His next words drop like a brick.
“Why the fuck would Leon be calling you after my brothers and I made it damn clear that he needs to stay the hell away from you??
He says it like a question.
But we both know it’s a lot more like a threat.
SEVENTEEN
declan
Leon hasno business calling my wife. We fucking spared his life the other night when he showed up with his bullshit excuses about being worried about Marlowe’s well-being. And now he’s sniffing around again? Does he have a fucking death wish?
“Why is he calling?” I ask again, my voice rough. “For the record, I know you didn’t text him the other night when he showed up at our house. He contacted you. And I don’t believe it was just out of concern, either. I think something else drove him to you.”
That might be a little bit of a stretch, but I need to know if she really believes his bullshit, or if there are any other surprises she’s sitting on, like the dead not-cop’s notebook.
Marlowe blinks up at me, pupils blown, lips swollen, hair a wild mess around her face. She looks wrecked and beautiful and utterly confused.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “I didn’t ask him to come that night, it’s true. I was trying to cover for him because I really didn’t know what he wanted. He never got a chance totell me. But I swear I haven’t… I haven’t heard from him since then, Declan. Not until just now.”
I hate that I believe her.
I hate that I don’t believe anyone else.
“Maybe he was in trouble. Maybe he needed help. Maybe he just—” She cuts herself off with a sharp sigh. “Ireally don’t know.”
She’s telling the truth.
Or shethinksshe is.
And I hate that I’m questioning everything—Leon’s angle, her mam’s lies, her da’s disappearance, the cartel, this mysterious Mario. Every thread tangles together, and somehow Molly’s right in the center of it, no matter how much I try to keep her out.
I tuck myself away, needing distance before I do something stupid like ask more questions I won’t like the answers to.
I pocket the phone without answering. “You don’t call him back. Not until I say so. Understood?”
Her nostrils flare. “I’m not a child you can order around.”
“Understood, Molly?”
A beat. Then a tight nod.
I don’t like this. Hating her is easier. Wanting her is easier. This sick twist in my gut where I’m half jealous, half suspicious—thisshiteis new. And I don’t like new.
So I do what I’m good at.
I shut down before I start asking stupid shit, like who she’d choose if she had the chance, and focus on where the fuck Ernie is with my money. Con, or Ernie, whatever name he’s using this week, owns a string of run-down apartment buildings where everything happens except ordinary people living quiet lives. He’s been a problem from the start. A beating from Seamus and me that took him months to fully recover from was meant to send the message.
Don’t be late paying the Murphys. If you are, be ready for the consequences.
But Con’s a screwup. And he’ll keep fucking us over if we give him more chances.
So now, we’ll just take his properties and get rid of him.
That’s what I should be thinking about right now.
But all of that pales next to fucking Leon calling my ballerina.
