“I have a job to do.”
“Even you and Colin Donovan together couldn’t have saved Sister Joan.”
“Because I stayed at the gate. He’d have followed her through the meditation garden.”
“Sister Joan was caught by surprise. If you’d followed her, you’d have been caught by surprise, too. Same with Colin. Same with you and Colin. There was no reason to expect a killer.” Yank’s eyes were hard. “You’re an FBI agent, Emma. You’re not a nun anymore.”
“I know that.”
“Colin Donovan at a loose end is more dangerous than Colin Donovan on a mission,” Yank said.
“Is there any chance he could have placed that bomb?”
“No, but you should consider everything. Trust me, he is.”
“Does he think I could have killed Sister Joan? Yank, do you think—”
Yank dropped his feet to the carpeted floor and rose. “You wouldn’t be here if I did. Donovan’s an independent SOB but he’s on our side.”
“I’m flying to Dublin tomorrow. I’ve had plans to see my grandfather for weeks. Now it’s imperative.” She paused. “And I want to look into Finian Bracken. What do you know about him?”
Yank frowned. “Irish priest. Colin’s friend.”
“Colin’s in so deep he can’t really have friends, can he?”
“I haven’t said anything about him.”
“There’s something about Father Bracken…I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
“We’re on this thing,” Yank said. “You’re not alone. Don’t think you are.”
“Thanks.”
“I took the liberty of sending someone through your apartment to make sure there’s no bomb there. Hope you don’t mind.”
It wouldn’t have mattered if she did, but she was glad Detective Renkow had warned her.
“Donovan’s on the way to your place. I gave him the address. Let him in. He can keep you from getting killed.”
“I don’t need his help.”
“Did I ask what you need? You’re shorter. You take the sofa. Give him the bed.”
“I don’t have a sofa.”
“Oh. Well. Work it out.”
“I’m not taking him to Ireland with me,” she said, and walked out of Matt Yankowski’s office.
* * *
Emma’s tiny one-bedroom apartment had decent parking and a grocery store within easy walking distance, two major pluses in Boston. It was freshly redone with exposed brick and windows overlooking a marina. She had to buy more furniture. She’d never had much and had left most of it for the ATF agent who’d taken over her apartment in Washington when she’d joined Yank’s unit.
She finally reached Lucas. He’d spoken to the police. He had no memory of the Sunniva painting. He hadn’t been in the attic in years but had planned to clear it out before renovations got under way. Unlike Emma, who’d adored painting and hanging out with her grandfather as a child, Lucas hadn’t gotten interested in Sharpe Fine Art Recovery until after college.
He’d never been interested in saints.
Emma promised to stay in close touch and disconnected. She wandered into the galley kitchen. She wasn’t hungry; she didn’t even want tea.
Her still life of apples looked cheerful but also rather lame on the wall.
“Yank would probably think they’re pears,” she said, forcing herself to smile.
Maybe she should take the painting down before Colin got there.
Maybe Colin wouldn’t come.
She raked a hand through her hair. What would she do if he did come?
Before she could produce an answer, he was on her intercom, and she buzzed him in.
Yank’s orders, she told herself.
“The BPD will tow my truck,” Colin said as he walked in, looking even bigger in her small apartment. “Do you have a visitor’s card?”
“You’ll be fine for a few minutes.”
He shrugged. “I’m not staying just a few minutes. You know that, Emma.”
“Yank made a mistake putting you on my tail.”
“He’s worried about you.” Colin got out his phone. “I’ll text him to make sure I don’t get towed.”
Emma stood stiffly as he keyed in his message. He had to have figured out she’d been a nun. Was he toying with her, waiting for the moment to pounce? Or was she overreacting, and he didn’t care?
When he finished and slid his phone back in his pocket, she shook her head at him. “No way. You’re not staying. I don’t care if Yank ordered you to keep an eye on me. It won’t be the first order you ignored.”
“Nobody ordered me to stay.” Colin moved from the door and peered at the still life on her kitchen wall. “Not bad. Have your pals checked this place for bombs?”
She nodded. “While we were drinking whiskey with Father Bracken.”
“Ah, yes. Father Finian. He’s an interesting character.”
“So I gather.”
“I’d almost forgotten he was a priest, even with the collar, until he started talking about incorruptibles.” His expression unreadable, Colin turned to the near-empty living room. “You could always take tomorrow off and make a trip to IKEA.”
She was going to Ireland tomorrow night. “Colin…” She blew out a breath, irritated with herself for feeling so off-balance. “I mean it. You don’t need to be here. I’ll call Yank and tell him.”
“I’m not here because of Yank.”
His eyes were half-closed. He’d changed into a charcoal canvas shirt that seemed to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. Emma watched him move to the open door to her bedroom and stop. And she saw it now. He’d figured out she’d been a nun, or Father Bracken had told him. Either way, he knew, and he was waiting for her to point it out, or confess to him, as if her years as a postulant and novice called for confession whereas his years as a marine patrol officer didn’t.
He glanced back at her. “There’s just the one bedroom, I see.”
Emma didn’t respond. She remained in the middle of her unfurnished living room. She could make a mat for herself and sleep on the floor, or she could sleep in his truck. He wasn’t here simply because he was an FBI agent concerned about a colleague. His presence had to do with her. It was personal.
He went into the bedroom. She
