As I slip my mobile into my pocket, I hear noise in the kitchen. Breagha’s offering to help Anna turn out Saturday brunch, and Anna’s saying my sister can put on another pot of coffee.
I’m perfectly capable of setting the table. And breaking a few eggs, if Anna’s planning to cook them. When Cole comes down to eat, I’ll give him Fiona’s message.
That’s the best I can do to help. For now.
Granny doesn’t make it downstairs for brunch.
I know I shouldn’t worry. If she were safely stashed across the road, I’d have no idea when she woke, what she ate, or whether she had a decent night’s sleep. She’s not a complete invalid. Mrs. Watson takes weekends off—although that currently means she’s reading romance novels in her room upstairs.
But Granny isn’t living across the road. She’s living here. And if she manages to come down from her room, no matter how late, I want to be present to help her.
I fetch my laptop from my office and settle on a high stool at the kitchen worktop to continue tracking down publicly available information about crypto ledgers. The websites will help Cole train Viktor to do our dirty work. My diligence is finally rewarded at nearly half past two.
“My!” Granny says, entering the kitchen. “You need a trail of breadcrumbs to find your way around this house.”
“You get used to it,” I say, hopping off my stool. “Anna’s left fresh-baked cinnamon rolls in the oven. And there’s a bowl of cut fruit in the fridge. The peaches are incredible.”
“I’ll start with a spot of caffeine,” Granny says, heading toward my nemesis, the coffee maker.
“You won’t get that to work,” I say, reaching for a mug from the cabinet. “But there’s half a cup left in my carafe. And I can text Nilsson?—”
“Text a man on a Saturday, so he can brew a cup of coffee?” Granny chides.
“You don’t understand. I’ve never seen a more?—”
But Granny has. Or else she makes a lucky guess. Several of them, because the coffee beans start grinding without a deafening mechanical shriek. And the water starts flowing directly into the glass carafe instead of spraying across the counter. And the pot sits silently on the heating element instead of hissing as if it’s about to melt its way to China. The coffee stops a precise half inch from the top of the pot instead of overflowing onto the floor.
“Ready to warm your cup,a chroí?” Granny asks.
I accept a refill without grace, grumbling as I fetch the cream and sugar she’s sure to want. While I’m the fridge, I get the fruitbowl too, and a pot of tangy French yogurt. Granny skips too many meals, left to her own devices.
I can hardly expect her to hitch up on one of the high stools. Instead, I carry the food into the dining room and seat her at the head of the table.
I wait until she’s eaten half a peach before I say, “I spoke with Mam yesterday.”
Her lips twist as if the fruit’s gone sour. “What did Orla have to say?”
“Nothing much. I wanted her to intercede with Nikolai Tarasov, but she was getting ready for an interview about Cole and the indictment. She wanted me to understand how difficult I’ve made her life.”
“I suspect neither of you convinced the other?”
“It’s like she’s hypnotized, Granny. Like Tarasov’s turned her into a puppet.”
My grandmother purses her lips. “The pakhan isn’t the first man to pull her strings.”
“She thinks he’s going to marry her.”
“She already has a husband,” Granny says tartly.
“I’m worried. I’m afraid Da’s not safe there.”
Granny sighs. “My Barry made his bed years ago.”
“But he never expected Nikolai Tarasov to crawl beneath the sheets.”
Granny stares across the table, as if the view of the brick drive through the windows is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen in her life. I didn’t mean to push her when I started this conversation, but I realize I have to try again.
“How would I do it?” I ask. “If I want to reach Robbie Malloy?”
