I thought I’d found someone who could relate to what I’d been going through. I felt mortified. And completely and utterly betrayed.
Had any of it been real? His being in my store on War Night? Taking me into Devil’s Isle to “help” me? Or was this all some sort of plan? Liam Quinn, bounty hunter, just continuing his work investigating the traitorous members of the Connolly family?
I felt really stupid. And the fact that last night had almost happened—that near kiss—just made the pain keener.
I pulled off the gloves, threw them down, then walked to the edge of the roof and stared out at the city. Slate roofs, black balconies, gaps of broken buildings and rubble that stood out like missing piano keys. And in the distance, the glowing hulk of Devil’s Isle, of the prison I was trying to avoid.
Somehow I’d backed right up against it.
I put my elbows on the parapet, watched the river slink by. For just a minute, I let myself indulge in fantasy. I thought of grabbing my go bag and making a real exit this time. Starting over without the Quarter, Containment, Quinn. I’d give myself a new name, maybe cut and dye my hair. My gun was in the safe, extra bullets. I could use that to hunt what game was left, find a place to camp out. Or maybe find some of Nix’s friends, a roaming band of “good” Consularis Paras to hang out with, to avoid Containment with.
I sighed, wiped my cheeks. It always came back to Containment. As long as you were in the Zone, Containment would be there.
I stood up again, shook off the self-pity. It wasn’t attractive, and more important, it wasn’t useful. Running when I didn’t think I had a choice was one thing. But right now I had choices.
I also had a few questions for Mr. Quinn.
? ? ?
He walked in at six o’clock, a smile on his face, and even more stubble. He wore a couple of fitted, layered T-shirts today, jeans, and boots. The shirts were snug enough that I could see the bulge of his gun. If I hadn’t been so pissed at him, I’d have said he wore the entire ensemble very, very well.
Liam took in the top, skirt, tights, and boots I’d worn today since the weather had cooled a little, offered a friendly smile. “You look nice. You gonna be all right if you get the ensemble a little scuffed up?”
The smile couldn’t compete with the tension between us, or my anger. Ignoring the question, I walked to the front door, locked it. I didn’t want to be interrupted.
His smile had vanished when I turned around again. “What’s wrong?”
“I want the truth. About everything.”
Liam put his hands on his hips, frowned. “The truth about what? What are you talking about?” He paused, uncertain for once. “Is this about last night?”
My cheeks warmed. “No, it’s not about last night. A Containment agent came to see me today. And he wanted to talk about you.”
Liam froze, gaze narrowing at me like a predator ferreting out his prey. Or maybe vice versa. “Which agent?”
“Jack Broussard.”
His face didn’t register surprise or anything else. “I see.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Liam watched me as silence fell heavy around us.
“Did you investigate my father?”
If I’d surprised him, he didn’t show it. But then again, he wouldn’t have. And he didn’t answer, which only made my fury bloom hotter.
“Was this all a ruse? Your being here in the store that night? Helping me get into Devil’s Isle? Are you trying to get information about Sensitives? Is this some sort of sting operation?” My mind spun, trying to make sense of the web he’d woven, the complications, the details.
“No,” Liam said, the word forceful enough to snap my gaze to his. His eyes gleamed like hot sapphires. “No, damn it. It wasn’t any of that. It’s not any of that.” He ran a hand across his mouth, jaw. “Sit down, Claire.”
“Tell me.”
When I stared back at him, he closed his eyes, looked like he was praying for guidance. He wasn’t the only one.
Liam pulled out two chairs at the table. “Please sit down, Claire.”
I sat down, but Liam didn’t. Not yet. He walked back to the kitchen, and I heard drawers opening and closing. Dizziness had settled in, just enough to make my hands shake. When he came back with a bottle of cold water, I twisted off the cap, gulped.
He sat down in the other chair, angled it to face mine, and ran his hands through his hair. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at me.
And he told me his story.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I’m twenty-seven,” Liam said. “I was twenty when the war started. A junior at Xavier. I’d planned to go to law school, mostly because that’s what Eleanor expected.