He could see as they stepped inside the flat that she was nervous. “I swear to you, m’sister won’t mind at all. In fact, I’d be very much surprised if she doesn’t try to convince you to stay longer than just one night. She’s fond of company.”
And, fortunately for Brogan, she also had a keen memory and a quick mind. He was depending on Móirín to remember that he was using a false name and call him “Ganor” when he introduced her to Vera. Of course, that meant he was requiring yet another person to lie to Vera. If she didn’t already believe writers were deceptive by nature, she would the moment she realized his dishonesty.
What a muck he was treading through.
Móirín emerged from the kitchen, likely having heard them come in.
“This is my sister, Móirín. Móirín, this is Vera Sorokina.”
Móirín’s grin was welcoming, which set Brogan’s mind at ease, but it was also filled with ample mischief.
“Zdrastvuyte, Miss Sorokina,” Móirín said. “Ochen’ priyanto.”
“You speak Russian?”
Móirín dipped her head. “Only a little.”
Móirín spoke another language, and he’d had no idea.
Vera looked to him. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Brogan held his hands up in a show of innocence. “I didn’t know.” He turned to Móirín. “Why did you never tell me you spoke Russian?”
“You never asked, Ganor.”
Ganor. She’d remembered. Thank the heavens.
Móirín eyed Vera’s bag. “Are you movin’ in?”
“For the night,” Brogan said. “There was a fire across the street from the shop, and it weren’t an accident.”
“Saints alive,” Móirín muttered. “Of course, you’ll stay here. Arson, was it?”
Vera nodded. “Among other things.”
“I have stew on the stove.” Móirín motioned them back toward the kitchen. “Come, sit and fill your belly, then tell me what’s been happening.”
Brogan put an arm around Vera’s shoulder and gave her a quick, friendly squeeze. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, I’m certain we will.”
She leaned into his one-armed embrace, tucking herself up against him. “I hope so.”
He likely ought to have dropped his arm away. He ought to have reclaimed as much of the space between them as he could. She might very well prove to be part of the trouble he was investigating. But he found, walking side-by-side, with his arm around her, he hadn’t the strength to pull away.
“You’ve a tangled knot there, Vera.” Móirín had listened closely as Vera explained the situation on Old Compton Street. “How do you mean to untie it?”
“I haven’t the first idea,” Vera said.
“I take leave to doubt that.”
Brogan hoped his sister’s directness wouldn’t push Vera away. Móirín was also funny and personable. And she was sometimes terrifying. He never knew how people would react to her.
“I don’t have a good idea,” Vera corrected.
“So tell us your middling idea.” Móirín laughed a bit, and it seemed to help.
Vera’s posture relaxed. “Before the fire, I asked my neighbors to think back on the days their notes have been delivered and twig who was there.”
“‘Twig’ is London for ‘sort out,’” Brogan said for his sister’s benefit.
“I know,” she said.
“How is it you know that?”
“Perhaps I’m smarter than you are,” Móirín said with a grin.
“He was smart enough to warn me you’d be a merciless tease,” Vera said.
“A regular genius, he is.” Móirín offered the dry agreement before returning to the topic at hand. “Have any of your neighbors thought of anyone knocking about on the days the notes were delivered?”
“I’ve not collected their lists,” she said. “And I’m not sure it’d be of much help now. I suggested the strategy when we thought we were trying to identify a benefactor not an oppressor.”
“You don’t think knowing who’s behind this would make a difference?” Brogan asked.
“I don’t think we can stop whoever’s behind it no matter if we know who he is.”
“Secrecy is power, Vera,” Móirín said. “It adds potency to any weapon and danger to any scheme. Unmasking your villain shrinks the threat into something definable.”
“Secrecy is power,” Vera repeated on a sigh. “It’s also a burden.”
“You carry a few of those burdens, do you?” Móirín asked.
“More than a few,” was the answer.
Móirín met Brogan’s eye with a look of empathy. They had a lot of secrets as well.
Brogan reached over and took Vera’s hand. She threaded her fingers through his. Oh, how easily he could let himself start dreaming of this connection between them growing more permanent.
“What if I cain’t twig a solution?” Vera addressed the question to him.
“Meet with your neighbors again,” he said. “There’s no reason you have to face this alone.”
“You’ll help?” she pressed.
He raised their hands to his lips and gently kissed her fingers. “Of course.”
In the next instant he caught Móirín’s extremely curious and amused gaze. She’d never let him explain this away enough to avoid that “merciless teasing” he’d warned Vera of.
He could tell his sister that there was nothing overly fond in the gesture or that he felt nothing particular for Vera. But it wouldn’t’ve done a bit of good. He’d done a lot of lying to her in the years since he’d joined the DPS, but that was one falsehood she’d see through in an instant.
by Brogan Donnelly
Day Three
Amos had hardly slept. Such was the burden of one whose self-declared claim to fame was unparalleled intelligence but who had endured a monumental lapse in judgment. Burdened with questions of identity, Amos arrived at the Dead Zoo worse for wear yet unwilling to abandon the challenge he’d been issued.