Page 47 of The Business of Blood
My stomach flopped upside down, and my heart shrank several sizes as he studied me through the slits of his eyelids.
“During the Kelly inquest, you told me your father was an Irish garda. You swore under oath.”
It wasn’t a lie and was easily proven. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
I settled on outraged.
Was Inspector Croft investigating me? After all this time?
“I never lied.”About that.“My father was a member of the Irish police.”
“He is no longer.”
“So?” I challenged.
“You claimed your family remains in Dublin.”
“They do.”
“You mentioned your brothers, all Mahoneys, were named Fallon, Finnigan, Flynn, Farrin, Fitzwilliam, and Fayne.”
I tried not to be impressed that he’d remembered them all. My dear, beloved brothers.
“Indeed.” As much agony as their names brought upon me, I fought a little giddiness, as well. It wasn’t often I had the opportunity to exploit the monosyllabic portion of the conversation with Croft.
See how he liked it, for once.
“There is no record of a Frank and Grace Mahoney living in Dublin. Neither could I find your brothers. They don’t have employment records, residences, licenses, travel papers… Not that the bloody Garda were much help, even to a fellow officer.”
“You’re not a fellow officer to them, are you? You’re a representative of the enemy. Why should they give you information about one of their own?”
He released me then. Testing the limits of his shoulder seams as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we at war, you and I? Are we enemies?”
We certainly weren’t allies. But perhaps that was as much my fault as it was his.
“I didn’t lie to you when I testified that my family remains in Dublin, Inspector. I never said theylivedthere.”
“Remains.” Beneath his swarthy complexion, he flushed an ashen shade. “I didn’t check death certificates,” he realized aloud. “I didn’t request the bloody cemetery records.”
He’d have found my entire family if he had.
And they were bloody.
So. Much. Blood.
“You’re…alone.” His gaze became softer than I’d ever seen it, his expression touched with pity—something I hadn’t thought him capable of.
“I’m alive.” My voice, on the other hand, was hard. Harder than I’d ever heard it. My bones felt forged of steel, though the heart beneath them seemed as fragile as glass.
I welcomed his pity even less than I wanted his suspicion.
“What happened to them?” he whispered.
“That’s none of your concern.” While I backed away from him, my brittle vulnerability threw up pikes of protection in hopes he’d skewer himself before breaching my well-built fortifications. “Their murders are not your case. They’ve been explained.”
But not avenged. Does anyone in this world really get justice?
“I thinkyou’rethe mystery that needs solving, Fiona Mahoney.” He looked as if he might reach for me again. Like maybe this time his touch would neither restrain nor repel me.
