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It couldn’t happen again. Wouldn’t.
She slipped the card from its envelope. Two words: “Bang, bang.” A threat? The concerning thing was the picture in the corner. A shamrock. Must be leftover stock from March.
What did the shamrock mean? Was he acknowledging that she was one of the Irish or threatening her Irishman?
She moistened her lips and opened a hand in front of Daly, attention still trained on the flowers.
“Call your boss and give me your phone.”
“My boss?” He retrieved his phone from an inside pocket. “Why can’t you call him?”
“I don’t have your boss’s number.” She snatched Daly’s phone as soon as he unlocked it. “Wait here.”
Striding into the empty interview room by the desk, she closed the door and dialed the contact.
It rang half a dozen times before the line connected.
“Aye?”
Good start, the right guy.
“It’s Bluebell. If you’re with Conn, can you get out of his earshot?”
A dozen seconds passed that seemed to drag for hours.
“Aye?”
Apparently, that word meant everything. Maybe Gaelic was his only fluent language.
“Evander sent flowers. Vex.” Which, yeah, he’d know. “I’m at The Chronicler and… I’ll tell Conn later, this is not me circumventing him, but if he hears—I need to be physically with him or bad things will happen. More bad things. Evander’s sending a message.”
“Aye.”
“He’s watching. His people. There haven’t been flowers for days, then the day I show up at work… He’s alive, which is good. This feels different. Don’t ask me how I know, but this feels like a message for Conn, not for me.”
“Aye.”
So much for forging a friendship with her guy’s best friend.
“Okay, forget it. I thought I could trust you to have his back. Obviously not.”
She hung up, biting her tongue in the face of more frustration.
As she turned, the window by the door revealed Tulip over by Steeple’s office, talking to another of their colleagues.
Personal, professional, where were the lines these days?
Her own phone rang.
“Whisper?” she asked when the line connected.
“High Class! So, Sugar, my guy got back to me. Nothing out of line on the surface, but he’s going to keep digging. The logs don’t show obvious signs of tampering. Means either there isn’t any—”
“Or the tamperer was good.”
“A professional. Would have to be. He’s not giving it up; just his provisional assessment.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She blew out a breath. “Hey, I might have a thing sometime—”
