5
I watched through the windows as Isabelle smoothed her angry expression and moved through the crowd of mourners, politely nodding and graciously accepting their condolences. I didn’t actually go inside the house, though. Isabelle was dealing with enough right now without being reminded that I was still here.
Instead, I stood out on the porch and replayed our conversation in my mind, along with everything I’d heard her and Paul say to Bart Wilcox and his goons.
Isabelle didn’t want my help. Fine. I could understand that, and I probably would have done and said the exact same things if I’d been in her shoes. I wouldn’t have been half as nice about telling me to get lost as she had been.
But she was going to get my help anyway.
Her husband was dead because of me, and her brother-in-law was a whiny, petulant loser who’d gotten her into this mess. For a moment, I thought about tracking down Paul Vargas and making good on my threat to kick his ass. It would serve him right, and it might even make me feel better.
Maybe later. Right now, I had a bigger, badder giant to worry about: Bart the Butcher.
He’d be back tonight, just like he’d told Isabelle, and he wouldn’t be happy with any money she might be able to scrape together in the meantime. Paul wasn’t coming back to settle up his debt, which left only Isabelle and Leo for Bart to take out his wrath on. The mother and son had already suffered enough, and I wasn’t letting the low-life bookie lay so much as a finger on either one of them.
While the mourners stayed inside and tried to offer what comfort they could to Isabelle, I went down the porch steps and walked around the perimeter of the house, looking at everything from the toys in the front yard, to the tire swing in the maple tree next to the garage, to the woods that flanked the back of the house.
The family didn’t have a dog, which was good. Dogs made noise, which was something I’d want to avoid later on tonight. Even better, the subdivision was so new that the Vargas house was the only one that was lived in, which meant there wouldn’t be any nosy neighbors peeking out their windows, wondering what I was up to.
Once I’d finished my scan, I slipped into the garage, since the door was still up. It was your typical space, with two cars sitting side by side and plastic boxes full of old clothes, tools, holiday decorations, and other odds and ends lining the walls. I tried the door that led into the house. Unlocked. I bet it was always unlocked, since most folks would only bother to secure the garage door, thinking that was enough to keep them safe.
But it wouldn’t be enough, not when Bart the Butcher was involved.
That was okay, though. Because I was going to make sure that the giant bookie never bothered Isabelle and her son again.
I’d started to head back outside, but the knob twisted, and the door creaked open behind me. Stuart Mosley stepped out into the garage and shut the door behind him.
“Yes, sir?” I asked.
Mosley crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw you lurking around outside. Are you actually going to come into the house and pay your respects to Mrs. Vargas? Or are you going to hide out here in the garage the whole time?”
I grimaced. “I spoke to Isabelle on the front porch earlier. She made it quite clear that she doesn’t want me to set one foot inside her house. Trust me, she doesn’t want me here, and neither does anyone else.”
“True,” Mosley said. “But you need to be here. You needed to see this, Finn. Every single second of it.”
I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to get rid of the sudden ache shooting through my temples. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, you don’t have to. Believe me, I have plenty of guilt all on my own. Shame, embarrassment, self-loathing. I am chock full of every bad emotion there is.”
My boss stared at me, his hazel eyes sharp and bright in his lined face, but I couldn’t tell what he was really thinking. Mosley had a better poker face than anyone I’d ever met, including Gin and my dad. Despite all the days that had passed since the bank robbery, I still expected him to start yelling at me at any second—before he fired me, beat me to a bloody pulp, and then personally dragged me through the lobby and threw me out of his beloved bank. Instead, Mosley just kept staring at me, his face a perfectly blank mask, keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.
“Well, if you’ve already paid your respects to Mrs. Vargas, I suppose you can leave now,” he finally said. “Although I expect you back at the bank later tonight. I still have some safety-deposit boxes to sort through that you can help me with. We’ll be working until they’re all finished tonight, no matter how long it takes.”
It wasn’t a request, and I nodded at him. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”
Mosley stared at me a moment longer, then went back inside the house, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone in the garage with my guilt.
I finished my inspection of the house and the surrounding area, got into my car, and left. But I didn’t go to the bank, to the Pork Pit, or even to my apartment. For an hour or two, at least, I wanted to go someplace that wouldn’t remind me of Deirdre, how badly she’d fooled me, and how many people were dead because of my mistakes.
So I drove to a nearby coffee shop to check my messages and kill some time. Gin and Bria had both texted me, asking how the funeral had gone. I texted them back, saying that I was still at the Vargas house and would get in touch with them later. I got a cup of coffee, even though it wasn’t the strong chicory brew I loved, and made myself choke it down, along with a piece of hard, dry blueberry pound cake. I didn’t feel like eating, and it all tasted like ash, just like Gin’s hearty barbecue lunch earlier, but I needed to stay alert and keep my strength up for what was coming tonight.
After I polished off my coffee, I was too restless to sit in the shop, so I got into my car and drove back to Blue Ridge Cemetery. The workers had finished putting Peter’s casket into the ground, and all that remained were the red and white roses strewn across the cold earth. Soon they too would wither and die.
