Page 49

Quinn covered Andy’s hand again, and threw an instinctive look around the noisy dining room. This time Quinn’s grip was not in reassurance. It was in warning.

“I know. You’ve been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours.”

Andy stared down at Quinn’s hand. At Quinn’s long, strong fingers, the short, tidy nails, the glint of brown hair on his wrist, and the glimpse of an expensive but unostentatious watch.

“Maybe when Marcus threw me into the wall, I never woke up. MaybeI’mthe one in a coma.”

Quinn’s mouth curved sardonically. “You’re not dreaming. You’re not in a coma. You’re very tired, and you had a couple of drinks on an empty stomach. That’s all. You’re okay.”

Quinn was probably right, at least about some of that, because his quiet, almost gentle,“You’re okay,”closed Andy’s throat like a vise, made his eyes sting.

It had been a hell of a long time since someone had touched him without the expectation of either controlling him or asking for something in return. A long time since someone had spoken to him in that tone of voice. Since someone had offered him help—someone who might actually be able to deliver on that offer.

So yes, he was just really tired and a little buzzed, and some peculiar stuff was happening, and he was, well, affected by the fact that Quinn Rafferty, returned from the grave, was the someone offering him help.

“Yes.” Andy drew a deep, steadying breath, permitted himself the pleasure of turning his hand to briefly squeeze Quinn’s before pulling away. “Something else puzzlinghappened—and I know it seems like an oversight not to have mentioned it, although it might be nothing, might just be a coincidence, but there’ve been so many developments…”

Quinn seemed to sort through that jumble of words without trouble. “True.”

“There was a scrap of paper in the cash register with the wordWhittakerscribbled on it and a phone number. The number’s no longer in service. There was no notation. No address or order number. But I did come across the name Whittaker in Uncle C.’s purchase journal. He’d bought a suit of armor from him—or her—a few months ago. Last year, Uncle C. had five transactions with Whittaker.”

“And you think that’s significant?”

“I don’t know. I’m grasping at straws because Idon’tknow.”

“But?”

“But if they’ve done business before, why leave a scrap of paper with the name Whittaker in the cash register? Why would he need a reminder?”

Quinn shook his head. “Knowing Cutty…”

“The paper could have been there for years? Okay, true. But also, the Whittaker Uncle C. was doing business with was—is—located in Bangor.”

Quinn said cautiously, “Okay.”

“I know, but Bangor is not Uncle C.’s usual stomping ground. He was nervous about driving in what he considered The City.”

Quinn smiled faintly. “He wouldn’t necessarily have to drive to do business, though, would he?”

“No. But he wasn’t tech savvy. I tried to boot up his computer this morning, and it was still updating when I left this evening. He liked to make his purchases the old-fashioned way. Attending estate sales, auctions…”

“Right, but I’m not sure I’m seeing what you’re seeing.”

“Out of curiosity I searched Bangor listings for people with the last name Whittaker. There are a couple. There’s also a drug manufacturing company called Whittaker Pharmaceuticals. And I found a pawnshop called Whittaker’s Second Chances.”

“That’s probably it, don’t you think?”

“Yes. I do. However, I also came across an obituary for a June Whittaker who was killed in a hit-and-run on Thursday evening.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “This past Thursday evening?”

“Yes.”

“Was she connected to Whittaker’s Second Chances?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Coincidences do happen.”