“He was my brother-in-law,” he said abruptly.
I winced.
“Assuming you had nothing to do with his murder, I still have to find a way to tell my sister what the fuck he was doing with you the morning he died,” he said bitterly. “So what the fuck was he doing, Ms. Lane? Because we both know your story’s bullshit. Patty didn’t miss Mass. Patty didn’t follow up on cases on his personal time. Patty stayed alive because Patty loved his family.”
I stared dismally at my hands, folded neatly in my lap. I badly needed a manicure. I tried to imagine what the wife of an officer who’d died mere hours after visiting a pretty young woman, and was given the inane reason for the visit I was offering, would think and feel. She’d know she was being lied to, and the unknown always takes on greater, more terrible proportions than whatever truth is concealed behind the lie. Would she believe, as her brother did, that her beloved Patty had cheated on her and betrayed their marriage vows the morning he’d died?
I never used to lie. Mom raised us to believe that every lie puts something out there in the world that’s inevitably going to come back and bite you in the petunia. “I can’t explain Inspector O’Duffy’s actions. I can only tell you what he did. He came by to tell me Alina’s case was staying closed. That’s all I know.”
I drew comfort from the fact that if I came clean and told him everything, confessed every bit of it, down to my suspicion that O’Duffy had somehow learned that something big, nasty, and not human had moved into Dublin, and been killed because of it, he’d believe me even less.
The afternoon was endless: Who owns the bookstore? How did you say you met him? Why are you staying there? Is he your lover? If her case is closed, why haven’t you gone home? How did you get those bruises on your face? Are you working somewhere? How are you supporting yourself? When do you plan to go home? Do you know anything about the three abandoned cars in the back alley behind Barrons Books and Baubles?
The whole time, I waited for Barrons to come and rescue me, the product, I suppose, of growing up in a world where nearly all the fairy tales I’d heard as a child had a prince rushing to the rescue of the princess. Men down south love to play up to that image.
It’s a strange new world out there and the rules have changed: It’s every princess for herself.
It was five-forty-five before they finally let me go.
O’Duffy’s brother-in-law escorted me to the door. “I’m going to be watching you, Ms. Lane. Every time you turn around, it’s my face you’re going to see. I’m going to be tape to your ass.”
“Fine,” I said tiredly. “Can I get a ride back to the bookstore?”
Okay, that was a no.
“How about the phone? Can I use it?” He gave me another hard look. “Are you kidding me? You guys wouldn’t let me get my purse this morning. I don’t have money for a cab. What if somebody out there mugs me?”
Inspector Jayne was already walking away. “You don’t have a purse, Ms. Lane. What would somebody mug you for?” he tossed over his shoulder.
I glanced uneasily at my watch. When they’d picked me up at the bookstore, they’d made me remove the flashlights from the waistband of my jeans and leave them with Fiona.
Thunder rumbled, vibrating the glass panes in the windows.
It was going to be dark soon.
“Hey! You there, wait up!”
I didn’t break stride.
“Beautiful girl, wait a minute! I was hoping I’d see you again!”
It was the “beautiful girl” part that flung a noose around my foot, the voice that snagged it tight. I raked a hand through my recently butchered hair and looked down at my dark, baggy clothes. The compliment was balm to my soul, the voice young, male, and full of fun. I skidded to a halt. Shallow, I know.
It was the dreamy-eyed guy I’d seen in the museum the day I’d been searching it for OOPs.
I turned bright red. That was the day V’lane had amped up the death-by-sex thing and I’d stripped in the middle of Ireland’s famous Ór exhibit, right there in front of God and everybody.
Flushing, I sprinted off again, splashing through puddles. It was raining—of frogging course—and the sidewalks of Dublin’s craic-filled Temple Bar District were nearly empty. I had places to go, darkness to race, guys who’d watched me strip to avoid.
He dropped into a long-legged lope beside me and I couldn’t help myself, I slanted a look at him. Tall, dark, dreamy-eyed, he was boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, in that perfect stage where guys are velvet skin over supple hard bodies, without an ounce of fat. I’d bet he had a six-pack. He was a serious leftie. Once upon a time in my life, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a date with him. I’d have dressed in pink and gold, swept my long blond hair up in a playful ponytail, and painted my nails and toes to match, Young-Hearts-Beat-Free-Tonight Blush.
“Fine, I’ll run with you then,” he said easily. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”
“None of your business.” Go away, pretty boy. You don’t fit in my world anymore. How I wished he did.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again.”
“You don’t even know me. Besides, I’m sure you saw more than enough of me at the museum,” I said bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
He shot me a quizzical look. “All I know is I had to leave right after I saw you. I had to go to work.”
He hadn’t watched me strip? Some of the ugliness of my life melted away. “Where do you work?”
“Ancient Languages Department.”
“Where?” Hunky and smart.
“Trinity.”
“Cool. Student?”
“Yeah. You?”
I shook my head.
“American?”
I nodded. “You?” He didn’t sound Irish.
“Little of this, little of that. Nothing special.” He smiled and winked. Dreamy eyes, long dark lashes.
Wow. Right. This guy was special all the way down to his toes. I wanted to know him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to feather my lips on those lashes. And he’d probably end up dead if he hung around with me. I killed monsters other people couldn’t see and had just spent the entire day in the police station on suspicion of murder for the death of a man I hadn’t killed instead of the sixteen I had. “Leave me alone. I can’t be your friend,” I said bluntly.