Page 23 of Irish Vice

It doesn’t help that I used Mafia money to cover up what happened in the first place. And my current employer is a corporation created specifically to protect billionaires from tax obligations. And my so-called “husband” is a Captain in the Irish Mob.

But most damning of all: Every last detail of my case continues to be front-page news on an almost-daily basis, because headline-crazed paparazzi follow me around like wolves chasing a wounded sheep.

It’s just a matter of time before I’m taken down, left without a law license, without a job.

The tip of my nose is icy. I realize I need a sweater, so I make my way to the pool house, squinting in the brilliant morning sun. I’m concentrating on the tarp that covers the pool, studying the stones that anchor its swooping edges. That’s my only excuse for not noticing the open door until my hand is on the knob.

The pool house is meant for guests to use. There’s no lockon the door. No privacy. I didn’t think that would matter, not when Braiden runs all of Thornfield.

“Hello?” I call, pausing in the doorway.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The inside of the pool house is as cool and dark as a cave. I left the window coverings down when I went to breakfast.

I catch a flash of movement by the counter. Blinking, I step to my right, letting more sunlight stream inside.

Grace Poole stands by the liquor bottles Fairfax left yesterday. She has one claw wrapped around the Belvedere. The other holds a battered, dented hip flask made of steel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout, my voice even louder and harsher than I intend. I storm into my home, carried on a tide of raw rage.

She ducks her head like she thinks she’ll be smacked. Shielding her face with one hand, she pulls the full fifth of vodka close to her body.

No. It’s not full anymore.

Half the bottle’s been drained away. Even if her flask is filled to the brim, Grace has downed enough booze to pickle a rat.

“Ma’am,” she says, dropping the old-fashioned curtsey she uses like a weapon. “I thought ya were a’ th’ house.”

I could get drunk from the fumes on her breath. “I’m sure you did,” I say. “Who gave you permission to come in here?”

“No one, ma’am. I were checkin’ th’ linens. Makin’ sure ya have yer flannels and towels and whatnot.”

“You’re lying!”

“Ma’am!” She cringes like she thinks I’ll beat her.

“You’re supposed to be with Birte. Where did you leave her? Why aren’t you keeping an eye on her?”

“Miss Birte’s with th’ wean.”

The wean. That’s what Grace calls Aiofe. I remember from the day she cornered me in the greenhouse. “It’s Monday,” I say. “Aiofe should be with her tutor, now that Father Regis is gone.”

“Mr. John called out sick. Brown bottle flu, I say.”Completely missing any hint of irony, she sniffs like she smells something rotten before she mimes taking a drink. She seems surprised to find her flask in her hand.

“Grace, this is absolutely unacceptable. Now that Birte is allowed access to all of Thornfield, she needsmoresupervision, not less. You absolutely cannot let her wander the grounds alone.”

“Miss Aiofe is with?—”

“Aiofe is a child! A sick child who can’t watch over a grown woman. What if Aiofe needed to shout a warning? What if she needed to call for help?”

“Th’ first Mrs. Kelly?—”

“Stop,” I say.

“But Miss Birteisth’ first?—”

“Not another word.”

“Miss—”