“Well now,” he muttered under his breath.
The camera zoomed tighter on Lila’s face.
It wasn’t what she was saying.
It was the look in her eyes.
Deck had spent thirty years reading faces across interrogation tables. He knew curiosity. He knew ambition. He knew reporters chasing headlines.
This wasn’t that.
There was something else there. Something colder. Something personal.
Something that had nothing to do with Caroline Simms.
And when she said Eleanor’s name—his Nell—there was a flint-hard satisfaction in her gaze that made the back of his neck prickle.
Sully leaned on the bar beside him.
“Ye know her?”
Deck shook his head slowly.
“No.”
On the television, Lila’s mouth tightened as she said Eleanor’s name again.
Deck’s eyes narrowed, tracking the way Lila’s mouth thinned—a micro-expression of pure, unadulterated loathing. It wasn't the look of a journalist chasing a scoop. It was the look of a woman holding a blade.
Sully frowned.
“Bad blood?”
Deck didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
“Aye.”
He lifted his glass and finished the last of the Guinness.
“That’s not a woman chasin’ a story.”
Sully glanced back at the television, then swept a look around his pub—the locals hunched over drinks, a couple at the far table whispering as they watched the screen.
“Ye know, since this one came t’Sylva, my business has picked up a fair bit,” he said. “Seems the folks like t’think people are disappearin’ and there’s ghosts in Sylva. Gives ’em the shivers, so they come in here for courage.”
Deck answered with a low grunt, more irritation than amusement. His gaze never left Lila’s eyes.
Sully studied him.
“So what is she chasin’, then?”
Deck set the empty glass down with a soft clink.
“Payback. And she’s been waitin’ a long time for the check to come due.”
Sully raised an eyebrow.
“You sure about that?”
