That wasn’t the response Deirdre wanted. Her lips puckered, and she opened her mouth, as though she was thinking about making some other calculated confession. But in the end, she just nodded and squeezed his hand a final time. “Until tomorrow, then.”
He still didn’t say anything.
Deirdre favored Finn with another sad, soft smile, then slid off her stool. “Right now, I’m going to go have a drink, get patched up, and pretend like that bastard didn’t shoot me and ruin my favorite dress.” She let out a laugh, trying to make a joke of things, but it was a thin, brittle sound, and we could all hear how badly she’d been rattled. “Did you find me a healer, Tucker, honey?”
“Of course,” the vampire murmured, his voice as bland and forgettable as the rest of him. “Mr. Lane’s info was most helpful. I’ve already made the arrangements. Please, allow me.”
He held out his arm. Deirdre looped hers through his, leaning on him for support. Given the shock and adrenaline still coursing through her body, she wasn’t all that steady on her feet, and she wobbled in her heels as Tucker escorted her away.
Finn watched them go, his gaze locked onto his mother, while Bria, Owen, and I hovered around him.
All around the lobby, people talked and texted, chattering in louder and louder voices to one another and the cops who had arrived on the scene. But our group was still and silent. I squeezed Finn’s shoulder, letting him know that I was here for him.
He shrugged off my hand without even looking at me.
“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he watched Deirdre slowly cross the lobby. She reached the front doors, stopped, and looked over her shoulder at him. Their eyes locked, and she smiled at him a final time before leaving the bank. The door banged shut behind her, seeming as loud as a clap of thunder, but Finn kept staring and staring at that spot, as if he couldn’t believe everything that had happened, all the bombs that Deirdre had dropped on him.
Deirdre Shaw might have lost some blood and her favorite dress, but she’d also gained something from being shot. Something far more valuable than the jewelry, watches, and phones that Santos had tried to make off with. Something far more important in the grand scheme of things. Something she wanted most of all.
Finn.
* * *
Finn continued to stare at the door that Deirdre had stepped through.
Bria looked at me. I shrugged, so she eased up and put her hand on Finn’s shoulder. He blinked, as if her gentle touch had finally roused him from his fuguelike state.
“I can’t believe that Dee-Dee is my mother. That she’s alive. That she’s in Ashland . . .” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the door again.
Bria looked at me, then at Owen, who shook his head. He didn’t know what to do for Finn any more than we did.
Suddenly, Finn whipped around on his wing tips, throwing off Bria’s hand. He stared at her a moment, before fixing his gaze on me, his green eyes growing colder and harder the longer he looked at me.
“You knew,” he accused in a loud, harsh voice. “The two of you knew that Dee-Dee was my mother. Owen was as shocked as I was, but you two? Not so much. Not at all, really.”
My heart dropped, and my stomach clenched. This was the moment I’d been dreading ever since I found Fletcher’s file, but I had no one to blame for it but myself.
“You’re right. I knew about Deirdre. Now, let me explain—”
“That’s the reason for all the soft touches and sympathetic looks,” Finn said, cutting me off. “How long? How long have you known, Gin?”
Before I could answer, Owen nudged me with his elbow and jerked his head to the right. I looked past him and realized that Finn’s coworkers were staring at us, along with Stuart Mosley. So were the cops and everyone else still in the lobby. They all knew a juicy bit of drama when they saw it. Finn hadn’t exactly screamed his accusations at me, but he hadn’t whispered them either.
I turned back to Finn. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have here,” I said in a low voice. “And I don’t think you want to have it here either. Besides, we need to get you to Jo-Jo’s so she can look at that knot on your head. Let’s go to the salon, and I’ll tell you everything.”
His gaze flicked around the lobby. His mouth tightened, and an angry flush stained his cheeks as he realized that we were the center of attention. “Fine.” He spat out the word. “But you’d better hope that Jo-Jo has some alcohol hidden in the cabinets somewhere. Because I need a drink. Several of them.”
He whipped around again and strode away without another word.
Bria gave me a worried look.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Go with him, and make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy. Owen and I will finish up here and meet you at Jo-Jo’s.”
Bria nodded, grabbed her purse off the bar, and hurried across the lobby after Finn, catching up with him just before he reached the doors. She shot me one more worried glance before following him outside.
“Well,” Owen rumbled. “I guess I know what the bad news is.”
I winced. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. But I wanted to let Finn know first. I just never thought that Deirdre would beat me to the punch. That she would be here tonight. That she would already have her hooks into Finn.”
Anger surged through me, and I kicked the stool where Deirdre had been sitting. The metal chair skidded across the marble floor before banging into the wooden bar and teetering to a stop. The noise made everyone stare at me again, but I didn’t care right now.
“I’m such an idiot,” I growled. “Finn has been going on and on about his great new client for weeks now. I should have realized there was more to it than just him schmoozing with someone. I should have considered the possibility that it was Deirdre, trying to get close to him.”
Owen took my hands in his and stroked his thumbs over my skin. “You’re not an idiot,” he said. “Finn always talks about his clients, ad nauseam sometimes. There was no reason to suspect that this client was different from any other. Although . . .”
“Yeah?”
“How long have you known about Finn’s mother?”
I had started to answer when I realized that people were sidling closer and closer to Owen and me—all the criminals still left in the lobby. Gun runners, loan sharks, bookies, and more. All standing in a loose knot, all with their arms crossed over their chests, all waiting for me, the big boss, to tell them how I was going to fix this, how I was going to find and take down the people who had dared to try to rob them.
I sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it on the drive over to Jo-Jo’s. But first, let me deal with this.”
Owen squeezed my hands, then stepped back.
I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and waded into the middle of the mobsters. Everyone clustered around me, talking at once, their voices growing louder and louder as they demanded that I find the robbers right fucking now and have them strung up from the nearest streetlight. For once, I was in total agreement with them. I wanted the robbers found, all right, especially Santos, so I could make him pay for trying to hurt Finn.
But I put my game face on, made all the appropriate I’m-going-to-find-and-kill-these-bastards noises, and promised all the bosses that this sort of behavior would absolutely not be tolerated on my watch.
The only ones I didn’t have to placate were Lorelei and Mallory, who stood on the fringes of the crowd. Lorelei was busy texting on her phone, while Mallory watched me soothe the bruised egos of the other criminals, an amused expression on her wrinkled face.
By the time I got done playing my part as the head honcho and the other bosses had finally drifted away, more cops had streamed into the lobby, including a seven-foot-tall giant sporting a black leather jacket. Despite the cold night, he wasn’t wearing a hat on his shaved head, and his ebony skin gleamed under the lights. Xavier, Bria’s partner on the force.
Xavier spotted Owen and me and walked over to us. T
he giant looked around the lobby, his dark eyes taking in all the overturned furniture, smashed glasses, and trampled food.
“This reminds me of that robbery at the Briartop art museum during the summer,” he rumbled. “Minus a few bodies.”
I grimaced at the mention of the other heist. I’d thwarted that one too but not before several innocent people had been killed. At least tonight only the robbers had died.
“Roslyn won’t be sorry she missed this,” he added.
Roslyn Phillips was Xavier’s significant other and a vampire friend of mine who ran Northern Aggression, a decadent nightclub.
“She’s on vacation with Lisa and Catherine, right?” I asked, referring to Roslyn’s sister and niece.
Xavier nodded. “Yep. Took them to the beach at Blue Marsh for two weeks. Roslyn called me this afternoon to tell me how great the weather was down there.”
We chatted for a few more minutes before the giant pulled a notepad out of his pocket, and Owen and I told him what had happened. Xavier asked several questions, writing everything down, then looked at me.
“Bria texted me,” he said. “She told me about Finn’s mom.”
I rubbed my aching head. “Yeah.”
“Go make sure he’s okay,” Xavier said. “If I need anything else, I’ll call. And tell Bria that I’ll check in with her later.”
I stepped forward and hugged him. “Thank you.”
Xavier hugged me back, then winked. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
One of the other cops called his name. Xavier waved at the man, smiled at Owen and me a final time, then headed off in that direction.
“You ready to leave?” Owen asked.
I looked out over the lobby, just like Xavier had done. In a matter of minutes, the elegant space had been ruined. The marble walls scorched and cracked by bullets, the floor littered with glass, crystal, and shell casings, the antique furniture smashed to pieces. This destruction was bad enough, but worry iced over my heart as I thought of how Deirdre might hurt Finn—and how much more permanent that damage might be.
“Gin?” Owen asked again.
I shook my head, trying to squash my troubling thoughts, but I wasn’t the least bit successful. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go check on Finn.”
9
Owen and I left the bank and drove over to Jo-Jo’s house. During the ride, I told him about discovering Fletcher’s file on Deirdre, digging up her grave, and finding the box of photos and mementos that had been hidden inside. I even told him about the letter that the old man had written to me. The only thing I didn’t mention was the second letter to Finn. I still wasn’t sure what to do about that.
When I finished, Owen let out a low whistle. “That is all kinds of messed up,” he said. “Why do you think Deirdre left Ashland? And stayed away and let everyone think that she was dead? Do you think she and Fletcher had some sort of falling-out?”
I shrugged. “Something had to have gone down between them. Something bad, judging from what little Fletcher said about her in his letter to me. I wonder why he didn’t write more, why he didn’t tell me exactly what happened between them.”
“Maybe Fletcher wanted you to make your own judgments about Deirdre and not be biased against her based on their history together,” he said. “Maybe he was hoping that she had changed, that she had become a better person than the one he knew, for Finn’s sake.”
“Maybe, but all I have now are more questions than answers.”
“I imagine Finn has the same,” Owen pointed out.
I sighed and leaned my head against the window. “I know, and I hate that I can’t give him those answers. But Fletcher said that Deirdre is dangerous. That she only cares about herself. If she really loved Finn like she claims¸ then why didn’t she come back to Ashland years ago? Why didn’t she reach out and try to have some kind of relationship with him before now?”
Owen looked at me. “You think she’s up to something.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. She didn’t just mosey into the bank and get hooked up with Finn by accident. She planned it, just like she planned on using that initial connection to squirm her way into his life. And then there’s the robbery.”
“What about it?”
I snorted. “I find it more than a little suspicious that First Trust, which has never, ever been successfully robbed before, just happens to get hit the night that Deirdre and Finn are there. That Deirdre just happens to get shot in the process of saving Finn’s life but that, miraculously, her wound is not serious at all. No one is that lucky.” I paused. “Well, not me, anyway.”
“But you saw Deirdre,” he said. “The shock on her face, the tremors, all of it. Whatever else she might be guilty of, she wasn’t faking how upset she was about getting shot.”
I let out a breath. “I know. And she did seem like she was a victim tonight, like everyone else. But something about her just doesn’t sit right with me.”
Owen frowned. He was as well acquainted with my paranoia as Finn was, although he didn’t tease me about it nearly as much.
He steered his car into a subdivision, then up a hill, and parked in front of a three-story white plantation house. Bria’s sedan was already here, and the front porch light was on, along with several more lights on the first floor.
We got out of the car, stepped onto the porch, and went inside. Owen followed me down a long hallway, which opened up into an old-fashioned beauty salon. Cherry-red chairs lined the back wall, and tables filled with beauty magazines were scattered throughout the room. A counter along one wall bristled with combs, curlers, and blow dryers, along with pink plastic tubs filled with lipstick, nail polish, and eye shadow. The air smelled of hairspray and other chemicals, along with a faint, soothing hint of vanilla.
Finn was leaning back in a salon chair, his suit jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a glass of Scotch in his hand. It wasn’t his first drink, judging from the half-empty bottle sitting on the table at his elbow.
Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux was perched on the edge of a chair next to him. The dwarf must have gotten out of bed, since she wore a long pink housecoat. Her middle-aged face was free of its usual soft makeup, and her white-blond hair was done up in pink sponge rollers for the night. Rosco, her basset hound, was sprawled across her bare feet, as though he was trying to keep her toes warm with his tubby body.
Bria was sitting on a couch off to one side of the room, along with Sophia Deveraux, Jo-Jo’s younger sister. The Goth dwarf was wearing a black microfleece robe decorated with silver skulls that had red sequined hearts for eyes. The sight made me think of Deirdre’s icicle-heart rune, and more cold worry balled up in my stomach.
Jo-Jo was healing Finn, and a milky-white glow coated her palm and glimmered in her eyes. Her Air magic gusted through the salon, the pins-and-needles sensation brushing up against my skin and making me grind my teeth. Jo-Jo’s Air power was the opposite of my Stone magic, so I never liked the feel of it, which was as harsh and grating as sandpaper rubbing against my skin. Ironically, for as badly as Deirdre’s Ice magic had chilled my hand, it was similar to my own Ice power, so it hadn’t made me want to snarl, not like Jo-Jo’s power did.
Jo-Jo moved her palm back and forth over the gash in Finn’s forehead, using the oxygen and all the other molecules in the air to stitch his skin back together, fade out the bruising, and smooth out the bump he’d gotten from his hard fall.
A minute later, she dropped her hand and gave him a tentative smile. “There you go, darling. Good as new.”
“Thank you, Jo-Jo,” Finn said in a stiff voice.
He threw back the rest of his Scotch, then poured himself another. Everyone remained quiet, except Rosco, who whined, sensing the tension in the room. Finn downed the second Scotch, then poured himself a third one, before he finally deigned to look at me.
He stabbed his finger at me. “Start talking, Gin. Right fucking now.”
His voice was as sharp, clipped, and cold
as I’d ever heard it. Anger rolled off him in almost palpable waves, and a storm of emotions flashed in his green eyes. For the most part, Finn was a cheerful, happy-go-lucky guy. But the angrier he got, the more that cheer crystallized into something else—something dark, dangerous, and deadly. I hadn’t seen this level of cold, contained rage from Finn in a long, long time.
His rage increased my own worry, but I stepped up so that I was standing directly in front of him, drew in a breath, and told him everything. He stared at me the whole time, analyzing and cataloging every single word I said. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer any comments of his own. All he did was sit there and stare at me, his face solidified into a chillingly empty mask.
I kept my own face and voice neutral, reciting the facts, just the way Fletcher had laid out the information on Deirdre in his file. I also told Finn and the others about the mementos and the letter that Fletcher had left me in the casket box, including what the old man had said about how dangerous Deirdre was and how she didn’t care about anyone but herself.
Bria gave me a sharp look, obviously wondering why I hadn’t told her about the letter when we’d first gone through the casket box. I gave her a guilty, sheepish shrug in return. But I still didn’t mention the second letter that Fletcher had written to Finn. I’d already mangled things enough. I’d tell Finn about the letter later, in private, so he could decide whether he wanted to share it with everyone.
After I finished, no one moved or spoke, and the salon was so quiet that I could hear the steady tick-tock-tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Finally, Finn downed his Scotch, leaned forward, and poured himself yet another.
“So you’ve known that my mother is alive for days now, and you kept it to yourself this whole time,” he said. “That’s why you were so eager to pay for dinner at Underwood’s tonight. When exactly were you going to break the news to me? After we got the bread basket? Or were you going to wait until the dessert course? Oh, hey, Finn. By the way, your mother, the one you thought was dead, is actually alive. Pass the fucking cheesecake.”
Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14) Page 8
