“His wife said he’d been distracted lately. Worried. Not eating. She had no idea why. You know?”

“No. I told you that, too. Half a dozen times now. How many more times do we have to go over this?” I sounded like a bad actor in a worse movie.

He did, too. “As many times as I say we have to. Let’s take it from the beginning. Tell me again about the first time you saw him here at the station.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Open your eyes and answer the question.”

I opened my eyes and stared daggers up at him. I still couldn’t believe O’Duffy was dead. Royally screwing up my world, he’d had his throat cut holding a scrap of paper with my name and the address of the bookstore written on it. It hadn’t taken long for his brothers in—well, not exactly arms, the Dublin police don’t carry guns—to come looking for me. I’d spent the morning battling Shades and a death-by-sex Fae, discovered something monstrous lived beneath Barrons’ garage right behind my bedroom, and now I was in the police station being interrogated on suspicion of murder. Could my day get any worse? Oh, they’d not pressed formal charges, but they’d sure used scare tactics on me back at the bookstore, making them think they were. And they’d made it clear they’d jump on any reason they could find to back me up against a wall and start snapping mug shots. I was a stranger in this city, nearly all the answers I gave sounded evasive because they were evasive, and O’Duffy’s Sunday morning visit to me really did look suspicious.

I repeated the story I’d told an hour ago, and an hour before that and an hour before that. He asked the same questions he and two men before him had asked, all morning and a good part of the afternoon—they’d let me stew for forty-five minutes while they went to lunch and came back smelling scrumptiously of vinegary fish and chips—phrased in minutely different ways, all designed to trip me up. The caffeine from my chilled latte had worn off hours ago and I was starving.

On one level, I could appreciate what Inspector Jayne was doing; it was his job, he was doing it very well, and it was obvious Patrick O’Duffy had been his friend. I hoped they’d done the same for Alina. On another level, it infuriated me. My problems were so much bigger than this. It was an epic waste of my time. Not only that, I felt exposed. With the exception of my trip across the back alley this morning, I hadn’t set foot outside of the bookstore since I’d seen what I’d seen in the warehouse at 1247 LaRuhe a week ago. I felt like a walking target with a bull’s-eye painted on my forehead. Did the Lord Master know where to find me? How high was I on his list of priorities? Was he still wherever he’d gone when he’d stepped through that portal? Was he watching the bookstore? Did he have his Rhino-boys, those watchdogs of the Fae—the lower caste of enormous, ugly, gray-skinned Unseelie with wide, squat, barrel-bodies, jutting underbites, and bumpy foreheads—waiting to grab me the moment I walked out of the police station by myself? Should I try to get myself formally arrested? I discarded that thought the instant I had it. Humans couldn’t keep me alive. I blinked, startled to realize I no longer quite counted myself in that camp.

“He was my brother-in-law,” he said abruptly.

I winced.

“Assuming you had nothing to do with his murder, I still have to find a way to tell my sister what the fuck he was doing with you the morning he died,” he said bitterly. “So what the fuck was he doing, Ms. Lane? Because we both know your story’s bullshit. Patty didn’t miss Mass. Patty didn’t follow up on cases on his personal time. Patty stayed alive because Patty loved his family.”

I stared dismally at my hands, folded neatly in my lap. I badly needed a manicure. I tried to imagine what the wife of an officer who’d died mere hours after visiting a pretty young woman, and was given the inane reason for the visit I was offering, would think and feel. She’d know she was being lied to, and the unknown always takes on greater, more terrible proportions than whatever truth is concealed behind the lie. Would she believe, as her brother did, that her beloved Patty had cheated on her and betrayed their marriage vows the morning he’d died?

I never used to lie. Mom raised us to believe that every lie puts something out there in the world that’s inevitably going to come back and bite you in the petunia. “I can’t explain Inspector O’Duffy’s actions. I can only tell you what he did. He came by to tell me Alina’s case was staying closed. That’s all I know.”

I drew comfort from the fact that if I came clean and told him everything, confessed every bit of it, down to my suspicion that O’Duffy had somehow learned that something big, nasty, and not human had moved into Dublin, and been killed because of it, he’d believe me even less.

The afternoon was endless: Who owns the bookstore? How did you say you met him? Why are you staying there? Is he your lover? If her case is closed, why haven’t you gone home? How did you get those bruises on your face? Are you working somewhere? How are you supporting yourself? When do you plan to go home? Do you know anything about the three abandoned cars in the back alley behind Barrons Books and Baubles?

The whole time, I waited for Barrons to come and rescue me, the product, I suppose, of growing up in a world where nearly all the fairy tales I’d heard as a child had a prince rushing to the rescue of the princess. Men down south love to play up to that image.

It’s a strange new world out there and the rules have changed: It’s every princess for herself.

It was five-forty-five before they finally let me go.

O’Duffy’s brother-in-law escorted me to the door. “I’m going to be watching you, Ms. Lane. Every time you turn around, it’s my face you’re going to see. I’m going to be tape to your ass.”

“Fine,” I said tiredly. “Can I get a ride back to the bookstore?”

Okay, that was a no.

“How about the phone? Can I use it?” He gave me another hard look. “Are you kidding me? You guys wouldn’t let me get my purse this morning. I don’t have money for a cab. What if somebody out there mugs me?”

Inspector Jayne was already walking away. “You don’t have a purse, Ms. Lane. What would somebody mug you for?” he tossed over his shoulder.

I glanced uneasily at my watch. When they’d picked me up at the bookstore, they’d made me remove the flashlights from the waistband of my jeans and leave them with Fiona.

Thunder rumbled, vibrating the glass panes in the windows.

It was going to be dark soon.

“Hey! You there, wait up!”

I didn’t break stride.

“Beautiful girl, wait a minute! I was hoping I’d see you again!”

It was the “beautiful girl” part that flung a noose around my foot, the voice that snagged it tight. I raked a hand through my recently butchered hair and looked down at my dark, baggy clothes. The compliment was balm to my soul, the voice young, male, and full of fun. I skidded to a halt. Shallow, I know.

It was the dreamy-eyed guy I’d seen in the museum the day I’d been searching it for OOPs.

I turned bright red. That was the day V’lane had amped up the death-by-sex thing and I’d stripped in the middle of Ireland’s famous Ór exhibit, right there in front of God and everybody.

Flushing, I sprinted off again, splashing through puddles. It was raining—of frogging course—and the sidewalks of Dublin’s craic-filled Temple Bar District were nearly empty. I had places to go, darkness to race, guys who’d watched me strip to avoid.

He dropped into a long-legged lope beside me and I couldn’t help myself, I slanted a look at him. Tall, dark, dreamy-eyed, he was boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, in that perfect stage where guys are velvet skin over supple hard bodies, without an ounce of fat. I’d bet he had a six-pack. He was a serious leftie. Once upon a time in my life, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a date with him. I’d have dressed in pink and gold, swept my long blond hair up in a playful ponytail, and painted my nails and toes to match, Young-Hearts-Beat-Free-Tonight Blush.