“So she wouldn’t kill him…”
“Didn’t say that,” Torin says. “I’d just rule her out for now. She’s not evil. Just ice cold. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“We all have,” I mutter.
I file it away next to the fake cop, the missing ID, the dead PI, and a dozen other unanswered questions.
“We have too many fucking questions andno answers,” I say.
“No,” Torin corrects. “Not what Roark just told me. He should be here…”
The doorbell rings.
“Speak of the fucking devil,” Tor says.
He goes to let our cousin in.
Roark doesn’t sit. He stands in the middle of the room and takes everything in. He rubs a ringed hand over his face. “Heard y’killed that bag of dicks, Con,” he says. “If you’re taking his buildings, I’ll buy in. Could use another investment property.”
“I thought the body was a lowlife PI slash gun for hire,” I say. “Is that right?”
He nods, then lifts the bag in his hand. “Whiskey?”
I raise a hand even though I don’t really want any. He moves like a well-trained Lola—smooth, sneaky, utterly at home. He finds the glasses without asking and lines up five.
“Make that six,” Ava says, sauntering in wearing a red dress that could cause accidents.
Seamus isn’t far behind, and Cal comes in from his side of the house. Murphy council called to order by the siren song of whiskey and big fucking problems.
Roark pours. His gaze lingers a bit too long on Ava. He winks at Seamus, whose eyes narrow to slits. Business as usual.
He passes the drinks around. “Got some leads on your dancing queen’s da,” he says.
I nearly shoot off the sofa. Only Clawzilla’s claws in my thighs keep me grounded. “Which are?”
“Still in motion,” Roark says in that tone that tells me he’s protecting paying clients as well as family. It pisses me off. “We found another body in a shallow grave. Definitely a cop. Or it was. He left the forcebefore someone put him in the ground. Don’t know if it’s connected yet. But he matches an ex-cop Torin found, out of Chicago.”
“And?” I push.
“And he had something on him about Mario,” Roark says. “Plane ticket booking number for a Mark Brown, and…”
Wait. Mark Brown. Mario. Is it a fake name? My brain starts chugging.
“Sounds like he was helping this Mario guy, not running some solo sting,” I say. “Is Mario Mark?”
“I can’t say,” Roark replies, meeting my gaze. Which is as close to a yes as I’ll get. I already know he needs to be evasive for his business purposes but it’s fucking annoying to not get a straight answer out of him. “Mark never made the flight. And there’s another photo of your ballerina that puts her at the crime scene. I think we could use it.”
“How?” Cal asks.
“We need to be smart,” Ava says, wrapping herself around Seamus. “Maybe we can?—”
“No,” I cut in, setting Clawzilla gently aside so I don’t shred my own lap. “I already know how we turn this.”
“How?” Tor asks, watching me carefully. From the little curl of Roark’s mouth, he’s already half-guessed.
They’re all worried I’ll get myself killed. Do something drastic. Maybe Ava believes that slightly less than the rest.
“Smuggle her away?” Ava suggests.
