Page 81 of Knot for Sale

“No, ma’am,” I agreed. “Jeffrey’s down with the flu this week. He asked me to fill in.”

Those piercing eyes—so similar to Emma’s—remained on me for long moments, unblinking.

“Right, then,” she said eventually. “Don’t dawdle. Getting an appointment at this clinic is too damned difficult to risk being late for it.”

I murmured agreement and helped her make her way down the treacherous staircase to the front walk. She accepted my assistance like a queen, but she waved off my attempt to seat her in the back of the car in favor of taking shotgun.

“I don’t get out often, young man. I want the best view of things on those occasions when I do.”

“We can take the scenic route on the way back,” I told her, and went to put the folded-up walker in the boot. Moments later, we were pulling away from the curb and merging into traffic.

My plan was to play things straight on the way to her appointment, then broach the subject of Emma on the way back. That way, I avoided the risk of having her scream bloody murder to the clinic receptionist if her reaction to my request was a negative one. If worse came to worst, I’d drive her the rest of the way back to her house, dump her at her front door, and be gone before she could get inside and call for reinforcements.

Yep... that had been the plan.

In reality, we’d made it about a mile and a half when she whipped a can of pepper gel out of an inner pocket of her plaid-lined Burberry coat and aimed it at my face.

“Pull the car over and park it, son,” she said in a tone of steel. “Because you’re not who you say you are, and if you’ve ever spoken a word to little Jeffrey in your life, I’ll eat my hat.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Curran

I PULLED OFF the road and into the first available parking spot, keeping my hands visible at ten o’clock and two o’clock on the wheel.

“You know, I like you already,” I told the silver-haired, pepper-spray wielding pensioner in the passenger seat. “I can see where Emma got her pluck.”

It would have taken less than a second to backhand the little black mace cylinder out of the old dear’s grip. She was holding it extended in front of her body—an easy target for disarming. I was ninety-nine percent confident it would be unnecessary, though.

On cue, the cylinder dipped a few inches. “How do you know Emma?” Clarabelle demanded.

“My employer rescued her from a bad situation with her uncle and cousin,” I said. “She and a friend of hers have been staying with us until we can get things sorted out.”

I watched her expression carefully as cars whizzed past us on the road. Either she hadn’t learned how to hide her reactions behind a mask—despite the decades she’d spent in this world of organized crime—or else she hadn’t learned how to do it where Emma was concerned. I watched the gears turning in her head.

The hand holding the mace fell to rest in her lap. “What kind of situation?” she asked cautiously. “What did Tommy do?”

“I’d rather let her explain in her own words,” I told her. “She wants to meet with you, but it wouldn’t be safe for her to do it openly. She sent me to get the message to you and ask if you’re willing to see her.”

Clarabelle’s lips parted, but she paused for a long moment before speaking.

---