Was it the blow to the head, or was Clive not making sense? What did story assignments at the newspaper have to do with corruption and murder? Her head was ratcheting up its pain, and she longed to slide down the wall and sit again, but another, deeper part of her knew that to do so would be tantamount to giving up. To death. “I don’t understand,” she said instead.
“Robin Hood, Genevieve. I told you it was my story. It was meant to make my career.”
Her confusion deepened. “But you fingered the wrong man.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Right, wrong, who cares? It was a damn good story.”
Even with her sore head, Genevieve was starting to put together the pieces. “Someone approached you,” she said. “Said they’d give you the identity of Robin Hood, the scoop of the year, in exchange for … what?”
He gave her a beady look and propped his legs up on the table, causing it to sway. “Never you mind what.”
Her curiosity stirred. “But how were they planning on making the story stick? Daniel McCaffrey is not Robin Hood; I proved that. Arthur’s already printed a retraction. And if I hadn’t given Daniel an alibi, he would have had them for the other crimes …” It suddenly became clear. “Oh,” she said faintly.
Clive smirked. “Catching on, are you?”
She was. They weren’t planning on Daniel being alive to defend himself. “You’d kill an innocent man for a false story?”
“I wasn’t going to kill anyone. But if others want Mr. McCaffrey out of the way, and I get the story of the decade out of it …” Clive spread his hands. “Everybody wins.”
A wave of blackness crossed her vision, and Genevieve dug her palms into the rough wall behind her, willing herself to stay upright and conscious. “And you get money,” she said, alarmed at how faint her own voice sounded. She willed it to be louder. “I’m sure they offered you lots of money.”
He watched her dispassionately. “As I said, we weren’t all born with a silver spoon. But yes, I’m about to become very wealthy, and Mr. McCaffrey is about to be very dead.”
“How? How will they kill him?” Bouts of darkness continued to dance across her eyes. Genevieve dug her palms into the wall again, the pain of thick splinters gouging her hands forcing her consciousness back to alertness.
Clive shook his head. “Not my job, and I don’t care. Once he’s gone, other evidence will conveniently be found. We’ll make the story stick, despite the retraction.” He flashed a sour smile in her direction. “You should have accepted me when you had the chance.”
Anger flared, hot and satisfying, temporarily blocking her fear and snapping her focus into place. “Is that what this is about? Are you still pouting because I wouldn’t have dinner with you?”
Clive moved faster than she would have thought possible, pinning her against the wall and gripping her jaw roughly in his hand.
“Do not mock me, Miss Stewart,” he gasped. “Your little stunt might have cost me my career, and I am not in a mood to be taunted.”
“Your journalistic mistakes are not my fault,” Genevieve managed, heart pounding.
He released her suddenly, shoving her to one side so that she lost her balance and stumbled. As she steadied herself, the strident noise of the tavern ballooned in again as the door opened.
Ernest Clark surveyed the scene with distaste. “Why is she still here?” he asked. It clicked for Genevieve: his had been the other voice she’d heard arguing with Clive earlier.
“Sometimes, Ernest, we must dirty our hands ourselves,” a third voice sighed.
Tommy Meade wound his way around Ernest and smiled at Genevieve.
“I’ve dirtied my hands plenty,” Ernest muttered, shutting the door. She bit her lip and tried to calculate whether she could somehow get past all three men and to the door. It didn’t seem likely.
“Mr. Meade,” Genevieve said, pushing herself off the wall. She wasn’t going down without a fight. “How nice to see you again.”
Tommy responded with an amused smirk. “Likewise, Miss Stewart.” He advanced until she found herself backed against the same wall Clive had pinned her against earlier.
The rivulets of fear Genevieve felt expanded, though she did her best to maintain a brave facade.
Smiling his predatory smile, Tommy gently wagged his finger in Genevieve’s face. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Miss Stewart. Inconvenient. And I don’t like to be inconvenienced, do I, Clive,” Tommy continued, keeping Genevieve fixed in his unwavering stare.
“No, sir, not at all,” drawled Clive lazily from behind the other man, clearly enjoying seeing Genevieve terrorized. She swallowed her fear and scanned the room for a weapon, gritting her teeth in frustration when nothing obvious presented itself. Perhaps the bottle?
“Your snooping was inconvenient,” Tommy continued. “Your presence here right now is inconvenient. This fool was meant to have killed you weeks ago.” His eyes flicked toward Clive, who ducked his head and looked away.
Fury arose anew in her. It was Clive who had attacked her in the records room.
“And Danny has been inconvenient for years,” Tommy said, shaking his head in mock sadness. “He should have stayed abroad.”
“How did you know Daniel had told me about his sister?” Genevieve managed to ask through her fear. It had been bothering her since the article came out.
A quick look of surprise crossed Tommy’s face. “Told you, did he? Danny boy is more smitten than I thought. I’ve known for years, Miss Stewart, and simply have been waiting for the right occasion to use the information.” He shrugged. “Many in the old hood knew.”
“It didn’t matter whether McCaffrey had told you or not,” Clive added with a nasty laugh. “What mattered was that he thought you betrayed him, thought you uncovered his past secrets. And it worked, didn’t it? You both backed off your snooping, and I heard McCaffrey disappeared. All your precious retraction did was get you fired, and out of my hair for good.”
Tommy
