Page 83 of Her Wild Coast Promise

“I didn’t steal it,” Walsh fires back. “I found it.”

This could be true, so I play along. “Where?”

“On the ferry.”

I nod, my eyes on Walsh, who is still turned sideways in his chair, looking at the floor. He’s just told me his first lie. Now we’ll see where it takes us.

“Why didn’t you turn it in?”

He shrugs.

“Why use it to buy alcohol? Don’t you have a valid license?” I already know the answer to this question because we’ve taken his possessions into custody, which included a wallet with his ID and credit cards. But it’s a good idea to start at the beginning.

Walsh slumps deeper into his chair, but the action looks forced. “I couldn’t find it. The bitch said I was holding up the line.”

He likely means the cashier. Hunter and I exchange a glance. That’s he’s started using profanity could be an early sign of distress. Maybe we’re getting to him.

“When we approached you in the arcade, why did you run?” I ask.

“I got spooked.”

“Spooked enough to climb the railing and jump into the water?” Hunter asks.

Walsh swallows again.

“Tell us about Kristov Stoll,” I say.

“Who?”

I don’t shift in my chair or make any other indication that he’s surprised me. “The man you met with in the arcade.”

“I didn’t meet with anyone.”

I resist the urge to massage my bruised and wounded shoulder. “What did you two chat about?”

Walsh sets his elbows on the table, as if squaring off with me. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“That’s not what he’s saying.”

Walsh squeezes his eyes shut. He’s breathing faster, shallow.

I hold completely still. He’s thinking hard about this.

“You have this all wrong,” Walsh says.

“Then help us get it right,” I say.

He laughs, but it’s dry. “Fuck off.”

Hunter and I wait in silence, unmoving. When it’s clear Walsh is done for now, we stand up. We’ve planted the seed. Now it’s time to see if it grows.

Outside the room, Brian is waiting. We follow him to a tiny enclave of a break room with a narrow fridge, coffeemaker, microwave, and sink. As if on cue, my stomach growls. It reminds me of the stoic answer I sent Cora earlier, and the agony of knowing she’s eating alone.

“Walsh claims he doesn’t know Stoll,” Brian says with an edge in his voice, snapping me back to our conference. “But guess what we’ve been able to dig up? They both worked for the rail system. Overlapped for about a year. Stoll’s a mechanic, and Walsh worked as a contract laborer, until he stopped showing up for work six months ago.”

“So Walsh is lying.” I rub my sore shoulder. At least I didn’t need stitches.

“How do we put this to use?” Hunter asks Brian.

---