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Good. Let her be afraid.

"My office," I say. "Now."

She follows without argument. I close the door, turn the lock. The sound seems to echo forever.

"Nervous?" I ask.

"Should I be?"

I place the file on my desk but don't open it yet. "Seven years. That's how long you've been planning this."

Her pupils dilate. Fight or flight kicking in.

"I don't know what?—"

"Don't." I open the file, spread the contents across the wood. "Orla Nolan. Daughter of Thomas Nolan. The accountant who died in his home office seven years ago."

She goes very still. Like prey realizing the predator has found them.

"How long have you known?" she asks.

"Three days. Long enough to understand how thoroughly you've fucked me over." I move closer. "These meetings with Detective Doyle. Building a case?"

Her eyes stay fixed on the photos.

"You infiltrated my life. My business." I lean against the desk. "My bed."

"Your father killed mine."

"And you thought sleeping with me would balance the scales?"

Color floods her cheeks. "That wasn't part of the plan."

"What plan? Destroy the Kavanaghs? Get revenge? Wear a wire to family dinner?"

She flinches at the last part.

"I couldn't do it," she says quietly.

"What?"

"The wire. I was supposed to wear it three days ago. Record you and your family." She meets my eyes. "I couldn't."

Something twists in my chest. "Why not?"

"Because I—" She stops herself. "It doesn't matter now."

My phone rings. I answer it, watching her face.

"Kavanagh."

"Mr. Kavanagh, Detective Doyle here. I believe you've discovered one of my confidential informants."

Orla's eyes widen.

"Your informant," I repeat.

"Ms. Nolan has been gathering evidence about Thomas Nolan's murder. Evidence that points to your lieutenant, not your father. We can work together on this."