Finn snorted, but his face softened, and a little more of the cold anger leaked out of his eyes. “You and me both, sister,” he muttered, sounding much more like his usual cheerful self. “So what do we do now?”
I grabbed the glass out of his hand and set it on the table. “You are going to go upstairs, take a shower, and crash here for the night. Then, in the morning, you’re going to call in sick so you can sleep off your hangover. After that, you’re going to put on your best suit, come to the Pork Pit, and talk to your mother.”
Finn nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
He got out of his chair, took a step, and wobbled. He would have done a header onto the floor if Bria hadn’t rushed up and grabbed hold of him. Even then, he kept wobbling back and forth.
Owen started forward to help Bria with Finn, but Sophia got there first. She swung Finn up into her arms, as though he didn’t weigh any more than Rosco.
“My Princess Charming,” Finn drawled. “Sweeping me off my feet.”
Sophia snorted. “Lightweight,” she said, a fond note in her gruff voice.
He gave her a drunken smile, his glassy eyes indicating that he was feeling no pain now, and pointed toward the hallway. “Yep, that’s me. Finnegan Lane, lightweight drinker. Now, to the shower, my lady!”
Sophia carried Finn out of the salon, with Bria following them. That left me with Owen, Jo-Jo, and Rosco. The basset hound had apparently had enough drama for the night, because he hauled himself to his feet, waddled over, and curled up in his wicker basket in the corner.
“I wish I could tell you more, Gin,” Jo-Jo said. “But Fletcher kept Dee-Dee to himself.”
I nodded and rubbed my temples, which were throbbing like I’d just downed as much Scotch as Finn had. I started pacing back and forth, even though the snap-snap-snap-snap of my stilettos against the floor added to my headache. My troubled thoughts were as quick as my steps, and more and more questions crowded into my mind.
“You really think she’s up to something?” Owen asked.
“For Finn’s sake, I hope she’s not. This is one instance where I would be happy to be wrong.”
“But?” he asked.
That photo of Deirdre staring down at newborn Finn with no expression on her face popped into my head again. Funny, but that was exactly how Finn had looked at me tonight, as if I didn’t matter to him at all, and it had shaken me far more than I cared to admit.
“Gin?” Jo-Jo asked.
I stopped pacing and looked at her and Owen. “But something tells me there’s a lot more to Deirdre Shaw than just a mother trying to reconnect with her son.”
10
We left Finn at the salon, and Owen drove me back to Fletcher’s. He offered to spend the night, but I sent him home. I wasn’t good company right now. Not when so many thoughts and questions kept swirling around in my mind about Finn, Fletcher, and Deirdre.
I had just locked the door behind Owen and slipped out of my stilettos when the phone rang. I sighed, knowing exactly who it was—and that he would just keep calling until I answered him.
So I went into the den and grabbed the cordless phone. “Hello, Silvio.”
Silence. “How did you know it was me?” The vampire’s voice flooded my ear.
“Because I turned off my cell phone before I went to the bank, and no doubt you have been trying to reach me ever since you heard about the robbery.” I sat down on the couch. “Not to mention the fact that the phone rang a mere minute after Owen left. How would someone know that I was home right this very second? Unless, of course, he had planted a GPS tracker on Owen’s car.”
Silvio cleared his throat. “I will neither confirm nor deny that.”
“Of course not.”
I didn’t say anything more as I leaned back and put my feet up on the coffee table. The silence stretched on . . . and on . . . and on . . .
Finally, Silvio sighed. “You’re going to make me ask what happened, aren’t you?”
“Would I do something like that?”
“Absolutely,” he grumbled.
Even though he couldn’t see me, I still grinned. “Sadly, it’s the most fun I’ve had all night.”
I filled him in on the robbery and Deirdre’s big reveal. When I finished, he was silent, although a series of clickety-clack-clack-clacks sounded through the phone, as if he was typing out notes on our conversation. Now, that was what a good assistant was supposed to do.
“I have some preliminary information on Ms. Shaw,” he said, still typing away. “I’ll have it and more waiting at the Pork Pit in the morning.”
“Thank you. You’re a good friend, Silvio.”
“I do try,” he said, an amused note in his voice. “Now, get some sleep. I’ve got work to do.”
We hung up, and I went upstairs, took a shower, and got into bed. I thought I would have trouble falling asleep, since my brain was still in overdrive, but as soon as my head touched the pillows, I dropped off into the land of sleep, dreams, and memories . . .
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”