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Chapter Ten
Quinn
I drummy fingers on the arm of the chair as Holiday paces the floor. My family has called Doctor McAllister the nickname of Doc Holiday for as long as I’ve known him and shorten it to simply Holiday most of the time. It’s the mustache. The man wears it just like the famous outlaw.
“How much longer is this going to take?” I’m anxious to get back to Jo, and not just to make sure she wasn’t hurt in the attack. I already know that. I want to know who broke into the house, who roamed the top floor without being detected. And, yes, I want to make sure Jo is okay. “Come on, old man. I’ve got things to do.”
He lifts his bushy eyebrows. “Boy, I brought you into this world. I will take you out.”
I chuckle and rest my head on the back of the chair when the room tips. “My mom used to say the same thing.”
“Wise woman, your mother. God rest her soul.”
The silence thickens the air in the room. The housekeeper keeps close watch on my wound, like it’s about to spontaneously burst open and I’ll bleed out. When Jo told her to stay with me, Mary definitely took the order to heart.
“What were you thinking going mano e mano with this guy?” Holiday asks, his judgmental glare on me. As if I don’t get enough of that look from my father. “He could’ve had a gun.”
“Lucky for me he didn’t.”
“Yeah, real lucky.” His phone beeps and he checks the screen, nodding. “Figured as much. It’s…” he pauses and eyes Mary. “Would you give us a minute?” She nods and hurries out of the room, up the stairs. Holiday returns his attention to me. “The knife was laced with trace amounts of ketamine. It’s a horse tranquilizer.” He glances around before asking in a low voice, “How well do you know this family?”
“I know the head of the family better than I know the head of any of the other families,” I fire back, keeping my intense glare on him. He may be our doctor and a close friend of the family, but if he insults Jo, I won’t hesitate to fire him and may even break his nose if he says the wrong thing.
“I would certainly hope so. If you were sleeping with all the other heads, I’d be concerned.” He laughs at his words. “Do you love her already, too? You never knew how to do anything by halves.”
I love Jo more than life, not that it’s any of his business. “Stick to gunshots and knife wounds, Holiday. The rest is none of your concern.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. When it comes to the health of the O’Reilly family, it is. My only job—my only concern—is the O’Reillys. If I see anything that threatens the health of the family, it’s my job to call it out.”
“Call it out to who? In case you missed it, I’m the head of this family now. You have something to say, you say it to me.” I’m back to clenching my teeth, which is better than tightening my hands around Holiday’s throat.
“Quinn, son, I’m not trying to piss in your face and call it rain. You know that. I’m simply asking how well you know Jo Prescott and her staff.”
I dig my nails into the leather arm of the chair. “If she trusts them, I trust them, too.” He nods as if expecting that answer, which only irritates me more. It’s the ginger genes. I have a very short fuse, a hair-trigger temper…and Holiday just triggered it. “Tell me what the fuck you’re getting at, old man.”
He stiffens and offers a single nod. “I’ve been in this business a very long time and have seen more than my fair share of things that can’t be unseen. I know when something doesn’t smell right. This situation reeks.”
Before I can ask him what he means, Mo walks in, a laptop tucked under her arm. She makes a beeline for me and hands me the computer. “A gift from the boss.”
I wave for her to take a seat. As much as I hate every word of Holiday’s suspicions, he has me thinking. “You know how to use that thing?”
She gives me a look like I just asked her if she knows how to tie her shoes. Silently, she takes a seat on the edge of the couch cushion and opens the lid. “Gosh, was there something you’re looking for? Or should I just pull up a Google page?”
I deserve that one. “I mean, do you know how to access Jo’s files?”
“Yep.”
“Then please cross-reference tonight’s intruder with your personnel files.”
Mo stops typing and glances at me from over the screen. “You think the little shit is on the payroll?”
“He’s on someone’s payroll. Why not start at the source?”
“With all due respect, Quinn. You don’t know Jo like I do.”
I know her better, I mentally counter. No one will ever know her better than I do. “Your point?”
“Jo Prescott doesn’t employ dirt bags who’ll betray her by breaking into her home,” Mo continues. “Besides, there was no sign of forced entry. I checked.”
