“Oh, I doubt that, honey,” I drawled again. “Finn doesn’t usually go around telling people that I moonlight as an assassin. But I imagine you know all about my sideline business already. After all, you were involved with Fletcher.”
Deirdre’s chuckles died on her lips, and she opened, then closed her mouth, as if debating whether or not to claim that she hadn’t known anything about Fletcher being an assassin. But she squared her shoulders and owned up to it. “Yes, I was well aware of Fletcher’s . . . proclivities. I had hoped that his . . . distasteful activities had ended with him, but I see now that my hopes were in vain.”
Her gaze flicked over me, taking in my blue work apron before lingering on the long sleeves of my black T-shirt. She knew that I had a knife tucked up either sleeve, just like Fletcher always had.
After a moment, she shook her head. “How very sad. That Fletcher dragged an innocent young girl like you into his sordid world.”
“Fletcher didn’t drag me into anything,” I snapped. “He saved me, he taught me everything he knew, and I will always be grateful to him for that—always.” Below the table, out of sight, my hands curled into tight fists in my lap, my fingers digging into the spider rune scars in my palms. I hadn’t meant to let her rile me so easily, but she’d hit the big red button of my emotions with her first jab.
Deirdre cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Fletcher always did have a soft spot for strays.”
Her voice was kind, without a hint of malice, but my fingers dug even deeper into my scars. Shish-kebabing would be too good for her. Now I wanted to slice that indulgent smile right off her pretty face.
Bria shot me a warning look.
Finn, however, seemed oblivious to the rising tension and mama drama, and he pushed his plate aside. “So,” he said. “You said that we should . . . talk.”
Deirdre focused on him again. “Yes. I know that you have a lot of questions, so I brought along a few things that might help give you some answers.”
She reached into the enormous electric-blue purse that she’d set down in the booth beside her. I tensed, ready to palm one of my knives, but she only came up with a thick manila folder. She put the folder down on top of the table, then slowly opened it.
Photos lay inside—the exact same photos that had been in the casket box.
Deirdre, Fletcher, newborn Finn. I recognized the pictures immediately, but the sight shocked me all the same. I’d never even considered that Deirdre might have copies of the photos, much less show them off in my gin joint.
Unease rippled through me, along with more than a little disappointment. I’d thought that Fletcher had left the photos in the casket box for me—and me alone—to find. That he’d entrusted me with them. That they’d been some sort of message or warning about Deirdre, even if I hadn’t been able to figure out exactly what he’d been trying to tell me.
But what if they were just, well, photos? Just keepsakes, like Bria had suggested when we first opened the box. What if there was no message or warning or hidden meaning in the pictures? And if I’d been wrong about that, then what else was I wrong about?
Maybe even Deirdre herself?
Maybe she was different from the person Fletcher had known. Maybe her intentions were genuine. Maybe she really did want to reconnect with Finn. The only thing I knew for sure right now was that all the maybes were driving me plumb crazy.
Bria drew in a ragged breath. She recognized the photos too. I shrugged at her. The cat was out of the bag now, and there was no putting it back in.
“These are all the photos that I have of us,” Deirdre said in a soft, hesitant voice. “Fletcher always got two sets of photos made, one for him and one for me. I thought that you might like to see them too.”
One by one, she laid out the pictures on the table in front of Finn, who leaned over and studied them with wide eyes. The casket box was still tucked away in the chimney at Fletcher’s house. I’d been planning to take Finn home and show him the photos, mementos, and Fletcher’s letter to him after this meeting, so he could decide for himself whether he wanted to read it. But once again, Deirdre had beaten me to the punch and wrapped another silken thread around Finn’s heart, snaring him that much more tightly in her web.
He wouldn’t care about me showing him the photos and broken mementos, and he wouldn’t take whatever information or warning that was in Fletcher’s letter seriously. Not now. Maybe that’s why Fletcher had asked me to wait to show Finn the letter. Maybe the old man had known that Finn would be too swept up in Deirdre’s charms to listen as long as she was in Ashland.