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Frowning at the whole gaggle of them, I say, “Wow. That made no sense at all.”
Kieran tips his chin toward the open doors and tightly says, “You might not have killed the Italian.”
“Thank god,” I nearly shout. But I suppress my manic response and instead say, “I didn’t know he was Italian. More importantly, if I didn’t kill him, who did?”
The throng of men step back from the back doors, and I get an eyeful of something I don’t want to see. It’s a black body bag. Unzipped.
I clear my throat. “That’s disturbing and I haven’t even seen inside of it yet.”
Kieran’s glowering at me. I can’t figure out why. “There was a bee in his shirt collar. Smashed into his neck.”
Cal holds up the epi-pen. “Guess he forgot to use this.”
“You mean—” I look between the prescription medication, the dead guy, and Kieran. “I didn’t kill him?”
“My guess is no. But he won’t be getting an autopsy.”
I don’t want this mystery to go to his grave, be it a shallow one or a proper burial. I push by Kieran. “I want to see.”
There’s a collective male gasp, followed by a sudden hush as I shove the bag holding my breakfast into Kieran’s hands.
When I get close enough, I hold my own gasp in. “Ooooh. He looks terrible.”
The man’s lips are swollen. His eyelids too. He looks like hell. Gray. Purple. Very puffy.
I’m transfixed, looking at the most horrid sight I’ve ever seen, but I need to know. “Does hitting someone on the head make their lips and eyes swell up?”
The big guy with the flat nose, I think his name is Colin, says, “Nope. No one I’ve ever killed looked like that.”
A rush of air leaves me. I make the sign of the cross. “I’m not a terrible, murdering mobster after all.”
When I turn around, half of the men—the Irish Mafia half—look offended. The other half almost looks amused. I don’t know what these guys are, but I’ve been around enough men in the syndicate to recognize someone who’s in and someone who isn’t.
Three of these guys aren’t.
Which is a puzzle. But one for later.
And Kieran… Well, he just looks cold. Distant. Utterly unlike the man he was last night.
“I’m ready.” I flip my eyes toward his, grab my breakfast, then burst through the little semi-circle the men have formed.
As I stride away, the doors on the SUV slam shut behind me. Male muttering ensues.
I might not have killed the dead guy, but Kieran’s sudden icing over is driving me mad.
You didn’t do anything wrong last night,I coach myself.
But my heart doesn’t feel as convinced as my head.
CHAPTERFOUR
It takes a few dozen strides before I catch Carra. “We’re driving this one.” When I hold the door open to the blacked-out sedan, she eyes me.
“Us alone?”
“Yes. Get in.”
She makes a harrumph sound. “This should be fun.”
