Page 74 of Her Irish Savage

“Tend any branch, and water overflows to the rest of the tree. Siphon off however much you need.”

Tend—make small enough deposits that I fly under the radar. Siphon—collect payments for something important, like donating to the Corman Gala.

I ask, “Where can I get details on the branches?”

Q frowns. “Aran has all that.”

My uncle’s name curdles something in my stomach. I press: “But you do too, right?”

He doesn’t want to admit it. But Patrick’s getting restless, putting his hands on the table again, so Q finally says, “Yes.”

I tap the drawing. “My name is on those documents?”

He delays even longer this time, looking across the reading room as if the rows of tables and their green, glowing lamps are the most fascinating things he’s ever seen in his life.

“Quentin?” I ask, testing a tone of command I heard my father use more times than I can remember.

He squirms visibly, shifting on his chair as if the wooden seat has kindled beneath him. “Yes,” he finally says. “Your name is on the documents.”

“I want the details now.”

“I’ll get them to you.”

“No. Now.” I’m getting the hang of this tone. All I have to do is think of every man who ever thought he could tell me what to do because I was shorter than he was, because because I weighed less, because I didn’t have a cock between my thighs. “You aren’t leaving this library until I get them.”

Q puffs out a tiny gasp of despair. “I don’t have themmemorized. I need a computer.”

I glance at the sign by the reading room door. “Like the public access ones? On the second floor?”

Q’s face twists with intense disgust, as if I’ve suggested pegging him on the table between us. I don’t know what sickens him more—handing over the account information to me or doing it in a public place.

Patrick stands. “Ready to stretch your legs?” he asks, as if we’ve been sitting too long at lunch.

“I’m not…” Q’s answer fades away. “I can’t… If the Crew finds out…”

I stand too. I’m not afraid to invade Q’s personal space, but I lower my voice because some threats have to be kept quiet. “ByCrew, you seem to mean my uncle. But he’s not in charge of the Crew.Iam. And if I don’t get those account numbers in the next five minutes, theCrewwill no longer be needing your services.”

Patrick rounds out our cozy little circle. He’s trying to be subtle, reaching beneath his jacket like he’s about to pull a business card from his inside pocket. No one else in the reading room even notices. No one else even suspects there’s a holster hidden there. But Q swallows so hard, I’m afraid he’ll faint.

Patrick gets a hand under his elbow, keeping him on his feet. All three of us move toward the door, up the wide marble steps, and down the hall to the library’s public access computer terminals.

Q’s hands shake like he’s in the throes of heroin withdrawal. Sweat trickles down his temple, tracing his jaw to get lost in his collar. The ashy stink of a burned-out campfire gets even stronger.

But he logs in to the terminal. He navigates to a new-to-me website, something with a Liberty Tree surrounded by a Celtic knot. He enters a username and one of the longest passwords I’ve ever seen.

The screen reveals dozens of blue file folders. Q clicks on one, and the screen refreshes to show ten more. He moves fast, working on muscle memory. It takes him less than a minute to reach his destination.

One click, and it’s all there in a single file. Bank names and locations. Accounts set up as long strings of numbers and letters.

“Send it to me,” I order. Q has worked for my family long enough that he doesn’t have to ask an address. I take out my phone and watch the screen until a red badge tells me the file has arrived.

He licks his lips. “Okay? I can log out now?”

I’m about to set him free, but Patrick steps forward. “Go back two screens.”

Q only hesitates a moment before he hits the right buttons.

“One more,” Patrick says. Then: “There. What’s that?”

---