The caffeine from my chilled latte had worn off hours ago and I was starving.
On one level, I could appreciate what Inspector Jayne was doing; it was his job, he was doing it very well, and it was obvious Patrick OâDuffy had been his friend. I hoped theyâd done the same for Alina. On another level, it infuriated me. My problems were so much bigger than this. It was an epic waste of my time. Not only that, I felt exposed. With the exception of my trip across the back alley this morning, I hadnât set foot outside of the bookstore since Iâd seen what Iâd seen in the warehouse at 1247 LaRuhe a week ago. I felt like a walking target with a bullâs-eye painted on my forehead. Did the Lord Master know where to find me? How high was I on his list of priorities? Was he still wherever heâd gone when heâd stepped through that portal? Was he watching the bookstore? Did he have his Rhino-boys, those watchdogs of the Faeâthe lower caste of enormous, ugly, gray-skinned Unseelie with wide, squat, barrel-bodies, jutting underbites, and bumpy foreheadsâwaiting to grab me the moment I walked out of the police station by myself? Should I
try
to get myself formally arrested? I discarded that thought the instant I had it. Humans couldnât keep me alive. I blinked, startled to realize I no longer quite counted myself in that camp.
âHe was my brother-in-law,â he said abruptly.
I winced.
âAssuming 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,â he said bitterly. âSo what the fuck was he doing, Ms. Lane? Because we both know your storyâs bullshit. Patty didnât miss Mass. Patty didnât follow up on cases on his personal time. Patty stayed alive because Patty loved his family.â
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 whoâd 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. Sheâd 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 heâd died?
I never used to lie. Mom raised us to believe that every lie puts something out there in the world thatâs inevitably going to come back and bite you in the petunia. âI canât explain Inspector OâDuffyâs actions. I can only tell you what he did. He came by to tell me Alinaâs case was staying closed. Thatâs all I know.â
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 OâDuffy had somehow learned that something big, nasty, and not human had moved into Dublin, and been killed because of it, heâd 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 havenât 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 Iâd heard as a child had a prince rushing to the rescue of the princess. Men down south love to play up to that image.
Itâs a strange new world out there and the rules have changed: Itâs every princess for herself.
It was five-forty-five before they finally let me go.
OâDuffyâs brother-in-law escorted me to the
Susan Kiernan-Lewis
Tom Ryan
Amber White
Carla Swafford
Ledyard Addie, Helen Hunt 1830-1885 Jackson
Timothy W. Long
Karice Bolton
Charlie Cochet
David Aretha
A. J. Cronin