.”
She turned toward the door.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have offshore accounts to balance.”
Norah left.
Declan remained alone.
He looked at the whiskey.
Then at the empty chair across from his desk.
For years, he had believed the past remained buried.
May you like
He had been wrong.
The past sat outside his office formatting spreadsheets.
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