Page 96 of Player

Clarissa

Finn reorders us breakfast and insists we enjoy it without interruption.

Who am I to protest? At this point, I’d run ten more miles, eat three breakfasts, and kiss Finn’s battered lips until his knees shook because I’m that happy.

“Easy does it,” he mutters, encouraging me to contain my excitement.

I clap my hands together. “Easy is right. Can you believe Sylvia Ogdenhayer is in Cork? And she’s taken an interest in you?”

Mrs. Ogdenhayer is in Ireland. She’s dealing directly with O’Brien.

And Finn and I are right in the middle of it.

Finn shrugs then stabs a fork into a slice of ham.

I ignore his lackluster enthusiasm and busy myself finishing up business. I take out my iPhone and replay the video, anxious to hear Sylvia Ogdenhayer’s voice and check for sound quality. The audio is crisp and clear, and better than I hoped for. Yeah, I needed more. I needed her to say O’Brien’s name or discuss being in Ireland on business. I’ll have to fill in the blanks myself. But it sounds like O’Brien will be at the fights, so this is just the beginning of getting to the heart of these characters.

With careful fingers, I upload it along with the warehouse footage. I have half a mind to skim through everything and begin connecting the pieces of this complicated puzzle for viewers.

“Eat.”

I glance up.

Finn gestures to my full plate of food. “Yer eggs are getting cold.”

With a sigh, I tuck my phone away and give in to my hunger. Finn alternates between staring at his plate and watching me eat. I know this because I do the same.

“That little girl would have wanted to be like you if she’d grown up.”

I drop my fork. “What?”

“Christiana. The wee tyke you lost. She’d have looked up to you if she’d lived.”

Tears form, his words springing a withered cork free from a dam. “You remember her name.”

He taps a finger to his temple. “Big head. Big brain.”

I pick up a napkin and dab my eyes.

“I’ve no doubt you’d find a way to make change even without this story.” He pauses, watching me carefully. Probably waiting for the sprig of tears to turn into a geyser.

I shake my head. “This story is the one. It has villains, twist and turns that read like a melodrama, and a hero.”

Finn looks away and readjusts his big body in his chair. Modest for such a bold man. Uncomfortable with me calling him a hero.

“Anyway,” I say, drawing his focus back to what I’m saying, “The networks will want more investigative pieces if this story strikes a chord with viewers. I have another one locked and loaded to go. Christiana’s story will be told.”

I am going to honor that little girl’s memory. I’ve been waiting a long time to do so.

Finn sets his coffee cup down a bit too hard, splashing coffee everywhere.

I laugh at his unusual clumsiness and toss him a napkin. “Here.”

He busies himself cleaning up, unaware of how his comment keeps playing through my mind. Does he know how kind his words are? Does he understand how deeply affected I am when considering Christiana would have wanted to take after me?

“Let’s go.”

He stops mid-dab with the napkin and gives me a curious look.