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Chapter Sixteen

A few weeks later, I’ve managed to gather secondary information that might be useful in a conviction, but neither one of them has let me into the conversations they have together. Those seem to happen when I’m sleeping or off on another errand. My Irish isn’t getting much of a workout. Otherwise, they dance around each other like two boxers, more preoccupied with defense than landing a direct hit.

I’m cooking myself some lunch when Finn strolls into the kitchen. “I hear we’re having company tonight.” He grabs a coffee mug out of one of the cupboards next to me.

“Yep,” I say. “You got a problem with that?” Without looking at him, I drop more tabasco into the sauce on the stove.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be taking it up with you.”

“Ah, yes. You’d speak to your deartháir beag .”

Finn raises his eyebrows as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “Ay, I would.”

“It’s not nice of you to mock his accent.”

“He’s my brother. I can do what I want. Just because it gets you all wet to hear it, doesn’t mean it isn’t a bit of a farce.”

“You think he puts it on?”

“Come on, Kimmy. You’re not dumb.”

The full Irish accent and the complete Bostonian ones are certainly things he puts on like masks or costumes. But Lorcan’s natural way of speaking, the lilt, the hint of an accent underneath is authentic.

“Well, I’m glad you think I’m smart.” I twist his words. “Your brother has asked me to look into who killed your father. So he must think I’m pretty smart.”

Finn stills beside me. “He what?”

“You’re not deaf, Finn.”

“It was the O’Malleys.” He waves a hand.

“The same O’Malleys you’re peddling Viagra with?”

He snaps his fingers in mock remembrance. “That does remind me, I need to sign that contract.”

“You’re not in business with them?”

Finn wrinkles his nose. “I went to the O’Malleys to screw with Lorcan.”

“Yeah, I got that part. The deal must be decent?” I wave my wooden spoon around and set it down. When I was taking the photos of the contract, I skimmed it. It didn’t seem like terrible terms or payout, all things considered.

“I don’t like Derry. I made his family enough money years ago. They’re a bunch of sleazy pricks who have no trouble getting into places they don’t belong.”

“What’s that mean?”

“His father helped arrange my mother’s death.” Finn’s icy eyes meet mine.

“That’s why you fought for them?” Puzzled, I furrow my brow. Making them money sounds like the opposite of what I’d expect.

“I was trying to get information.”

“Did you get it?”

“In a way.”

I sigh. “Is that why you think the O’Malleys killed your father?”

“No.” He takes the spoon off the counter, dips it into the sauce cooking on the stove, then pops it into his mouth. Finn’s gaze connects with mine. “Certainly not bland.”

“I like a bit of spice.”

“As do I.”

I roll my eyes and continue thinking out loud. “If the O’Malleys killed him, why aren’t you doing something about it?” I take a new spoon out of the drawer and stir the sauce.

“You like wars, Kimmy?”

My focus flicks to him. “When they’re necessary.”

“Retribution isn’t always necessary. When it is, the timing needs to be impeccable. No mistakes. No one left alive.”

“That’s your plan with the O’Malleys? Take them down?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

He laughs, the sound deep and full as it bounces around the kitchen. “I said you were smart.”

“Actually, you said I wasn’t dumb.”

His laugh subsides to a chuckle. “That’s not the same thing?”

“Not quite.”

For the first time, his face is alight with something like genuine amusement, and my chest warms at the sight.

“What time is Carys arriving?”

“Before dinner.” I remove the sauce from the stove and observe Finn, trying to decide. “I have enough for you, if you want.”

“Ooh, yes please.” He rubs his hands together as I dish out the rice, chicken from the oven then layer my sauce over it.

I pass the plates and then move around the island to a seat while Finn gets the cutlery.

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

“My mother.” A lie . It was my father. My mother couldn’t cook anything. She even burned toast.

He takes the seat beside me and holds his fork poised before his lips, ready to take his first bite. “You’re not in touch?”

“No.” Even though she isn’t dead, the woman she used to be is dead to me, gone. She’ll never be recovered.

Finn cuts a piece of his chicken and chews. “I don’t remember much about my mother. Lorcan’s mum was more like my mother.”

“And your dad?”

Picking up his coffee, Finn takes a long drink. “My relationship with my father was complicated.”

“Were you surprised he died?”

One side of his mouth quirks up, the opposite side to Lorcan. “I sure as hell hope so. Otherwise,” he says, glancing at me, “it’d mean I had something to do with it, wouldn’t it?”

When he says that, I look down at my plate, and it takes me a moment to meet his gaze, but when I do, I’m careful to keep my features neutral. “Would it?”

His eyes narrow, and he shoves another piece of chicken in his mouth. “Lorcan actually thinks it was me?”

There is no way I am answering that question. “Should he?”

Finn scoffs. “What did I gain I wouldn’t have gained by waiting?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the satisfaction of knowing the person responsible for your mother’s death was dead?”

“I took care of that a long time ago. My father didn’t kill her. He only ordered it.”

“That matters?”

“It does when you’re talking about family.”

“You think it was the O’Malleys?”

Finn shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I had to tell Lorcan something, didn’t I? We were being attacked on all fronts, and I needed him to get back in the game. At least with someone to hate, he was focused for a while.”

“Why not tell him that?”

“He’s not going to listen to me. He thinks I did it. I’ve known for a while—but it’s impossible to convince someone you didn’t do something.”

“You have to prove someone else did.”

“That’s the best way. I haven’t had the time or energy to do that. I gotta keep this thing running. With Lorcan off making shitty deals, I have to clean up after him too.”

“So,” I drag out the word. “Assuming I believe you. Who else could it be?”

“Isn’t that your job? I told you it’s not me, and I don’t think it’s the O’Malleys, either. Now—Kimmy—work your magic.” Finn waggles his fingers at me like he’s doing a spell.

“Not even a list of suspects?”

“Everyone but me and the O’Malleys. There’s your list. Ta-da!” He smirks at me. “I thought Derry was going to piss himself when we were in his office.”

I laugh at the memory. “The stench of fear was real.” Picking up Finn’s empty plate and my own, I put them into the sink. “Seriously, though. Some kind of list of people you guys deal with? Anything?”

He crosses his arms. “Yeah, okay. I can get you a list of people we deal with.”

My heart makes one loud, triumphant thump in my chest. That list will be gold for my investigation. But it’s not going to help me figure out who killed Chad. “Do the O’Malleys deal with the same people you do?”

Finn’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“That’ll get you killed.” He points a finger at me. “Take the list I give you and start asking around. Keep it subtle. Accusing people we associate with of murdering our father is a big deal. It could get you killed and put us under fire.”

“I understand that.” My heart deflates a touch because he didn’t give me a straight answer about the O’Malley connections.

“Today, I want you to go back to Zhang’s for me.”

My face screws up with distaste. “Why?” That strip club isn’t high on my list of priorities. Of course, if Malik is working, I can ask him if the bureau knew anything about Chad or about the O’Malley fight ring. Getting him alone without blowing his cover might be tough, though.

“Zhang says he has a better offer. I’m not interested yet, but I don’t want to be completely disrespectful. The Chinese like to save face.”

I clutch my chest and lean back in mock shock. “You know something about Chinese culture?”

“Only what I have to know to do business.” He comes around the island to stand next to me. “Are you game?”

“Alone?”

“Take Antonio, but he can wait in the car. He’s backup.”

I give a slow nod. “Okay. Bring the offer back here?”

“Yes.” Finn searches my face. “Thank you.”

A hint of a smile threatens. “For?”

“Being a good listener. It’s rare.”

The sincerity in his ice-blue eyes takes me by surprise. “Maybe you’re not talking to the right people?”

He chuckles and taps my nose. “Maybe, Kimmy. Maybe.” He turns on his heel and wanders out of the kitchen, whistling the tune that’s been stuck in my head for weeks. I can’t forget it, and yet, I can’t quite remember how it got there. Before I can ask, he’s gone.

Everything he revealed circles as I scrub the dishes. It seems likely he didn’t murder his father. If it wasn’t him, who? And why?

Then there’s Chad’s death. Maybe going to Zhang’s will be good. Maybe Malik will have answers.