Chapter 8: The Order

Padraig's POV

Marguerite Corrigan kept her office on the ninth floor of the freight building.

It had a window onto the harbor and a tray of tea nobody had asked for.

I went up alone, the morning after the luncheon, with no appointment.

Her assistant said she was in a meeting.

I said I would wait in the corridor until the meeting ended or the building closed, and I sat down on the leather bench.

She had me inside in four minutes.

"Padraig," she said, rising, with both hands out. "What a surprise. You look tired."

I did not take her hands.

"Stop giving her those tablets," I said.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"There's a pharmacist's report on her brother's phone. I've seen it."

I kept my voice flat.

"If Hazel gets so much as a headache this week, I will put it in front of every board you sit on."

She poured two cups of tea and put one on my side of the desk.

I let it go cold.

For three years I had kept a list of what I could not do.

I could not take back the sentence I'd said on the phone to this woman, the afternoon of my father's funeral.

"Padraig," Marguerite said now, and sat down across from me with her tea. "I'm only doing what you asked."

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