Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14)(46)

and that I was taking you with me. Fletcher . . . he . . . hit me.” Her hand

crept up to her cheek as if she could still feel the sting of that phantom

blow. “He said that I wasn’t taking his son anywhere. He told me to pack up

my things, leave his house, and never come back. He told me that if I ever

returned to Ashland or tried to contact you, he would kill me. I believed him.

He was an assassin, after all, and he had already shown me exactly what he was

capable of.”

Deirdre hung her head but not before a couple of tears streaked down her

cheeks. One of them plopped onto the photo of her, Finn, and Fletcher, oozing

across the paper.

“I’m sorry, Finnegan. So sorry. And so ashamed. I should have been stronger.

I should have found some way to contact you years ago.” A few more tears

rolled down her cheeks, dripped off her chin, and splattered onto the photos.

“But Fletcher always kept such a close watch over you, and me too. Although I

did try a few times to reach out to you.”

“What happened?” Finn asked in a low, strained voice. “What did Dad do?”

Deirdre let out a tense breath. “I got a packet of photos in the mail, of

myself, from where Fletcher had been spying on me, along with a note warning

me about what would happen if I ever came back to Ashland. That he would make

good on his promise to kill me.”

She shuddered, wiped the tears off her cheeks, and raised her head, staring at

Finn again.

“When I heard that Fletcher had died, I knew that I finally had a chance to

reconnect with you. But I was still a coward, so instead of immediately coming

to town, I thought about the best way to approach you. The best way I could

have some sort of relationship with you. I knew that you were a banker, and I

needed some help with my charity investments, so that seemed like the most

logical place to start. I was working up to telling you who I really was. Last

night, during the bank robbery, I realized that I needed to just go ahead,

take a chance, and make the most of the time I’d been given with you.”

She let out another breath.

“So that’s it. That’s my story. I’m sorry, Finnegan. So sorry. For

everything. But I’m here now, and I want a second chance, if you’ll have me.

Even though I know that I don’t deserve one.”

Deirdre stretched out her hand, a pleading look on her face. The sunlight

streaming in through the windows added a golden glow to her hair, making her

look like a fallen angel, begging for forgiveness and a chance at redemption.

Her words, voice, gesture, expression—it was all beautifully done, right down

to her trembling fingers and the fresh tears glistening in her eyes. Even I

might have been suckered in by her, if I hadn’t known Fletcher. If I hadn’t

known down to the very bottom of my black, rotten heart that he would never,

ever hit a defenseless person, much less threaten the mother of his own son,

unless he had a damn good reason.

But Finn . . . he couldn’t see that. He didn’t want to see it. Not right

now, anyway. Maybe not ever.

Finn reached out and wrapped her trembling hand in both of his. “There’s

nothing to forgive,” he said in a rough, raspy voice. “What matters is that

you’re here now, and we have a second chance, just like you said.”

“Oh, Finnegan, you don’t know how happy that makes me.”

Deirdre smiled, and the two of them stared at each other, lost in their own

little moment.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Finn, don’t tell me that you’re buying this

bullshit story. I’ve seen better acts at the carnival.”

Finn’s mouth gaped. He was shocked that I was raining all over this tender,

tearful moment. Oh, it was raining, all right. And it was about to f*cking

pour.

“I know that Fletcher was your mentor,” Deirdre said in a soft voice, as

though she were talking to an idiot and didn’t want to use too many words too

quickly. “I know that he took you in off the streets and that you loved him

very much. But just because you love someone doesn’t mean that you know

everything they’ve done or everything they’re capable of.”

“And I know that you’re lying through your teeth about Fletcher,” I snapped

back. “Maybe Finn is too starry-eyed to see the holes in your story, but I’m

not.”

“What holes?” Deirdre said, her voice still annoyingly calm. “Ask me

anything. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, Gin. Anything to set your

mind at ease.”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “All right,

then. Let’s play Twenty Questions. How many times did you think about Finn?

Every day, once a week, once a month? How many times did you try to contact

him? When? I could go on, but there’s really only one question that matters

in the end. Why didn’t you try harder?”