language would be instructive and perhaps give her--and Will Davenport--answers. Will undoubtedly had far more experience with interrogations than she did, but her father had taught her basic techniques.
"You didn't sneak off to the stone circle on a whim," Lizzie said. "Who sent you?"
The Irishman shifted back to her, cockier and less fearful now that the black dog had gone on his way. "D'you have someone in mind?" he asked sarcastically.
An unexpected coolness eased up Lizzie's spine and made her catch her breath as she remembered a night in Las Vegas in June, in the last days before the FBI arrived at Norman's Montana ranch with a warrant for his arrest.
"I do." She spoke in a near whisper. She'd come to believe Norman wanted to bloody his own hands, but now she realized he'd also wanted the drama of this multipronged attack. He'd needed help to pull it off. "I do have someone in mind. He's British. Maybe forty, with medium brown hair, gray eyes. About your height. Noticeably fit."
"How would I remember him?"
She put her palms on her thighs and leaned forward, eye to eye with him. "He's dangerous and charming and very focused. You'd remember."
"No one I know," the Irishman said.
Lizzie had no idea whether or not he was telling the truth, but she was aware of Will studying her, assessing her in steely silence. Her description of his countryman had clearly struck a nerve.
Maybe he was the one she should be questioning.
She tried not to let him distract her. "Why attack Keira with a knife? Why not shoot her? Why not poison her blackberry crumble?"
"Because of the serial killer," Keira said suddenly, quietly from the fire. "That's why, isn't it?"
The Irishman averted his eyes, giving his answer.
Lizzie saw now what he'd planned. "A copycat killing. You wanted to throw the guards off your trail by making it look as if someone was imitating the serial killer who was here earlier this summer."
He breathed in through his nostrils. "I've hurt no one."
"Not for lack of trying, my friend." She ran a fingertip alongthe rim of her glass on the table. "Eddie and his brothers would recognize you if you were a local. Where are you from? Dublin? Cork? Limerick?"
He didn't react to any of the cities she named.
Will stepped forward and unzipped the Irishman's right jacket pocket. "Let's have a look," he said, withdrawing a battered leather wallet. He opened it up and slid out a bank card with his thumb. "Michael James Murphy. Is that your real name? I expect it is. You thought you had an easy job tonight, didn't you, Mr. Murphy?"
"I tried to save her. That one," Murphy said, nodding toward Keira, his tone slightly less sullen. "I saw this black-haired witch meant to do her harm. It's lucky I happened on when I did."
Lizzie rolled her eyes. "Such a liar."
He glared at her. "You can fool them, maybe, but you don't fool me. I'll explain myself to the guards."
"Great. You do that. In the meantime, you're alone out here on the Irish coast with all of us."
He smirked at her, unimpressed.
Keira turned from the fire, her cheeks red now from the heat, a stark contrast to the rest of her deathly pale face. "He must have been watching for me on the lane and saw me walk up to the stone circle." She drank more of her brandy, holding the glass with both hands. "I thought the rain had stopped for good and a walk would ease my restlessness. I was missing Simon. Afraid for him."
Keira's love for a man Lizzie had kept at arm's length for the past year felt as natural and honest as the Irish night.
Michael Murphy--or whatever his name was--snorted at Lizzie. "You almost broke my poor knee. It hurts like the devil."
She was unrepentant. "What did you expect me to do when you came after me with your knife?"
"I was scared out of my wits, trying to save Keira. Untie me. I've done nothing to deserve being trussed up like a Christmas turkey."
"Nothing?" Lizzie raised her eyebrows, almost amused at his brazenness. "That's rich, my
"You didn't sneak off to the stone circle on a whim," Lizzie said. "Who sent you?"
The Irishman shifted back to her, cockier and less fearful now that the black dog had gone on his way. "D'you have someone in mind?" he asked sarcastically.
An unexpected coolness eased up Lizzie's spine and made her catch her breath as she remembered a night in Las Vegas in June, in the last days before the FBI arrived at Norman's Montana ranch with a warrant for his arrest.
"I do." She spoke in a near whisper. She'd come to believe Norman wanted to bloody his own hands, but now she realized he'd also wanted the drama of this multipronged attack. He'd needed help to pull it off. "I do have someone in mind. He's British. Maybe forty, with medium brown hair, gray eyes. About your height. Noticeably fit."
"How would I remember him?"
She put her palms on her thighs and leaned forward, eye to eye with him. "He's dangerous and charming and very focused. You'd remember."
"No one I know," the Irishman said.
Lizzie had no idea whether or not he was telling the truth, but she was aware of Will studying her, assessing her in steely silence. Her description of his countryman had clearly struck a nerve.
Maybe he was the one she should be questioning.
She tried not to let him distract her. "Why attack Keira with a knife? Why not shoot her? Why not poison her blackberry crumble?"
"Because of the serial killer," Keira said suddenly, quietly from the fire. "That's why, isn't it?"
The Irishman averted his eyes, giving his answer.
Lizzie saw now what he'd planned. "A copycat killing. You wanted to throw the guards off your trail by making it look as if someone was imitating the serial killer who was here earlier this summer."
He breathed in through his nostrils. "I've hurt no one."
"Not for lack of trying, my friend." She ran a fingertip alongthe rim of her glass on the table. "Eddie and his brothers would recognize you if you were a local. Where are you from? Dublin? Cork? Limerick?"
He didn't react to any of the cities she named.
Will stepped forward and unzipped the Irishman's right jacket pocket. "Let's have a look," he said, withdrawing a battered leather wallet. He opened it up and slid out a bank card with his thumb. "Michael James Murphy. Is that your real name? I expect it is. You thought you had an easy job tonight, didn't you, Mr. Murphy?"
"I tried to save her. That one," Murphy said, nodding toward Keira, his tone slightly less sullen. "I saw this black-haired witch meant to do her harm. It's lucky I happened on when I did."
Lizzie rolled her eyes. "Such a liar."
He glared at her. "You can fool them, maybe, but you don't fool me. I'll explain myself to the guards."
"Great. You do that. In the meantime, you're alone out here on the Irish coast with all of us."
He smirked at her, unimpressed.
Keira turned from the fire, her cheeks red now from the heat, a stark contrast to the rest of her deathly pale face. "He must have been watching for me on the lane and saw me walk up to the stone circle." She drank more of her brandy, holding the glass with both hands. "I thought the rain had stopped for good and a walk would ease my restlessness. I was missing Simon. Afraid for him."
Keira's love for a man Lizzie had kept at arm's length for the past year felt as natural and honest as the Irish night.
Michael Murphy--or whatever his name was--snorted at Lizzie. "You almost broke my poor knee. It hurts like the devil."
She was unrepentant. "What did you expect me to do when you came after me with your knife?"
"I was scared out of my wits, trying to save Keira. Untie me. I've done nothing to deserve being trussed up like a Christmas turkey."
"Nothing?" Lizzie raised her eyebrows, almost amused at his brazenness. "That's rich, my
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