Page 9 of Sins of the Father

My mother points her down the hall while we go our separate ways. I walk toward my father's study but stop when I hear Eamon talking in the corridor by the bathroom.

"Have we met before?" His voice is harsh. "You look so fucking familiar."

I see Eamon blocking Orla's path back to the dining room. She stays calm, but changes her stance.

"I worked at Flanagan's Pub during college," she says. "You and your friends came in often."

Eamon narrows his eyes. "Which friends?"

"I didn't know their names. The group that came in on Thursday nights. You always paid their tab with cash."

Her specific answer makes him pause. I step forward.

"Father's waiting, Eamon."

He looks at me, then back at Orla. "Right. Flanagan's." He walks away, still suspicious.

Orla turns to me. "Should I find your mother?"

"In a moment," I say. "How was your first Kavanagh interrogation?"

A small smile appears. "Not so bad."

"You handled it well," I admit. "Most people panic under my father's questioning."

"I have no reason to panic," she replies.

I watch her, adding another note to my mental file about Orla Kelly. She meets my eyes without backing down. I get the sense she's measuring me as much as I'm measuring her.

"I really should join your mother," she says.

I nod and watch her walk away, wondering what I've brought into our inner circle.

CHAPTER 5

ORLA

It is just after four thirty when crisis strikes, interrupting my plans to snoop in the shipping files after hours.

"Westridge wants to pull their account," Cillian says, walking from his office. "They’re saying they have an exit clause. I need a solution now."

I set aside my real plans and put on my best assistant persona. Each problem creates a chance to gain his trust, giving me more access, and information.

"What happened?" I ask while pulling up their files.

"FDA flagged three shipments." He drops a folder on my desk. "They don’t think we can shield them from investigation, they want to pull the plug. Bunch of ninnies, afraid of a little heat."

I review the contract, and shipping manifests as Cillian moves around behind me. Westridge Pharmaceuticals makes up fifteen percent of our legitimate revenue—a major client whose departure would draw unwanted attention.

"I need twenty minutes with these," I say.

"You get ten," Cillian snaps.

Nine minutes pass before I knock on his door.

"Come in."

I enter with my printed response and place it on his desk. "The FDA flags target their Southeast Asian manufacturing. By routing shipments through our Singapore office instead of Boston, we can create a regulatory buffer."

---