Kieran
Declan ordered the expensive whiskey, which meant he had something to say that he didn't want to say.
I'd known Declan for fifteen years and had catalogued most of his tells without ever mentioning it. The way he was sitting now, angled slightly away from the bar, one elbow on the surface and his body turned toward the room as though he might need to leave quickly, appeared when he was about to deliver information he wasn't sure would be received well.
I waited.
"You're going to want to finish that before I start," Declan said. He was looking at the bar rather than at me.
"I haven't started it."
"Then start it." He picked up his own glass. Put it down without drinking. "Christ, Kieran. You're going to make this difficult."
"I'm sitting here. I'm not speaking. How is that dif
