Into the Game
Rain clung to the night like it had a right to be there, slicking every stone and lamppost in a sheen of silver. Dara's coat was soaked through at the shoulders, the fabric heavy, the cold crawling in under her collar, but she didn't flinch when the first camera flash went off. She'd learned not to. The street outside the Ministry of Public Health had been emptied of all but the hard-headed few: two women with cardboard signs, a lad strumming something unrecognisable on a battered guitar, and Dara, with the flare in her hand burning so hot it painted her skin blood-red.
Quinn! someone barked. Not her name so much as a warning.
She knew the voice — one of the constables who'd shoved her into the back of a van the last time. She didn't lower the flare. The hiss of it filled her ears, the heat curling against her cheek like a dare.
This is your last
The flare hit the tarmac with a spit of sparks before he could finish. She ground it under her boot until the light snuffed out, smoke pooling low and acrid. It left a black scar in the wet road. The cameras loved it. She could hear the shutters pop, quick as fireworks.
Hands where I can see them, the constable said, but his voice had softened. She lifted her palms slow, cold rain running down her wrists like rivulets of steel.
When they cuffed her, she caught sight of her reflection in the dark gloss of the Ministry's windows — hair plastered to her face, eyes too bright, a smudge of ash high on her cheekbone. Somewhere behind that glass were the files they swore didn't exist. Nina's name, buried under redaction ink and sealed orders.
As they walked her toward the van, she caught the scent — not of the city, not even the rain — but antiseptic, sharp and clean. It came out of nowhere, memory slicing in: Nina's hospital room, the weight of her sister’s hand slack in hers.
She almost stumbled.
Theo was waiting when they brought her into the holding room, leaning against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him from leaving. The years had made his face leaner, the edges cut deeper, but the eyes were the same: unblinking, hard, like they'd seen too much and didn't trust what they hadn't.
You've a knack for picking the wettest nights, he said, voice low, Belfast in every vowel.
She didn't sit. You here to lecture me or charge me?
Neither. I'm here because I heard you were making a show of yourself again and figured you'd not want the usual crowd asking why.
The usual crowd don't care why, she said, but the fight in her words didn't quite match the drop in her shoulders.
He took a step closer, and she caught the faint trace of his aftershave — same as it had been when he'd leaned over her outside the coroner’s office three years ago and told her there was nothing suspicious about Nina's death. She'd hated him for that. She still did, in a way.
They do when you've got half the press taking your picture, he said. And when certain people are wondering why you won't let a dead case lie.
Her mouth compressed. It's not dead. They killed her.
For one hard second, the only sound in the room was the rain on the tin gutter outside. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a manila envelope, already soft at the corners from being handled too much.
Found something, he said, and his voice had changed — not softer, not exactly, but stripped of the bite. It's not much, but it's more than they'll want you to see.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. The envelope was warm from his coat, and heavier than she'd expected.
What's the catch?
There's always a catch, he said. But you've the stomach for it, or you wouldn't still be standing.
Later, outside, the air hit her like a slap. She walked fast, the envelope tucked under her arm, breath steaming in the cold. Down the street, leaning against a black sedan with a smirk that could sell either champagne or trouble, was Caleb Wynne. He was dressed like the headlines would see him — tailored coat, scarf knotted just so, phone in hand like it had been born there.
Miss Quinn, he called, and the cameras in his voice were louder than the ones she'd left behind.
I'm busy.
Good. Busy makes for better copy. You've just been arrested, yes? Outside a government building? Again?
She stopped a few feet short of him. If you're looking for a quote
I'm looking, he cut in, for a partnership. You want eyes on your story, I'm the lad who can get them there. Public sympathy is a fickle thing. You've got to feed it.
Her grip on the envelope tightened. And you'll do this out of the kindness of your heart, will you?
He smiled — lazy, slow, like he knew exactly how much she hated it. Nothing’s free, Quinn. But you'll find my rates more palatable than silence.
A gust of wind blew her hair across her face, and she let it stay there for a beat, hiding the flicker in her eyes. She wasn't sure if it was interest or the old, familiar rage.
Caleb's gaze dipped to the envelope under her arm. Theo playing errand boy now? My, my. You must have something worth the ink.
She stepped closer, enough for the rain off her coat to dot his scarf. Stay out of my way, Wynne. Or I'll make you regret not doing.
His smile didn't move, but his eyes sharpened. We’ll see.
She walked away before he could answer, the envelope pressed to her ribs like a heartbeat she didn't dare let slow.
Her flat smelled faintly of damp and yesterday's coffee, the kind that had cooled in the pot and left a burnt edge on the air. Dara shut the door with her foot and slid the deadbolt, leaning her back against it for a second like she had to hold the night outside. The envelope was still under her arm, the paper warped now from the wet, the flap loose as if Theo hadn't trusted the glue to keep its secrets.
She took off her coat and dropped it over the chair, the weight of it hitting with a wet thump. For a moment she just stood there, listening — to the hum of the fridge, the faint rush of wind at the windows. The city sounded far away.
She set the envelope on the table, pulled the little cord lamp closer, and sat down. Her fingers hesitated at the seam.
Inside was a stack of photocopies — cheap ink on thin paper — and two colour photographs clipped together. The first photo hit her like a fist. Nina, in a hospital corridor, looking over her shoulder. The light was bad, but the shadow under her left eye was clear, and her wrist — Dara's breath caught — was bandaged, the gauze blotched darker in the centre.
The second photo was worse. Nina in a bed, the blanket tucked too neatly, like she hadn't done it herself. Her hair was clean, combed, but her smile it wasn't a smile at all. Just teeth, showing because she'd been told to.
Dara pressed the photos down on the table so hard the edges bent.
Her throat felt raw, though she hadn't said a word. She shoved the papers back into the envelope and pushed away from the table, the chair legs scraping hard against the floor.
In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and drank it too fast, cold hitting her teeth. She set the glass down and gripped the counter until her knuckles went white.
Her phone lit on the table. She ignored it. When it buzzed again, she crossed the room and picked it up. The number wasn't saved, but she knew it — Caleb's.
You're welcome for the offer.
She didn't reply. The phone came alive again almost immediately.
Theo's not your friend, Quinn. Just remember who buried you last time.
She set the phone face-down on the table and went to the window. Rain still clung to the streetlamps, dripping in steady lines, the light pooling on the slick asphalt below. She thought of Nina walking somewhere like this, head down, coat collar up, the world already turning away.
She stayed at the glass until her reflection blurred.
By the time she saw Theo again, the next evening, the damp had settled deep into the bones of the city. They met in the corner of a café where the heat came from a single rattling radiator. He'd chosen the table facing the door. Always the detective, even without the badge.
You looked at them? he asked, no preamble.
She sat down, peeling her gloves off finger by finger. Looked. And wondered why you had them when you told me there was nothing worth seeing.
His jaw shifted, slow, like he was weighing whether to answer at all. I didn't have them then.
You had eyes. You had ears. You saw her.
I saw a girl who didn't want to talk to a copper, he said, voice lowered. And I saw her sister ready to burn the whole place down if I so much as looked sideways.
She leaned in, the table between them barely wide enough for the air they shared. You're trying to tell me this is my fault?
I'm telling you I was wrong, he said, and something in his tone stripped the heat out of her anger for a heartbeat. And I'm telling you those files aren't going to be enough. You'll need more, and you'll need to be willing to
Play the game? she cut in, her mouth curling bitter. That's Caleb Wynne’s line, not yours.
Theo’s gaze cut to hers, sharp. You've been talking to him.
I've been listening. That's all.
Don't. The word landed harder than she expected.
She pulled her gloves back on, slow, deliberate. You don't get to tell me who I talk to.
He leaned back, the chair creaking under him. Fine. But when he decides your story sells better if you're the villain, I won't be the one cleaning up the mess.
When she got home, there was an envelope under her door. Not Theo's brown manila — this one was white, crisp, her name typed in a neat, impersonal font.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. No signature. No letterhead. Just four words, centred on the page:
We warned you once.
She stood there in the dim hallway, the radiator knocking somewhere in the walls, and felt the cold move up her spine.
From the stairwell below came the slam of the outer door, quick footsteps on the stairs. She flattened herself against the wall, the paper still in her hand.
When the steps reached her floor, Caleb appeared, shaking the rain from his hair.
Evening, he said, like they were neighbours bumping into each other, not enemies circling.
You followed me?
Don't flatter yourself. I was in the neighbourhood. His eyes dropped to the paper in her hand. That from Theo?
No.
Something in her voice must have been sharper than she meant, because his expression shifted — just a flicker, but enough to tell her he'd clocked it.
Let me guess, he said. Anonymous. Vague threat. Makes your stomach knot.
She didn't answer.
I can work with that, he added.
I'm not hiring you.
Not yet.
She stepped past him toward her door, but he caught her arm — light, not enough to hurt, just enough to make her stop.
Quinn, he said, and for the first time there was no smirk in it. If they've started leaving you notes, you're already in deeper than you think.
She pulled free. I've been in deep since the night she died.
His gaze held hers for a long moment, rainwater still glinting on his lashes. Then he let her go.
She shut the door behind her and slid the bolt again, the paper still in her hand. This time, she didn't set it down. She read the words again, slower. The heat in her chest wasn't fear — not yet. It was something sharper.
If they thought they'd warned her once, they'd see what happened when she stopped listening.
The paper stayed on her kitchen table all night, its presence loud enough to keep her from sleeping. She tried, tea gone cold beside her, the radiators clanking like bones settling in the walls — but every time she closed her eyes she saw the words burned into the white.
By three in the morning, she'd stopped trying. She'd cleared a space on the table, pulled out her old laptop, and set the note beside her like a witness. She knew she wouldn't trace it in one sitting — the typeface was generic, the paper cheap and smooth, the sort you could buy in any stationery shop — but she typed every detail anyway. Paper weight. Font family. The faint indent on the top edge, as if it had been torn from a larger sheet.
***
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. She poured the water, barely glancing at the cup as she dropped the teabag in. Her phone vibrated once — unknown number — and she froze.
Couldn't sleep either.
No name, but she knew the rhythm. Caleb.
She typed back before she could stop herself. You were sleeping when I left you in the stairwell.
And you were holding something you didn't want me to see. We've both got habits.
She stared at the blinking cursor. Outside, a taxi hissed past in the wet, its headlights spilling briefly across her window. She put the phone face-down.
By six, she had a list of six print shops within walking distance that didn't keep full transaction logs. Four of them were too small to hide an anonymous job. That left two. She closed the laptop and shoved the note into her bag. If she couldn't sleep, she could walk.
The air was raw and sharp with last night’s rain when she stepped out. Belfast was slow to wake, shopfront shutters still down, the smell of baking bread drifting from somewhere she couldn't see. She took the long route, not because she thought she was being followed but because she'd stopped trusting the straight line.
At the first shop, the owner was an older woman with a voice like worn velvet. She shook her head at the note. We don't do this sort of job without a name. No reason to. Waste of paper otherwise.
The second shop smelled of toner and warm paper. A man in his twenties leaned over the counter, pale hair falling into his eyes. He picked up the note by one corner and turned it under the light.
Could be ours, he said. Could be half the printers in the city. You want me to check the logs?
They'd be under cash transactions, she said.
Logs won't help you. We wipe em after a week. But He studied her. If you've got more like this, maybe I could run a test.
Her pulse tightened. What kind of test?
Paper fibres. Ink spread. It's all distinctive if you know what to look for.
And what's that cost?
He smiled, the kind of smile that said he'd double it if she asked too many questions. Let's call it forty quid.
She gave him thirty-five and left without shaking his hand.
Theo was waiting on the corner when she turned out of the side street. No coat, just a black jumper and the kind of posture that read as trouble from fifty yards.
You've been busy, he said.
You've been watching.
He fell into step beside her. We need to talk.
We already did.
This is different.
She stopped. If this is about Caleb
It’s about you, he cut in. And the fact that someone left you a note.
Her fingers curled tight in her pockets. You heard about that already?
I heard you've been in and out of print shops all morning. Which is exactly the kind of trail that gets noticed.
I'm not hiding.
Then you're making yourself an easy target. Either way, it ends the same.
She turned toward him fully. Why do you care now? You didn't when it mattered.
A muscle worked in his jaw, but his eyes didn't move from hers. Because I know who might've sent it.
Her heartbeat kicked once, hard. And?
And if I'm right, you don't want them thinking you're working alone.
She let the silence stretch, the street around them filling with the hum of waking traffic. Finally, she said, Then walk with me.
They covered three blocks in quiet before she stopped outside the café from the night before. This time, she sat facing the door.
Caleb arrived before the coffee did. He didn't ask before pulling out the third chair.
Well, he said, isn't this cosy. Detective, Activist, and the son of the Senate’s favourite scandal. Could be a pub joke.
Theo didn't look at him. You've got a tail, Wynne.
Caleb's smile didn't shift. And you've got a chip on your shoulder. How's everyone's morning?
Dara watched the two of them like she'd been dropped into the middle of a game she hadn't agreed to play.
Someone left me a note, she said, flat.
That’ll be the smallest thing they do, Caleb replied, just as flat. You've stirred them up. They'll escalate.
Of course, Caleb said. This isn't a one-man job. Rehab money doesn't get laundered through parliament without half a dozen hands in the till.
The coffee arrived. None of them touched it.
What do you want? Dara asked him.
And when the story turns ugly? she asked.
it's already ugly, he said. The question is who gets to frame it.
Theo shifted in his chair. You frame it her way or you're in my path.
Caleb's smile was almost kind. See, this is why I like you, Quinn. You make dangerous men argue over you.
Dara stood before either could reply. If you two are done marking territory, I've got work to do.
She left them at the table, the heat of their unspoken loathing chasing her out into the street.
By late afternoon, the printers boy had called. The paper had no watermark, no unique fibre blend—nothing to tie it to one machine. But the inks spread suggested it had been printed in bulk, not a single-sheet job.
Bulk meant planning.
She sat in her living room with the curtains half-drawn, the note in front of her again. Her phone buzzed once — Theo.
Meet me in an hour. Usual place.
She hesitated, then typed back, Bring whatever you think you know.
When she arrived, the usual place was busier than she liked — low light, the smell of beer and something fried heavy in the air. Theo was at the back, a pint untouched in front of him.
He slid a photograph across the table.
It was of a man in a grey suit, shaking hands with the Ministry's Deputy Director. The man's smile was thin, his eyes darker than the flash could catch.
Names Kerrigan, Theo said. Runs a consultancy that handles security for the rehab’s donors. Used to be muscle for a councillor with paramilitary ties.
And you think he sent the note?
I think he doesn't write much himself, Theo said. But he's got people who do. And he's got a reason to make you back off.
She slid the photo back. Then we make him regret it.
Theo's expression didn't change, but there was the faintest glint in his eye, the one she'd seen when he first handed her the manila envelope. You're going to need help for that.
She knew who he meant before he said it. Caleb.
Her stomach knotted. I'll burn that bridge when I'm ready.
Theo leaned back. Just make sure you're not standing on it at the time.
The rain came back before nightfall, harder this time, drumming the roof of the café until conversation had to rise to meet it. Dara stayed where she was after Theo left, her hands wrapped around the pint he hadn't touched. The glass was cold against her palms, the condensation running down in slow, uneven trails. She wasn't drinking it — hadn’t even wanted it — but the weight of it anchored her there for a few minutes longer.
Kerrigan. She turned the name over in her head like a stone. She could picture the man's handshake from the photograph — firm but hollow, all surface, the grip of someone who thought control was his natural state. She'd met that kind before. Her father's friends. The Ministry's men. Smiles without warmth, eyes without mercy.
When she finally pushed herself up, the rain hadn't eased. Outside, the lamps bled light into the wet, every puddle holding a smear of gold. She walked without thinking about the streets, her hood low, her mind clicking through names, connections, pressure points. She could get to Kerrigan. But getting to him wasn't the same as making him bleed.
Her phone buzzed. We need to talk. C.
She almost ignored it. Almost. Then she stopped under the awning of a closed shop and typed back, Make it fast.
The reply came seconds later. Tonight. Eight o’clock. Wear something that won't get you turned away.
She stared at the screen, the city's reflection broken in the wet glass. She knew what he meant. Not an office. Not an alley. Somewhere public enough to make her teeth clench.
She said nothing, but at eight o'clock she was stepping out of a taxi in front of the Europa.
The lobby smelled of polished wood and old money. Caleb was leaning against the marble pillar just past reception, suit sharp, tie loose enough to look intentional. His gaze cut over her — black dress, boots damp from the walk in — and his smile was the exact width of an open door.
You clean up quick, he said.
You didn't call me here to comment on my wardrobe.
No, he agreed. I called you here because Kerrigan's upstairs in a private lounge, and if you want to look him in the eye before you take him apart, this is your best chance.
She felt her pulse shift. And you just happen to know that?
I happen to know a lot of things, he said. Some of them about you. Some about him. Tonight, the Venn diagram overlaps.
She didn't ask if she could trust him. She knew the answer.
The lift was all glass and chrome, their reflections stacked in it as it rose. She caught herself watching him in the mirrored wall—not his smile, not his eyes, but the way his jaw worked when he was quiet, like he was biting down on whatever he really wanted to say.
The lounge was warm, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and cigars. Music played low, just enough to smooth the hum of conversation. Kerrigan was at a table near the window, his suit dark, his tie the deep blue of a politician's campaign poster. He was laughing at something a man beside him had said, but even from here, the sound didn't reach his eyes.
Caleb's hand brushed her arm—light, guiding her to the bar. Don't stare. You'll get his attention too fast.
She ordered water. He didn't comment.
Kerrigan glanced their way once, then again, longer. Recognition flickered, not because of her — he'd never met her — but because of Caleb. She saw it in the slight tilt of his head, the narrowing of his mouth. Caleb lifted his glass in a lazy salute that wasn't a greeting at all.
Tell me, she said under her breath, what's the plan here?
Plans are rigid, he murmured. This is theatre. He sees you. He wonders. He asks about you later. And when he does, we’ll know which part of the stage he thinks you belong on.
And if I'd rather skip to the part where we tear the curtain down?
Then you need more than righteous anger, Caleb said. You need the audience.
His gaze didn't leave hers, and she hated that it made her chest feel tight, not from fear but from the weight of knowing he wasn't wrong.
They stayed twenty minutes, long enough for Kerrigan to look a third time. By the time they left, the rain had thinned to a mist. Outside, Caleb lit a cigarette, offering it to her. She shook her head.
You should thank me, he said, exhaling smoke that curled silver in the streetlight.
For what?
For keeping you from doing something stupid too soon.
She stepped closer, close enough that the smoke brushed her cheek. Don't think for one beat that I need you to keep me in check.
His smile edged toward dangerous. Oh, I don't. I'm counting on you to ignore me.
Theo called just after midnight. His voice was low, urgent. He saw you tonight.
I wanted him to.
You don't know who you're baiting, Dara.
I know exactly who I'm baiting.
There was a pause. She could hear him breathing, slow and steady, like he was pacing. Then you need to be ready when he bites back.
She almost told him about the note again, about the paper and the dead ends, but stopped. Instead she said, Then keep digging. Find me something I can use.
You'll have it, he said, and hung up.
The next morning, she woke to another envelope. This one wasn't slid under the door—it was taped to it, dead centre. Same paper. Same font.
Stop, or we stop you.
She peeled it off slowly, folded it once, and set it on the counter beside the kettle. The sound of boiling water was too loud in the quiet flat.
When she called Caleb, he picked up on the second ring.
They're speeding up, she said.
I told you they'd escalate.
I'm done letting them dictate the pace.
Silence for a moment. Then, Tell me what you need.
She closed her eyes. A way into Kerrigan's schedule. Somewhere I can get him talking, on record, without him knowing it's on record.
You're asking me to burn a contact I've had for years.