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Inotice the changes immediately when entering the office. The security guard inspects my badge twice, comparing my face to the photo. Inside, nothing appears as it should. The archives entrance now needs fingerprint verification. Cameras point at every corner, all the blind spots are now covered. Someone worked very late last night doing this.

Cillian waits at my desk. "Morning." Cold. Distant. Nothing like the man who kissed me goodbye, or opened his door when a ran to him instead of running away.

"Morning," I say. "Extra security?"

"After the breech, we can't be too careful." He stares a moment longer than normal. "Where are we with the new manifests and changed customs paperwork?"

"I’ll have everything done by noon." I sit at my desk and turn on my computer as he walks away.

Two new guards roam the executive floor. The receptionist has to ID check each visitor. Conversations seem to stop when I walk past. They know I was at his house, that I arrived with him inthe middle of the night—everyone thinks I am sleeping with the boss.

Michael from IT arrives at noon.

"Security upgrade," he says, eyes fixed on my computer. "It won't take long, go grab a coffee."

"Right now?"

"Mr. Kavanagh's orders." He glances toward Cillian's office. "Take a break while I do this, it is fast I promise."

I nod. "Want coffee?"

"No." He sits, already typing.

In the break room, I pour a cup while my mind races. This "upgrade" is a fishing expedition. Cillian needs to know what I know. Good thing I never kept anything on my company devices. Every photo, every document is encrypted, hidden away in my apartment and on a cloud drive no one will hack.

Through the doorway, I watch Michael. He is checking my device history, temporary files, searches, saved and deleted data. He spends extra time in the archive database, reviewing which files I've opened.

When I return with coffee, he closes a window. "All set. System runs faster now too. Call the help desk if anything acts up."

"Thanks."

After he leaves, I examine my desktop. The archive shortcut is two inches left of its usual spot. My recent files list comes up empty. They hunted for proof of my snooping in 2015 records.

Cillian walks past my desk three times before lunch. Each time with a different excuse. Each time he’s watching me.

At five thirty, I pack up to leave. The office is almost empty, everyone has gone for the day. In the elevator, I plan ahead. Time is running out faster than expected. I have to let go of Cillian and get the fuck out of this mess, now.

The parking garage echoes each step I take. My parking space is next to a pillar, and when I round it I see Eamon Kavanagh leaning against the driver's door.

"Working late?" he asks.

I keep my face blank. "It is five-thirty, not exactly late."

"You read any interesting things lately." His voice stays casual while his body looks ready to pounce. "Shipping manifests. Employee files from 2015. Financial transfers, asset registers."

"Your brother asked me to organize the archives," I say, holding my keys tight. "Make it more accessible, I am doing my job."

"Really?" Eamon moves off my car. "Cillian or my father?"

"Cillian."

"He never told me about that project." Eamon walks around me, forcing me to turn. "What do you want with Thomas Nolan's records?"

My father's name. A trap.

I keep still. "Who?"

"Our former accountant. He died a few years back. You pulled his files several times."