KATE
In the end, Cole manages to fold himself into the Jaguar and drive home alone. I ferry Granny and Breagha back to Georgetown in the Land Rover. By unspoken agreement, my grandmother sits in the back of the car with Breagha, arms around my sister, crooning to her in Irish.
Breagha won’t understand a word of it, but she seems to take comfort in being petted.
Breagha, in fact, won’t understand much of anything. I don’t know what Mam has her on, but her eyes are so dilated, the dome light causes her obvious pain. The few words she mutters are slurred, as if her tongue is too big for her mouth.
As we turn onto the cobblestone street, Granny says, “Okay, poppet. Time to sit up. You’re coming to my house tonight. It’ll be a grand adventure.”
“Granny…” I say, but I don’t have any idea how to end that sentence. I want to help my sister. I can’t stand the ideaof adding to my grandmother’s fatigue; she must be exhausted after her trip to Baltimore. But I have an important appointment waiting for me in the dungeon.
“What Breagha needs is a nice little kip.” Granny looks at me over my sister’s mussed hair. “Some peace and quiet. Not all the comings and goings you have, at the main house.”
She can’t know. There’s no way anyone in the world can be aware of the prisoner in my basement. But Granny nods toward the battalion of guards at my front gate and then at hers. She may not be certain of the details, but she understands something is amiss.
“Call me,” I say. “If you need anything at all. No matter the time.”
“Of course,a chroí,” she says.
I park as close as I can to the carriage house, and I help both Granny and Breagha get inside. Mrs. Watson is watching television on the large screen in the living room. She leaps to her feet as we step through the front door, immediately settling Granny in an armchair before she escorts Breagha to the toilet, briskly promising to wash her face.
“Granny…” I say.
“She’ll be fine.”
“I know. But Mam…”
“Don’t think about your mother.”
“Da…”
“His fate is in God’s hands now.”
“I…”
I want to tell her all that’s happened. She’ll understand the frantic animal trying to chew its way through my ribs. She’s the one who healed me years ago.
“You’re strong, Kate. You’re brave. You’re the fiercest Lynch who’s ever lived. You’ll always manage the hard things, the things no one else dares to do.”
Half an hour later, I’m down in the dungeon.
I’ve changed out of that pink monstrosity, but I carry it downstairs so Tarasov can glimpse what he missed. I’m comfortable in my hacker uniform—yoga pants and a T-shirt.
Cole follows me into the dungeon without taking time to change out of his tux. Instead, he hovers by the stairs, an avenging demon, waiting for orders to drag some soul to hell.
Even with the temperature lowered, the room is getting rank. There’s the smell I remember, the odor of Larissa turning in the dark. This time, of course, it isn’t my nanny; it’s Tarasov’s bodyguard, bloating on the floor.
There are other smells, too. Tarasov has soiled himself, foulness running down his legs.
“We missed you at the wedding,” I say.
But Tarasov doesn’t answer me. Instead, he looks to Wolf. “Let me out of here,” he says.
“I’m not the one holding you.” Cole sounds amused.
“I’ll speak to the bratva,” Tarasov bargains. “I’ll tell them the fake paintings were my idea. I give you my word, no one will seek revenge for the auctions.”
“I don’t trust your word. And I’m not worried about revenge.”
