“Tanks.” One of the men steps forward and extends a hand. I take it and receive the firm shake.
“Pádraig Fagan,” he says, warmly. “Paddy for short.” Henods to the man on his left. “This is my eldest boy, Brody, and that one there, ‘tis my youngest, Lorcan.”
I nod to each of the sons.
“Thanks for inviting me. Is this about the truce?”
Paddy’s eyes widen a touch. “No, lad. We’re happy with that. Appreciate it an’ all.”
My brows knit. “So, you wanted to see me about something else?”
“Aye. I understand we have Callum McAllister in common.”
My spine stiffens at the name. What has the imbecile done now?
“Well, my friend,” Paddy continues. “It seems he’s trying to get us to blackmail ye. Thought ye might want to see the evidence he got.”
Paddy gestures to a high, narrow table with a wooden stool by it—both of them splattered with dried flecks of blood. I take a seat and wait as he disappears through a door, returning with a manila envelope. He hands it to me and I peer inside.
The contents look safe enough, so I tip them out onto the wooden table. Straight away I can see they’re photographs of a naked woman posing in a variety of provocative positions.
Before I can question them, the same door bangs open and the two sons haul into the room a short skinny man with pale reddish hair. There’s a cocky expression on his face despite the fact two large Irishmen have him contained by both arms.
This must be Callum McAllister, the little shit who stole from me and stood back while I took his niece as payment.
I don’t grace his presence with a word. Instead, I flick through the photos, confused as to what they mean and what they have to do with me.
“Go on then, McAllister,” Paddy jeers. “Tell him what they are—the photographs.”
“I will if these two punks let go of me,” he replies with a sinister lilt.
I lift my gaze slowly, already unimpressed by whatever it is he has to say for himself.
“Just spit it the fuck out,” I drawl. “I don’t have all night.”
Sitting in a butcher’s shop surrounded by every kind of blade is making me feel a little green to be honest, and as someone who grew up a killer, that’s saying something.
The two sons release him and he shakes out his arms, as if to make himself appear taller than his five foot six meagre height.
“That’s your woman there,” Callum says, nodding to the photographs. “That’s Pfeiffer.”
I drag my gaze back to the pictures and look a little closer. The photographs are slightly dated—they must have been taken over a decade ago—and the woman’s head has been cut off in all of them, but her long hair is splayed across her body. It’s visible in the shot of her on her belly, on her back, on her side. The same strawberry blonde strands I had wrapped around my fist only hours ago.
One of the photos shows an arm thrown out to the side. I peer at it closely, my heart stopping at the familiar sight. There’s a small tattoo of a swallow on the inside wrist of her right arm. The exact same tattoo Pfeiffer has.
Itisher. Fully naked. And posing like a?—
I don’t want to say it. I don’t want tothinkit.
“Where did you get these photographs?” My voice sounds distant and hollow.
“They were in one of her father’s drawers.”
My gaze lifts to him like a laser gun. “Herfather’sdrawers?”
Callum shrugs like that’s nothing. “She will have put them there. He’s losing his marbles. Doesn’t know what day it is half the time, or decade for that matter. That’s why she came home, you know. He has dementia.”
I feel a bolt of anger crack inside my chest. That’s why she came back? Why she gave up her job? To care for her father?
