Page 7 of Sins of the Father

I've spent the day making a mental map of the security cameras. Four in the main office area. Two covering the emergency exits.Only one blind spot near the supply closet. The guard makes his rounds every thirty minutes.

I wait until he leaves for his round. My phone camera makes no sound as I photograph specific documents—shipping manifests from March 2015, the month my father died. Colombian imports. Special handling instructions for "box three" shipments.

A name catches my eye on a personnel file. James Marias, Dock Supervisor. The same Marais from Eamon's story. The same man who caught the thief today.

I photograph his employment record, then return everything to the folders. Three minutes until the guard is back.

The elevator dings just as I settle back at my desk, the picture of a dedicated assistant working late. The guard nods as he passes me.

In my purse, my phone now holds the first pieces of evidence. It’s not enough yet, but it is a start. Seven years after my father's murder, I am inside the enemy’s house.

CHAPTER 4

CILLIAN

"Are you still able to attend dinner on Sunday," I say. "There's going to be a business discussion, and I want you to take minutes."

She looks up, her face changing for a split second before returning to neutral.

"What time should I arrive?" she asks.

No anxiety about meeting the Kavanagh clan. Just practical logistics. Her reaction intrigues me.

"I'll pick you up at six," I reply. "Dress formal but understated. Bring your tablet."

***

On Sunday evening, I arrive at her apartment building at six. She walks out right away, as if she was already waiting. Dark green dress, black heels, hair in a neat bun - appropriate and bland enough to be forgettable. Exactly as instructed. I don’t need my brothers lusting after my assistant.

I drive, watching her from the corner of my eye. She looks out the window, taking in the passing streets. She has a small purse and her tablet with her.

"My father will ask about your background," I say as we enter the wealthy neighborhood. "He interrogates everyone new."

"I understand," she says.

The gates open automatically as we arrive. Three acres of grass and landscaped gardens surround the colonial mansion my great-grandfather bought with rum-running money during The Prohibition. Stone walls with security cameras circle the property. Two men trim shrubs near the entrance, looking like gardeners but I know they’re carrying weapons under their overalls.

Orla takes in each detail, she’s making notes rather than being impressed. Most visitors gawk at the wealth displayed through the architecture. She is spotting the security measures. Another note in my mental file about my new assistant, she’s always looking for the exit.

I park in the circular driveway. "Ready?"

"Yes." She steps out of the car with grace.

The front door opens before we get to the top step. My mother waits in the entryway, wearing a deep blue dress.

"Cillian." She kisses my cheeks, then smiles at Orla. "And Orla."

"Hello mother," I say.

"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Kavanagh," Orla says.

My mother takes her hand. "Please, call me Niamh. Come in."

The foyer is overshadowed by a grand staircase, and walls covered with family portraits and Irish landscapes. Orla follows us to the dining room, where the distinct chaos of family conversation is already loud enough to lift the roof.

My father is at the head of the table, Eamon to his right. They stop talking as we enter the room.

"Ah, Cillian," my father says without standing. His eyes lock onto Orla with the stare that makes men talk. "Who is this?"

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