Chapter 2 - THE SCARS BEHIND THE DOOR
Rory opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Quinn looked down at herself, at the coffee spreading across the front of her blouse, then slowly removed her glasses.
“Paper towels,” she said.
Rory blinked.
“What?”
“Paper towels, Rory.”
He moved so fast he nearly tripped again.
Cormac pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Use the supply bathroom,” he told Quinn. “There should be spare clothes in the executive cabinet.”
Quinn gave him a flat look.
“Your spare clothes?”
“My sister keeps emergency outfits here for charity dinners.”
“I’m not wearing a sequined dress at nine in the morning.”
Cormac almost smiled.
“Second cabinet. Plain things.”
She stood.
Coffee dripped onto the floor.
Rory returned with an entire roll of paper towels and the terrified expression of a man who had not yet decided whether he was allowed to remain alive.
“Ms. Sutherland, I’m really—”
“It was an accident.”
“I can buy you a new shirt.”
“It was a seventy-dollar blouse.”
Rory looked relieved.
Then Quinn added, “And you are never carrying open drinks through my work area again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cormac watched her walk toward the private records room at the end of the corridor.
Not the bathroom.
The records room had a small changing alcove used by event staff when the floor hosted corporate meetings.
Quinn disappeared inside.
The door clicked.
Cormac turned back to Rory.
“Why are you here?”
Rory looked confused.
“You sent me for coffee.”
“Before that.”
“Oh. Right.”
He reached into his jacket and handed Cormac an envelope.
“Pier Four. One of the container seals was cut.”
Cormac’s mood shifted instantly.
“Which container?”
“Seventeen-B.”
The medical supplies.
At least officially.
Unofficially, Seventeen-B held six encrypted satellite phones, cash, and the backup books from a waterfront operation Cormac had been trying to clean up for two years.
“Who knows what was inside?”
“Me. Declan. Mr. Mercer. Quinn, probably.”
Probably.
Cormac looked toward the records room.
Quinn knew almost everything because she had to.
That did not mean she cared.
“Where is Declan?”
“Downstairs.”
“And Mercer?”
“Meeting at City Hall.”
Cormac turned toward his office.
Then remembered the folder he needed from records.
Tax assessment copies.
Quinn had been reorganizing them yesterday.
He walked down the corridor.
The records room door stood closed.
He knocked once.
No answer.
He tried the handle.
The lock had been sticking for weeks.
Maintenance was supposed to fix it.
The knob turned.
The door opened.
Cormac stepped inside.
“Quinn, where did you—”
He stopped.
She stood with her back to him.
Her ruined blouse lay on a chair.
She wore only a pale camisole from the waist up and was pulling a cotton shirt over one arm.
For half a second, embarrassment registered.
Then something else erased it.
Scars.
Across her shoulders.
Down her spine.
Thin lines.
Thick lines.
Some pale with age.
Some darker.
Parallel marks across the ribs.
Small circular burns near one shoulder blade.
Not random.
Not surgery.
Not an accident.
Patterned.
Cormac knew what deliberate injury looked like.
He had seen men beaten for information.
He had seen interrogation rooms.
He had done things he did not discuss even with himself.
These scars were old.
And systematic.
Quinn froze.
Cormac stepped back immediately.
“Sorry.”
She did not turn.
“The lock is broken.”
“I know.”
“I knocked.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
He should have left.
Instead, the room held him for one awful second too long.
Quinn slowly pulled the shirt down.
Then faced him.
Her expression was blank.
Not ashamed.
Not frightened.
Controlled.
That frightened him more.
“I need the McKenna property file,” Cormac said.
It was the stupidest sentence of his life.
Quinn put on her glasses.
“Third shelf. Blue binder.”
He found it.
She buttoned the cotton shirt all the way to her throat.
Cormac did not look at her back again.
He wanted to.
Not because he was curious.
Because every scar had become a question.
And Cormac Sheridan hated unanswered questions.
“Quinn.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
She met his eyes.
“You were going to ask something.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
The word was quiet.
Final.
Cormac had built an empire by knowing when silence meant fear and when it meant warning.
This was both.
He nodded.
“Fine.”
Quinn picked up the ruined blouse.
“Anything else?”
He wanted to say whoever did that to you is dead if I can find them.
Instead:
“No.”
She walked past him.
At the door, he said, “Maintenance will fix the lock today.”
Quinn paused.
“Thank you.”
Then she returned to her desk.
By ten-thirty, she had processed three invoices, rescheduled two meetings, threatened a freight broker with contractual penalties, and behaved as though nothing had happened.
Cormac failed completely.
He read the same customs report four times.
At eleven, Matteo—no, wrong family—Declan Sheridan entered his office.
Declan was Cormac’s cousin, operations chief, and one of the only people alive who could tell him he looked distracted without consequences.
“You look distracted.”
Cormac stared.
“Pier Four.”
“Rory told me.”
“Seal on Seventeen-B cut.”
Declan’s face hardened.
“Anything missing?”
“Not yet confirmed.”
“Who touched the container?”
“Port staff. Gallagher’s people. Our drivers.”
“And Quinn.”
Cormac looked up.
Declan noticed.
“What about Quinn?”
“Nothing.”
“You said her name with your face.”
“My face?”
“The one you use before you ruin somebody’s week.”
Cormac leaned back.
“When did we vet her?”
Declan frowned.
“When she started.”
“How deep?”
“Standard executive staff.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Cormac.”
“How deep?”
Declan studied him.
“Employment, criminal, financial, education, family, references.”
“Family?”
“Mother dead. Father dead. No siblings.”
“Where was she before Boston?”
“New York.”
“What firm?”
“Halloway Capital.”
“For how long?”
“Three years.”
“And before that?”
Declan thought.
“Graduate program. Some nonprofit accounting.”
Cormac tapped his fingers once against the desk.
“Run it again.”
Declan’s expression sharpened.
“Why?”
“Because Seventeen-B was cut.”
“That’s not why.”
Cormac looked at him.
Declan raised both hands.
“Fine.”
He left.
At noon, Quinn entered with lunch.
Cormac stared at the container.
“I didn’t order.”
“You forget to eat when customs problems annoy you.”
“You monitor my meals now?”
“I monitor your blood sugar because you become unreasonable when hungry.”
“I am always unreasonable.”
“Yes, but less efficiently.”
He almost smiled.
She placed the food down.
Her cuff shifted half an inch.
A scar crossed the inside of her wrist.
Cormac saw it.
Quinn saw him see it.
The air changed.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded.
“Your two o’clock moved to three.”
“Quinn.”
She stopped at the door.
“I said I wouldn’t ask.”
“Good.”
“That does not mean I won’t make sure nobody here is connected to whatever happened.”
Her face became still.
“There is nothing to make sure of.”
“You don’t know what I’m checking.”
“I know how men like you think.”
Cormac stood.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you see damage and immediately assume someone owes you revenge.”
He stared.
She continued.
“Some things are old enough to stay buried.”
“Buried things rot.”
“Not always.”
“Sometimes they get dug up.”
Her eyes changed.
Just slightly.
Fear.
There.
Cormac hated it.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she was afraid of what he might find.
“You’re not in trouble,” he said.
Quinn almost laughed.
“That sentence is rarely comforting from a crime boss.”
“Fair.”
She turned to leave.
Then Cormac’s phone rang.
Declan.
Cormac answered.
“Talk.”
“Your second background check found a problem.”
Quinn stopped.
Cormac watched her.
“What problem?”
“Halloway Capital never employed anyone named Quinn Sutherland.”
Silence.
Cormac looked directly at her.
Quinn did not move.
Declan continued.
“College record is real. Degree is real. Social Security number matches. But there is a three-year block between twenty-three and twenty-six where almost everything is fabricated.”
Cormac’s pulse slowed.
“What else?”
Declan hesitated.
“Her father’s death record is fake.”
Quinn closed her eyes.
Cormac said, “Alive?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“He didn’t die in a car accident like the file says.”
Quinn whispered:
“Hang up.”
Cormac looked at her.
Declan continued, “Cormac?”
“What really happened?”
“Federal sealed record. I only got the header.”
“What header?”
“Witness protection.”
The room became silent.
Quinn’s face went white.
Cormac ended the call.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Quinn took off her glasses.
“I resign.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“You don’t get to reject that.”
“I do until I know whether my secretary is using a false employment history because she is hiding from enemies or because she is one.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I am not your enemy.”
“Good.”
“That does not mean you get answers.”
“You work inside the center of my operation.”
“I balance schedules and invoices.”
“You bribed Gallagher before breakfast.”
“He is easy.”
Despite himself, Cormac almost smiled.
Then he remembered her scars.
Witness protection.
Fake father death.
“Who are you hiding from?”
Quinn said nothing.
Cormac stepped closer.
“Does it involve Pier Four?”
“No.”
“Does it involve my father?”
Her expression changed.
There.
Tiny.
Enough.
Cormac stopped.
“My father.”
Quinn looked toward the glass walls.
Employees moving beyond.
Normal office.
No privacy.
“Not here.”
That was the first answer.
Cormac locked his office.
Closed the blinds.
Quinn remained standing.
He sat.
A deliberate choice.
Less threatening.
“Talk.”
She looked at him for a long time.
Then:
“My father worked for Patrick Sheridan.”
Cormac’s father.
Dead five years.
The old boss.
The man who built the syndicate Cormac spent half his time modernizing and the other half cleaning.
“What was his name?”
Quinn’s throat moved.
“Eamon Sutherland.”
Cormac knew it.
Not personally.
A name from old ledgers.
Security.
Collections.
Disappeared twelve years ago.
Official story: stole money and fled.
Patrick Sheridan had ordered every record of him removed.
Cormac’s blood went cold.
“Eamon Sutherland was accused of taking six million.”
“He didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw where it went.”
Cormac stared.
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
The scars.
No.
He already hated the answer.
“Who did that to you?”
Quinn looked at him.
Not crying.
Not breaking.
Just tired.
“Men who wanted the same answer you do.”
Cormac’s stomach turned.
“Who?”
She whispered:
“Your father’s men.”
The office vanished around him.
“No.”
Quinn smiled without humor.
“That is what I thought you’d say.”
“My father did not torture teenagers.”
“You knew him as your father.”
“I knew him as a boss.”
“Did you?”
The question cut.
Cormac stood.
Quinn stepped back.
He stopped immediately.
That movement.
Automatic.
She had learned to measure men when they stood too fast.
Something broke inside him.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She did not answer.
Cormac’s voice lowered.
“Who gave the order?”
Quinn looked toward the harbor.
Then back.
“I never knew.”
“Name the men.”
“Three are dead.”
“And the fourth?”
Silence.
“Quinn.”
“He works here.”
Every sound in the office disappeared.
Cormac’s hand tightened around the desk.
“Who?”
She opened her mouth.
Then the fire alarm sounded.
Once.
Twice.
Not a drill.
Red lights flashed.
Quinn’s face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“No.”
Cormac looked at her.
“What?”
She grabbed his wrist.
“Do not use the main stairs.”
“Why?”
“That alarm pattern.”
“What about it?”
Her voice dropped.
“It’s the same one they used twelve years ago before they burned my father’s office.”
Cormac stared.
Then smoke began curling beneath his office door.
May you like
Somebody had heard enough.
And they were still inside the Sheridan building.
