Page 44 of The Wallflower Manifesto
“Did the collector say Freddy named you as guarantor?” Abe asked, a sinking feeling in his chest.
“He said my name was frequently mentioned until access to the hell was granted. It was not a well-known establishment. Small mercies, I suppose.” She sighed, lowering her eyes to her hands in her lap. “Perhaps your impertinent servant is right, and I should not indulge him or assist in any way, but I cannot simply leave my son to the wolves, Mr. Murphy, no matter how flawed he may be.”
“I’d never suggest such a thing,” Abe replied earnestly. “It was a misstep. I won’t pretend it wasn’t, but in the same breath, I do not think it is the first of a series of missteps.”
“You don’t?” she asked, giving a skeptical tilt of her head. “Why not?”
Abe opened his mouth and then closed it again, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know,” he confessed after a moment. “I can only say he seems different of late. It is not the man he wishes to be.”
“It never was,” she answered with a heavy sigh. “Wishes do not fix us, Mr. Murphy. A vice as strong as my son’s might as well bean actual demon, appearing and possessing him beyond his best intentions. What he wishes is irrelevant.”
He nodded.
She wasn’t wrong. Anyone who had ever known a man tied to his vice—be it the bottle or dice or even love—knew that good intentions were not a cure.
He wanted to argue with her, but his gut feeling, his trust in the other man, was not a rational thing.
“If the wolves arrive at our door,” he said, reaching across the desk as though to bridge the gap between them, “I will not allow them through.”
She blinked at him, a glimmer of hope crossing her pretty face. She took a short gulp of air and placed her own hand atop his with a reassuring pat of his knuckles.
“You’re a good boy,” she said, an undercurrent of raggedness in her voice. “Freddy is lucky to have you. I’ve a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
She hesitated, retracting her hand and fiddling with the wedding ring she still wore. She averted her eyes as she spoke, as though she could not bear to see his disapproval at her request.
“I’d like to hire you,” she said softly. “You are an investigator, and I require information about my son. I want to know what he is up to and how he is faring, but with discretion. It would not do for him to know I am hovering.”
Abe stared at her, momentarily speechless.
Was this the same woman he’d been hounding across half of London? The one who’d scandalized the ballroom last night with a fiery fandango?
She was still twisting her ring, like its weight had increased during this conversation. Her averted gaze flicked back to him, and he noticed a catch in her breath the next time she drew it. This request had not come easily.
“He would see it as a betrayal,” he said carefully, “if he ever found out. If I agree to do this for you, it is imperative that it remain a secret. Feeling abandoned and betrayed is what started this mess in the first place.”
“Is it?” she asked, hope leaping up in her eyes like a child who’d found a lost toy. “This is what I mean. I need to know.”
Abe shook his head, a thrumming of tension at his temples alerting him to the fact that he would most certainly have a headache later.
“All right,” he agreed, holding up his hands in surrender. “I will do this because I think it is good for him, but you must go now, before he returns. I will not risk setting him off again.”
She stood immediately, clutching her hands to her chest in an interlaced ball. “But that woman will surely mention it?”
“I will handle it,” he told her, standing himself and striding over to the door. “Expect a letter from me soon. We will get him through this.”
She followed him through the house to the door and turned just before leaving to press a receipt into his hands. “I paid the debt,” she confessed. “Tell him if you like. Or don’t. I don’t trust my own instincts on the matter anymore.”
He took the little sheet of paper, doing his best not to balk at the amount.
“And thank you, Mr. Murphy,” she said before departing. “Thank you so very much.”
He felt heavy trodding back to his study, dragging along that receipt like a sinking stone. He threw the newspaper on the desk, turning the headline face down, and fell back into his chair. His body protested like he’d just jogged the whole of London and back again.
He did his best not to reflect on the fact that he’d just unwittingly become a double agent for perhaps the most dysfunctional mother-son relationship this side of the River Thames.
He’d speak to Mrs. Harrison as soon as he felt able to think again, he resolved. For the moment, he wanted something untaxing and simple to occupy his mind and refresh his spirit.
