Chapter 7

Nell’s POV

“Two weeks,” the judge said. “Then the keys go back to the landlord, Miss Gallagher.”

I stood at the little wooden table in Room 402 of the Daley Center with my hands flat on the wood and my knees locked. Beside me, a tired legal aid lawyer read his notes like they were a grocery list. Across the aisle sat Desmond Fitzgerald’s lawyer, a slim man in a gray suit who did not look at me once.

“Forty thousand in back rent, Your Honor,” the lawyer said. “Plus fees.”

“I can pay,” I said.

“With what?”

“With the deposit on a wedding that happens Saturday.”

The judge peered over her glasses. She had sad, kind eyes. “The wedding your landlord’s family is holding?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be paid by the landlord’s family.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She made a note. “Well. That’s a conflict I’m not going to sort out in one morning. Two weeks. Then we’ll see.”

The gavel dropped.

I walked out into the hall on legs that didn’t feel like mine. Roisin was waiting on a bench, chewing her thumbnail. Cal stood by the window in a gray suit I had never seen, his hands in his pockets, looking down at Clark Street.

He hadn’t said anything all morning. He’d just been there. Like a wall you could lean on.

“Two weeks,” I said.

Roisin groaned and put her head in her hands.

“I can fix it,” Cal said quietly.

“No.”

“Nell.”

“No money. Not from you.” I kept my voice level. “I told Desmond I’d lose it clean. I meant it.”

“That’s not clean. That’s stubborn.”

“It’s both.”

“I can pay the rent in one phone call.”

“I know you can.” I looked at him. “That’s the very reason you can’t.”

He held my eyes. A long moment. Then he nodded once.

“Then what can I do?”

“You can help me catch a thief.”

~

The Hotel Doyle Grand at eleven in the morning was a beehive.

Bellmen in navy coats. Housekeepers with carts. Somewhere below us, a kitchen crashing pots, and a smell of butter and coffee coming up through the vents. I walked through the lobby beside a man in a plain black jacket with a name tag reading CAL, on loan from the security team, and not one person looked at him twice.

“They don’t know your face,” I whispered.

“I’ve been photographed four times in ten years.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s efficient.”

He walked with a different stride here. Slower. His eyes moved over everything, the dust on a picture frame, a crooked rug, a doorman who’d let a stranger in without a glance. Everything he touched, he fixed. He straightened a lamp. He shut a door someone had left ajar. A young bellhop stumbled past with three suitcases and Cal steadied one without a word.

“You’re in your element,” I said.

“It’s my building.”

“It’s not just a building.”

“No.” He glanced at the ceiling. His face went quiet. “My father built it. He died in the room on the ninth floor. I’ve never taken the room out of service.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t like to be alone.”

“And the rest of your family?”

“Fintan. My brother. He runs the numbers.” He said it plainly, the way a man names the one wall he’d never doubt. “He’s all I have left.”

My throat tightened. I slipped my hand into his. It was a small thing, and there was nobody watching.

He looked down at it, then at me. His face cracked open, just a hair.

“Nell.”

“Don’t say anything. I’m still furious.”

“Understood.”

We turned a corner into the service hall, and a tall man with a shaved head and a scar through one eyebrow stepped out of a doorway. He wore a black suit, a wire in his ear, and the face of a boulder.

“Malachy Byrne,” Cal said. “Head of security. Malachy, this is Nell.”

“The fiancée.” His eyes ran over me. “I’ve read your file.”

“That’s not a compliment, is it?”

“It’s a very good file.”

“He’s teasing,” Cal said.

“I never tease.”

Malachy led us into a windowless room lined with monitors. Sixteen screens. The lobby, the loading dock, the kitchen, the ballroom. On the third row, a small screen showed a corner suite with a white marble fireplace and a bed like a cloud.

“The bridal suite,” Malachy said. “Saturday’s room.”

“It’s perfect,” I said.

“It’ll do. Here’s the plan.”

We had worked on it all night, over cold pizza and a legal pad. The plan was simple. It was also, if I’m honest, a little bit insane.

Bronagh Finnegan was due at one o’clock for a walkthrough of the bridal suite. Cal would be there first, dressed as security, and leave a black folder on the desk. The folder would be marked in red. Doyle Hospitality. Lakeshore Tower. Sealed bid. Friday. Inside would be six pages of pure nonsense, written by Cal and Malachy at two in the morning, with figures that would make Desmond’s eyes water.

Bronagh would see it. Bronagh would photograph it. And every camera in the room would watch her do it.

“Will she bite?” I asked.

“She’s been biting for six months,” Cal said.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then I look like an idiot with a folder.”

“I’ll still love you.”

The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

The room went silent. Malachy’s eyebrow rose. Cal turned his head slowly.

“I mean,” I said. “In the plan. As your fiancée. I would, in character, still love you.”

“Of course.”

“For the cover.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m going to go stand over there,” I said.

~

At ten past one, I stood in front of the monitors with my arms folded.

On the third screen, the bridal suite lay quiet in soft light. The black folder sat on the desk like an invitation.

The door opened.

Bronagh Finnegan came in first. Late forties, neat bob, a cream blouse, a tablet under one arm. She smiled at the empty room, straightened a vase, and crossed to the window. I’d worked with her all week. She’d been kind. She’d brought me a coffee on Monday without asking how I took it.

She stopped.

Her eyes had found the folder.

I held my breath.

She looked over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Then she set down her tablet, walked to the desk, and flipped open the cover with one finger.

“Come on,” Malachy muttered.

She lifted her phone. Click. Click. Click. Six pages, one after another, quick and neat. She’d done this before. That was the thing that hurt. Her hands were so calm.

“Got her,” Malachy said softly.

“Not yet,” said Cal. His voice was odd. Flat. “Watch the door.”

On the screen, Bronagh dialed a number and put the phone to her ear. She spoke for ten seconds. I couldn’t hear the words, only the shape of them. Then she nodded, hung up, and stood very still, waiting.

The suite door opened again.

A man walked in. Dark suit, tall, slim, silver watch. He moved with a hand in his pocket, at ease, like a man who’d walked through that door a hundred times. Bronagh gestured toward the desk. He picked up the folder, weighed it in his hand, and smiled.

I looked at Cal.

All the color had left his face.

“Cal?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. His hand slid off the back of my chair.

“Cillian,” I said.

His lips barely moved.

“That’s my brother.”