Page 26 of Bloody Knuckles

His attention shifts to the envelope. The hesitation lasts only seconds before he sighs, reaching into his Bible to extract a folded paper.

"The information you requested about Murphy." He places it beside the envelope. "Though I don't understand why you need this when Mr. Donovan?—"

"Has his own agenda," I finish, taking the paper. "Thank you, Father. Now, about the other matter?"

He produces a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket. "Holy water, blessed this morning as requested."

I accept it with a grateful smile. "You've done God's work today."

"I pray that's true." He tucks the envelope into his Bible. "Your spiritual counsel?—"

"Can wait until next week," I interrupt. "I need time alone to... contemplate my sins."

After the priest leaves, I unfold the paper. Murphy's daily schedule, compiled through his parish connections. His Wednesday routine includes confession at Christ Church Cathedral at 1:30 PM.

Today is Wednesday.

The "holy water" sloshes in its vial—not blessed by any church, but by a chemist in Father Donohue's congregation. A powerful sedative that works on contact with mucous membranes.

My escape requires perfect timing. The guard rotation happens at noon. Connor brings lunch at 12:15, always checking that I'm eating properly on Cormac's orders. My "exhaustion" after the warehouse incident has made them complacent about my afternoon naps.

I empty the vial into Connor's coffee when he steps away to answer his phone. By 12:30, he's slumped on the sofa, breathing steadily in chemically induced sleep. His access card and gun now mine.

The service hallway leads to the emergency stairs—locked for residents but accessible to security. Connor's card opens every door, and his unconscious body won't be discovered until the 2 PM check.

I emerge onto Nassau Street wearing Connor's oversized jacket over my dress, gun tucked into the waistband at my back. The weight of freedom hits me like summer sunshine after months of darkness.

* * *

Christ Church Cathedral looms ahead,medieval stone against modern Dublin. Inside, tourists murmur in hushed reverence while locals light candles in quiet corners. I slip into a pew near the confessional, waiting.

At 1:25, a familiar figure enters through the south transept. Danny Murphy—my father's longtime security chief and Finn's replacement traitor. The realization still burns. While Cormac was hunting his brother's betrayal, I discovered mine.

Murphy moves toward the confessional, shoulders hunched beneath his expensive coat. I follow, keeping my distance until he enters the wooden booth.

Five minutes later, he emerges, making the sign of the cross. I trail him through the nave, past ancient tombs and arching columns. When he pauses in the dimly lit north aisle to light a candle, I make my move.

"Hello, Danny."

He spins, alarm rippling through him before recognition settles in. "Aoife? Jesus Christ, you're?—"

"Free?" I supply. "Temporarily."

His hand moves toward his jacket. I shake my head slightly.

"I wouldn't. There's a Glock 19 pointed at your liver under this coat. Painful way to die."

Murphy's hand falls to his side. "How did you escape? Your father's been?—"

"My father thinks I'm still Cormac's prisoner. But that's not what we need to discuss, is it, Danny?"

Confusion radiates from him. "What are you talking about?"

"Finn Donovan," I say quietly. "Cormac's brother. You knew him well, didn't you?"

Murphy goes still. "I met him a few times."

"A few?" I press closer, keeping my voice low. "Or did you have regular planning sessions? Comparing notes on which Donovan shipments to hit? Which Gallagher secrets to sell?"

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