Page 12 of The Thief
"That was stupid," she says when they're gone.
"Probably."
"Definitely. They'll be back."
"No, they won't."
"You don't know Sean Jennings. He's got a long memory and a short temper."
"I don't care about Sean Jennings."
"You should. His father runs most of the protection rackets in this part of Belfast."
Interesting. Local gangster family. Not my problem, but worth noting.
"Still don't care."
She stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you do that? You don't know me. Don't owe me anything."
Good question. Why did I step in? Professional instinct? Protective impulse? Or something else entirely?
"Maybe I don't like bullies."
"Or maybe you want something from me."
Perceptive girl. Maybe too perceptive.
"Maybe I do."
"What?"
Here it is. The moment of truth. Time to show my cards and see if she folds or calls my bluff.
"Information."
"About what?"
"Your father."
She goes very still. Like a deer that's just caught the scent of a hunter.
"I told you. He's dead."
"I know. I also know how he really died."
The glass slips from her fingers and crashes to the floor in a shower of crystal and whiskey. The sound cuts through the pub's chatter like a gunshot.
"Fuck," she whispers, dropping to her knees to clean up the mess.
I come around the bar without asking and help her gather the larger pieces. Our fingers brush when we reach for the same shard, and the contact sends electric static up my arm.
"You alright, love?" Murphy calls from the other end of the bar.
"Grand," she calls back, but her voice shakes. "Just clumsy."
