Not missing a golden opportunity to shed blood, he opened his drawer and produced that goddamn will, making a show of flipping the pages by licking the pad of his index (side note: people who do that should burn in hell. Twice), signing his initials on each page quickly.
Looking up, he flashed me a grin.
Song of the day: “Dead Bodies Everywhere” by Korn.
“I do have a proposition for you,” he said while signing.
“I love propositions,” I replied, oddly calm. “That’s what got me into this mess in the first place. What do you have in mind?”
“You say you developed feelings for that girl—” He air-quoted the word feelings, a Parker Jotter pen between his fingers.
I wanted to put him in a box. It’d be worth the solitary confinement.
“Sailor,” I cut him off. “Her name is not ‘that girl’. It’s Sailor.”
“Yes. Her. And I say this is just a desperate plea to try to save your inheritance. So how about this? I’m giving you a second chance. A clean slate. A redemption, if you will. Admit that this was a lie, that you didn’t actually develop feelings toward Sailor, and I will tear this will apart right now. But there is a condition.”
“What’s the condition?” I asked, unblinking.
“You cut all contact with her. Forever.”
The last word sat between us like a ticking bomb. Forever was a long-ass time. An hour? That sounded more doable.
“Genes aside, we’re cut from the same cloth, aren’t we, ceann beag?” He cocked his head. “This is what you’ve been trying to prove to me. That you’re a Fitzpatrick. That you belong.”
“If you’re asking me to choose between my family fortune and a girl, my answer is obvious—the fortune.” I paused, watching his throat working behind his silky orange tie. “But if you’re asking me to choose between the family fortune and Sailor Brennan, I’m going to have to kiss your money goodbye and bow out of this one, Fitzpatrick or not.”
His smile evaporated. He wasn’t expecting that plot twist. Honestly, I wasn’t, either. Especially considering Sailor had conveyed to me her lack of wanting to stay in touch verbally, by text, physically, and every other way short of skywriting. Maybe she had told me to piss off through skywriting. I hadn’t looked at the sky in a while.
Nevertheless, it was the truth. I couldn’t resist the chance to pursue her. I couldn’t forfeit the right to hug her, order DoorDash food with her, argue about who was a better tipper, and tell her about my day. Because those were the happiest moments of my life, and every single goddamn time I reached for my Dala horse and my neck was bare, I knew she had it—my one possession that meant something.
If she hasn’t burned it by now, that is.
“You’re rejecting my offer?” Da sobered, smoothing his tie.
“Trust me, we’re both bummed about it. So I guess that means I’m fired?” I stood.
I still needed to finish my Sylvester investigation, no matter what. I no longer stopped midway when shit became hard.
“You’re not coming to Maine,” he confirmed. “Start looking for a job.”
“Bet.” I gave him a little bow and flipped him the bird for good measure. As I stepped out, I grabbed the chrome handle of the glass door and turned around to him with my parting words. “By the way, this door? Designed by a masochist. It takes three hours to close it. Here, that should fix it.” I kicked the door’s cylinder. Unhinged, it flew into Da’s office and crashed on the floor in one piece.
I looked up at him, flashing an unhinged smile from the supervillain variety. “Maybe I am a Fitzpatrick after all. Look how good I am at ruining things. You’re welcome.”
That evening, I sat my ass down to listen to how Syllie’s night was going. The answer was bound to be better than mine. I tried to DoorDash the Cypriot place that had opened three blocks from my apartment, but found out my bank account had been cleaned by Daddy Dearest—all future and current transactions declined.
The old Hunter—the one from six months ago—would’ve called the mom he ghosted not-so-friendly and had her Venmo the necessary funds to feed Africa. But the new Hunter was too prideful to beg, let alone for food. So I cracked open a can of beans, tried to microwave it, almost caused an explosion (who knew metal wasn’t microwave-safe? Not this fucker), and settled for crackers and expired cream cheese.
I was legit the bitch-eating-crackers-like-he-owns-the-place meme. FML in the ass.
I was wondering how I was going to continue paying Knox, who was literally sitting in a van, freezing his balls off, to record Syllie live through the devices he’d sold me. I hoped he accepted sexual favors, because homeboy was currently more broke than Jenna Jameson had she switched careers to celibacy expert. I was fucked in the most unorgasmic way known to man.
I was three hours into the evening’s investigation on Syllie—he’d just finished having dinner with his family, during which he and his wife had discussed the riveting subject of matching Christmas sweaters—when I heard the three knocks on my door.
I put my crackers down, frowning. If it was Cillian with one of his devil’s pep talks, we were going to exchange some fists, not words. But no. Cillian should’ve been on a plane on his way to Maine by now. I went to the door, throwing it open.