Even among the few folks who gave me the benefit of the doubt, their viewing me as a clueless idiot who hadn’t realized that his own mother was scamming him wasn’t any better.
I much preferred being hated to being pitied.
Thinking about my own stupidity made a hot, embarrassed blush creep up my neck, but I screwed a smile onto my face and walked on, ignoring the cruel whispers that sprang up in my wake. No one wanted me to keep working here, and I’d overheard more than one muttered conversation about why I didn’t just quit already. People went out of their way to avoid any contact with me, like I was a black cat that was going to jinx them if our paths crossed. Just about the only way I could get folks to communicate with me, even about important bank business, was through email. Even then, all the responses were terse and to the point. No polite chitchat, no funny stories about customers, not so much as a silly cat video anymore.
I glanced behind the tellers’ counter, wondering if my latest doughnut peace offering had been accepted. But all the boxes were shut and stacked up in exactly the same position as when I’d first dropped them off this morning. It was a sad, sad day when you couldn’t even bribe people with sugar to be civil to you.
Yep, it was official. I, Finnegan Lane, was the most unwanted man in Ashland.
Gin picked up on the angry, hostile vibe, and she glared back at people, daring them to make some snide remark about me. I loved her for wanting to protect me, but being stared down by a notorious assassin wasn’t exactly going to help my popularity.
A man stepped right in front of me. I was so busy just trying to get through this latest walk of shame that I almost plowed straight into his back. At the last second, I managed to catch myself.
He saw me out of the corner of his eye, stopped, and turned toward me. The man was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a thick stocky body, wavy silver hair, and a lined face with a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken multiple times.
I winced. I’d almost mowed down Stuart Mosley, my boss, someone with whom I was on very thin ice these days.
And he wasn’t alone. Mosley was escorting a slender woman in a black pantsuit and heels across the lobby. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun, showing off her high cheekbones and lovely bronze skin, although her hazel eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying. I recognized her too: Isabelle Vargas, the widow of Peter Vargas, one of the giant guards who’d been murdered during the bank robbery.
The sight of her almost knocked me to my knees.
“Ah, there you are, Finn,” Mosley said in his deep, rumbling voice. “I’m sure you remember Mrs. Vargas. Mrs. Vargas, this is Finnegan Lane.”
Even though I wanted nothing more than to drop my head and slink away, I nodded politely at her. “Of course. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vargas.”
Anger sparked in her eyes, and her red lips tightened into a thin line in her beautiful face. She knew exactly who I was—and that I was responsible for her husband’s death. But instead of screaming curses at me the way she had every right to, she gave me a short, sharp nod in return and dropped her gaze to the floor, as though she couldn’t even stand to look at me.
I didn’t blame her. I could barely look at myself in the mirror.
Gin stepped up beside me in a silent show of support. She nodded at Mosley, who tipped his head back at her before pivoting to me again.
“Mrs. Vargas and I were just meeting about her husband’s life-insurance policy,” Mosley said. “I was telling her that the settlement should come through any day now.”
One thing I’d always admired about Stuart Mosley was how well he took care of his employees. Even though First Trust had never even come close to being successfully robbed before Deirdre showed up, Mosley had realized that it was always a potential target, and so he made sure all his employees, especially the guards, had hefty life-insurance policies that would provide for their families in case anything happened to them.
Too many of those policies had been cashed in lately, thanks to me.
“I would appreciate it if I could get the money as soon as possible,” Isabelle Vargas said in a low, strained voice. “I have some . . . bills that need paying, and I haven’t been at work because of . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked several times, holding back a fresh wave of tears.
“Of course,” Mosley murmured. “I’ll call you as soon as I receive the money. And, of course, we’ll all be at the funeral later today to pay our respects.” He paused. “Won’t we, Finn?”
It wasn’t a request.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Just like with Gin, Stuart Mosley didn’t yell or scream or berate me for how thoroughly I’d destroyed his bank and its reputation. He didn’t even threaten to fire me. Not even once. He just made sure that I realized the full, devastating consequences of putting my foolish trust in Deirdre, and one of the ways he did that was by having me attend the funerals of all the murdered guards. I would have done that anyway, since I’d known and been friendly with all of them. But standing at their graves, watching their families weep, and seeing their caskets slowly lowered into the cold, frozen ground . . .
It was the worst part of this whole damn thing.
Knowing that innocent people were dead because of me and that their families would suffer the pain of their loss for the rest of their lives was worse than my mother’s betrayal, worse than her brutal torture of me, worse even than letting down Gin, Bria, and the rest of my friends.
If Deirdre had been here, I would have strangled her with my bare hands and killed her all over again for all the heartache she’d caused.
Sensing my roller coaster of emotions, Gin put her hand on my shoulder. But with Mosley watching me like a hawk, she also realized that this was bank business now, something I needed to handle myself.
“I’ll let you guys talk,” she said. “I’ll text you later after my meetings. Okay, Finn?”
I much preferred being hated to being pitied.
Thinking about my own stupidity made a hot, embarrassed blush creep up my neck, but I screwed a smile onto my face and walked on, ignoring the cruel whispers that sprang up in my wake. No one wanted me to keep working here, and I’d overheard more than one muttered conversation about why I didn’t just quit already. People went out of their way to avoid any contact with me, like I was a black cat that was going to jinx them if our paths crossed. Just about the only way I could get folks to communicate with me, even about important bank business, was through email. Even then, all the responses were terse and to the point. No polite chitchat, no funny stories about customers, not so much as a silly cat video anymore.
I glanced behind the tellers’ counter, wondering if my latest doughnut peace offering had been accepted. But all the boxes were shut and stacked up in exactly the same position as when I’d first dropped them off this morning. It was a sad, sad day when you couldn’t even bribe people with sugar to be civil to you.
Yep, it was official. I, Finnegan Lane, was the most unwanted man in Ashland.
Gin picked up on the angry, hostile vibe, and she glared back at people, daring them to make some snide remark about me. I loved her for wanting to protect me, but being stared down by a notorious assassin wasn’t exactly going to help my popularity.
A man stepped right in front of me. I was so busy just trying to get through this latest walk of shame that I almost plowed straight into his back. At the last second, I managed to catch myself.
He saw me out of the corner of his eye, stopped, and turned toward me. The man was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a thick stocky body, wavy silver hair, and a lined face with a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken multiple times.
I winced. I’d almost mowed down Stuart Mosley, my boss, someone with whom I was on very thin ice these days.
And he wasn’t alone. Mosley was escorting a slender woman in a black pantsuit and heels across the lobby. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun, showing off her high cheekbones and lovely bronze skin, although her hazel eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying. I recognized her too: Isabelle Vargas, the widow of Peter Vargas, one of the giant guards who’d been murdered during the bank robbery.
The sight of her almost knocked me to my knees.
“Ah, there you are, Finn,” Mosley said in his deep, rumbling voice. “I’m sure you remember Mrs. Vargas. Mrs. Vargas, this is Finnegan Lane.”
Even though I wanted nothing more than to drop my head and slink away, I nodded politely at her. “Of course. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vargas.”
Anger sparked in her eyes, and her red lips tightened into a thin line in her beautiful face. She knew exactly who I was—and that I was responsible for her husband’s death. But instead of screaming curses at me the way she had every right to, she gave me a short, sharp nod in return and dropped her gaze to the floor, as though she couldn’t even stand to look at me.
I didn’t blame her. I could barely look at myself in the mirror.
Gin stepped up beside me in a silent show of support. She nodded at Mosley, who tipped his head back at her before pivoting to me again.
“Mrs. Vargas and I were just meeting about her husband’s life-insurance policy,” Mosley said. “I was telling her that the settlement should come through any day now.”
One thing I’d always admired about Stuart Mosley was how well he took care of his employees. Even though First Trust had never even come close to being successfully robbed before Deirdre showed up, Mosley had realized that it was always a potential target, and so he made sure all his employees, especially the guards, had hefty life-insurance policies that would provide for their families in case anything happened to them.
Too many of those policies had been cashed in lately, thanks to me.
“I would appreciate it if I could get the money as soon as possible,” Isabelle Vargas said in a low, strained voice. “I have some . . . bills that need paying, and I haven’t been at work because of . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked several times, holding back a fresh wave of tears.
“Of course,” Mosley murmured. “I’ll call you as soon as I receive the money. And, of course, we’ll all be at the funeral later today to pay our respects.” He paused. “Won’t we, Finn?”
It wasn’t a request.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Just like with Gin, Stuart Mosley didn’t yell or scream or berate me for how thoroughly I’d destroyed his bank and its reputation. He didn’t even threaten to fire me. Not even once. He just made sure that I realized the full, devastating consequences of putting my foolish trust in Deirdre, and one of the ways he did that was by having me attend the funerals of all the murdered guards. I would have done that anyway, since I’d known and been friendly with all of them. But standing at their graves, watching their families weep, and seeing their caskets slowly lowered into the cold, frozen ground . . .
It was the worst part of this whole damn thing.
Knowing that innocent people were dead because of me and that their families would suffer the pain of their loss for the rest of their lives was worse than my mother’s betrayal, worse than her brutal torture of me, worse even than letting down Gin, Bria, and the rest of my friends.
If Deirdre had been here, I would have strangled her with my bare hands and killed her all over again for all the heartache she’d caused.
Sensing my roller coaster of emotions, Gin put her hand on my shoulder. But with Mosley watching me like a hawk, she also realized that this was bank business now, something I needed to handle myself.
“I’ll let you guys talk,” she said. “I’ll text you later after my meetings. Okay, Finn?”
