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CHAPTER 1

ORLA

Iplace white lilies against the cold granite. Seven years gone, yet the pain still cuts as deep as the day he died. The dates carved into stone - June 15, 1957 to March 8, 2015 - beneath my father's name. Thomas Nolan.

The cemetery is empty around me, rows of markers standing as silent witness. A chilly wind pierces through my coat, but I shake it off. March in Boston is bitterly cold, it is only fitting for what I come to do here each year.

"I will get justice," I whisper, touching the stone. "I promise, Dad."

My knees sink to damp earth as I arrange the flowers. Dad loved simple things - white lilies, black coffee, numbers that balanced on a page. His accounting mind was all about order. Never knowing that same numbers, and need for order would get him killed.

The memory washes over me in the silence of the graveyard.

I call out as I enter our house, tossing my backpack by the door. School debate team ran late. My Dad's car is in the driveway, but he doesn’t answer. There’s an eerie quiet.

"Dad? I'm home."

Nothing.

I walk down the hall to his office, and push open the half-closed door.

"Dad, did you want to order?—"

The words stop coming out. He is at his desk, slumped forward. Papers scattered across the floor. Blood spreading across white spreadsheets, blooming outward from where he?—

Red everywhere.

I am frozen. His eyes stare at nothing, while blood pools beneath his chair.

I scream.

A twig snaps behind me, pulling me back to reality. I don't turn around. Only one other person comes here on this day.

"Detective Doyle," I say.

"You're punctual, Orla. Every year, nine AM sharp." His footsteps crunch on the gravel as he gets closer.

I get up, brushing dirt from my black pants. "Any news?"

Fergus Doyle stands in front of me exactly as he did last March, and the March before that. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short, stubble on his jaw, rumpled suit worn too many times. His hazel eyes tired.

"The official investigation remains closed." He stands me, looking down at the grave. "Kavanagh's people were very careful."

"And unofficially?" I ask.

"I’ll keep digging. But nothing has come up yet." He pauses. "But there’s an opportunity, to get a bit closer."

I turn to him now, waiting to know what that means.

"Kavanagh Import & Export is hiring a new executive assistant. For the heir apparent, Cillian Kavanagh." Doyle watches me. "Thought you might want to know."

My heart races. "You did, did you?"

"Just passing on information. What you do with it..." He shrugs, but I know what he is getting at. We've talked about this option before, theoretically. There was never a way in before.

"How many applicants?" I ask.

"Three he has shortlisted. They’ll have an interview tomorrow at ten. It’s with their HR manager - Patricia Mills. You'd need some serious credentials."