Chapter 16 Marlowe
SIXTEEN
marlowe
I’m halfway past Callahan’s office when his deep voice hooks straight into my spine.
“Are you sure, Dec?”
I’m not eavesdropping. I swear I’m not.
I just…stop. Completely.
I hover in the hallway, heart thudding.
“Even though the gun I lifted off the guy was police-issue, Roark’s now positive the body wasn’t a cop,” Declan says.
“If someone’s claiming he was, and this so-called cop was there to get intel from Marlowe on the cartel, then we need to make sure people know the photo of her is a deep fake and she wasn’t actually there. ”
“What else makes Roark think the guy wasn’t a cop?” Torin asks.
“He had a badge on him, but it wasn’t real. Had a fake number. And he was definitely alone.” Declan’s voice is clipped. Annoyed. “No cop trying to bring down an entire organized crime ring does it solo. Not like that.”
I knock.
I don’t mean to. My knuckles hit the wood before my brain catches up.
The door rips open. Declan fills the frame.
I swallow. “I have something…”
I don’t wait for permission. I spin and bolt upstairs to my room, breath coming too fast. I dig through my bag until my fingers close around leather and paper.
I looked through what I took off that “cop” but forgot about it when I didn’t see anything related to my dad.
But based on what I just overheard, maybe it’ll help Declan and his brothers.
“What are you doing, Molly?” Declan’s right behind me, of course. “Hiding things from me?”
I narrow my eyes. “Not on purpose.”
And then I’m moving again. Back down the stairs, forcing him to follow. I’m still mad at him for last night. For leaving me shaking and denied on purpose. For humiliating me. For making it a true punishment.
I walk into the study on unsteady legs, clutching the wallet and notebook. All three brothers look up.
Cal’s gaze is cool and assessing.
Seamus has that flat, emotionless stare that makes it hard to tell if he’s about to crack a joke or a skull.
Torin’s thoughtful, cataloguing Christ only knows what.
Declan blazes in like an inferno and plucks the items from my hands. “Christ, Molly…”
“I thought he might have something on Daddy,” I say quickly.
“It’s why I was at the truckyard, for information.
But I went through them later that night and didn’t see anything about my dad.
So I stashed them away and forgot I had them until I heard you talking about him.
” I glance between them. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. ”
“Declan?” Cal asks. “What’s she got?”
“What Roark said,” Declan says. “Proof he wasn’t a cop. From the look of it, he was a bottom-feeder. PI on one card, bounty hunter on another, but he stinks of the kind we’d never hire to clean up or set up a sting. And…”
He opens the little notebook, flipping pages. I crane my neck but the scribbles blur—dates, names, locations. My pulse spikes.
“It’s about the people he was following. Places they went. Names of cartel and mafia. And…Cal?” Declan says, holding out the notebook.
Cal takes the book, scans it, jaw tensing. “Mario’s name is everywhere. His partner in crime? Didn’t…shit, didn’t O’Shay use a Mario?”
I swallow. “Leon mentioned a guy named Mario at some point. But…it’s a common name, isn’t it?”
“Not like this,” Declan says, eyes locking on mine. “Nothing in here about anyone looking for your father. No Heston. No Briggs.”
“Fuck,” Seamus mutters. “Maybe this Mario needs to be on our payroll. Man’s wearing all the hats.”
“Good one, eejit,” Declan says absently, but he’s clearly thinking it through.
“Mo!” Raff barrels into the room and clamps onto my leg. “Frig!”
Cal’s head snaps around. “What the…?” His expression morphs into stern-dad mode. “We don’t say things like that.”
The animal posse arrives right on cue, Bruiser weaving between legs, Monarch on high alert, Lola glaring at everyone. Lola hisses at Seamus when he gets too close.
“That’s an ugly ass cat,” Seamus says.
“Lola’s been places,” Declan replies, sounding faintly proud. “He’s also possibly evil.”
“Raffy means frug…right, Marlowe?” Tatiana peeks in, unsure if she’s allowed in the room.
My cheeks heat. “I’m teaching them The Rich Man’s Frug.”
Blank faces all around.
“Jazz ballet. Bob Fosse. From Sweet Charity?”
Declan’s mouth curves. “Shirley MacLaine.”
“You’re so weird,” I tell him, but it’s an escape and I take it.
I herd the kids out, the animals swirling around us like we’re leading a tiny circus. Even Fiona and Monarch join in. We mutilate the choreography since it’s not kid-appropriate at all, but the jazzy sixties music and exaggerated poses work perfectly for them.
We’re jumping and flailing and “dancing” when I glance at the doorway.
Declan’s there with Cal. Cal looks…relieved. Declan looks like he’s trying not to show any emotion at all.
“Okay, kids,” Lucie says, squeezing past her husband. “Let poor Marlowe breathe. Tatiana and Natasha, time to go. Raff, bath.”
Raff looks up at her, then lets out a howl as the girls head out to find Ava.
Cal scoops him up. “He reminds me of you, Dec.”
“Brilliant?” Declan asks.
Cal mutters something under his breath and carries his squirming son away. The others drift out of the room. The animals scatter.
When it’s quiet again, Declan steps forward and holds out his hand.
“I’m not touching that,” I mutter.
His dimple makes an appearance, and he looks more devastating and smugger than usual. “You’ve touched a whole lot more than my hand, princess.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’m not. You are. You’re obsessed.” His fingers flex, waiting. “Come on. We’ve got lunch with your mam.”
I push a single lettuce leaf around my plate, ignoring the perfect mound of mashed potatoes, green beans and chicken in a mushroom cream sauce that Declan ordered for me.
I want to eat it. Desperately.
But the dry salad was waiting at my place when we sat down, and I’d rather not piss my mother off.
She talks at Declan, not to him. About security. About schedules. About her plans for me. When he mentions he stopped an attack, something flickers in her expression.
Her hand trembles. She puts her wine down too quickly. “Someone broke into the apartment,” she says. “So I was worried—”
I snort before I can stop myself.
“Marlowe.” Mother’s voice slices deep. “Enough. I care about you. The hoops I’ve had to jump through because of your father…”
My eyes sting. “You don’t care about him.”
Declan puts down his knife and fork. “I think she might,” he says calmly, not looking away from my mother. “She just shows it…strangely.”
“You’re the help,” Mom snaps. “And the moment my daughter’s safe from any threats, you’re out of the picture.”
She shifts her laser focus to me. “Your father put us in this situation. Remember that. I’ve tried to shield you, but he’s not the hero you think he is. He—”
“I also don’t think she should move back in with you,” Declan says, cutting cleanly across her. He spears a piece of steak and chews it, completely unbothered. His free hand drifts to the back of my neck, thumb brushing the fine hairs there like he owns them.
Mom’s fingers curl around the wineglass stem. “She’s better off under my eye, Mr. Murphy. If you stopped the attack, then—”
“You really think there’s been only one?” Declan lifts an eyebrow at her. “She’s in a lot of danger, Cloris. Because of your husband, she’s now a target.”
The glass snaps in her hand. Crystal stem cracked in two. The server rushes over, fussing, but she waves him off with a sharp, “I’m fine.”
He replaces the glass. We’re alone again.
“The Murphy name keeps her safe,” Declan continues. “Until I find out who’s behind it all, she stays with me. My wife to the world.”
His lips slowly curl into a knowing smile. “Do you know a Milo?”
“No.”
Her answer is too fast. Too crisp. My stomach tightens.
Milo. Mario. Names blurring in my head. I cut a sidelong glance at him. Does he think we’re both playing games?
“Just asking.” He slides my untouched salad plate away and replaces it with the chicken and mashed potatoes. “Eat.”
“She needs to watch her weight, especially now,” my mother snaps. “With an injury—”
“Marlowe can eat what she wants,” he says. “And she needs protein. She likes this dish. We’ve had it before. That’s why I ordered it. Plain salad isn’t a meal, it’s a punishment. Especially without dressing.”
Mom’s eyes narrow. “You’re not actually her husband, you know. You’re just her bodyguard. Maybe she should be home.”
“Let me make this very clear.” Declan leans forward, tone dropping. “You hired me to keep her safe. I’m doing that. My way. She stays with the Murphys until every threat is neutralized.”
“You’re right.” Mom closes her eyes briefly. “I want her safe. My daughter comes first.”
“Then we keep going.” He glances at me, then back at her. “If her injury ends her career, I think she’s okay with that. Aren’t you, Marlowe?”
I stare at the mashed potatoes. Why can’t I just say it? Say I don’t want what she wants for me?
I drag in a breath and meet her copper-colored eyes, so much like mine and yet so cold. “I’m okay with that.”
Her mouth tightens. “We’ll talk later, Marlowe.”
“Ballet is not important right now,” Declan says. “Her safety is. Clearing her name is. You have to trust me.”
“In protecting her,” Mom says, “I will.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your tiny dancer safe and sound and protected.”
He stands and hails over a passing waiter. “We’ll take her meal to go.”
Declan leans against the wall outside the director’s office when I come out of my “not quitting” meeting. It’s a hiatus. A pause. A polite way of saying we’ll see.
He stares at his phone, thumbs moving, voice low and relaxed as he talks, like he is actually focused on the person on the other end.
The second I step out, his fingers slow and he pops the AirPod out of his ear. His gaze lifts to me and a delicious chill shimmies down my spine as his aqua eyes lap me up like a dog at a water bowl on a hot day.
There’s so much I want to say.
About the way he handled Mom.