Page 78 of Player
Clarissa
Surprises are like birthday balloons, sometimes they inspire excitement, even joy. Other times they shock you with an electrifying zing. Every once in a while, they blow up in your face. Today, Finn wrapped all of that into one mindboggling package.
Unlike the past two mornings, I wake up then have breakfast on my own. Finn is missing in action.
Ghosting me.
But why?
I sit and, over coffee, debate what to do. Do I knock on his door and wake him up? Do I discretely ask the innkeeper what time he came in last night? If he came back.
We have a job to do. Together. Or not.
I clench my fists, considering the possibility he’s moved on in our investigation alone. Leaving me to do what? Sit around, scratching my head and wondering why he’d dump and dash like a college student with a curfew?
The sex was good. Phenomenal. The. Best. Ever.
Bedside manners? Not so phenomenal.
But disappointed or not, I won’t allow Finn to sideline me. With or without him, I’ll be moving forward in digging up all I can on O’Brien.
I’m just finishing breakfast when the innkeeper enters the sunny porch and hurries over to my table. “This arrived in the post,” he says and hands me an envelope.
Finn’s name is scribbled on it in pen.
“Thank you. I’ll pass it on to him.” The innkeeper nods and goes about his business.
I wait for the man to reenter the inn before prying open the envelope.
A crude note is folded inside.Brilliant fight last night. If yer up for another go, send word. Tonight at ten. Mickey. P.S. I owe you eighty-one euros.
Finn fought? And who the hell is Mickey?
I grind my teeth together. He made a new contactwithoutme.
So that’s how we’re going to play it? Alone and without communicating what we’re about?
Is he sidelining me while he continues the plan? Thinking I’ll be twiddling my thumbs while waiting for him to toss me a crumb?
Hell no. Think again, Finn McDuff. Two can play at this game.
Digging up information on O’Brien shouldn’t be too difficult given his mob connections. And if today is anything like yesterday, I have all day to poke around.
With a new sense of determination, I head back to my room for my satchel.
Finn’s door is partially open as I pass. And, though I try and will my feet to keep moving, my instincts tell me to stop.
Odd. Finn is easygoing yet careful about safety.
Worried, I push into his room.
Then stop short.
Finn is sprawled out on the floor. He’s on his back, right arm stretched overhead. Wearing pants, one sneaker, and a shiny new black eye. An empty bottle of whiskey lies within reach.
What. The. Hell.
I bend and squeeze his big toe. “Finn.”
