“I see,” he said slowly, and I was afraid he really did—right through me.

Didn’t overworked, underpaid civil servants only grease squeaky wheels? I wasn’t squeaking anymore, so why wasn’t he getting the message and holstering his oilcan? Alina’s case had been closed before I’d come over, he’d refused to reopen it, and I’d be darned if he was reopening it now. He’d get himself killed!

I abandoned the oversweetened drawl. “Look, Inspector, what I’m saying is that I’ve given up. I’m not asking you or anyone else to continue the investigation. I know your department is overloaded. I know there are no leads. I know it’s unsolved and I accept that my sister’s case is closed.”

“How…suddenly mature of you, Ms. Lane.”

“A sister’s death can make a girl grow up fast.” That much was true.

“I guess that means you’ll be flying home soon, then.”

“Tomorrow,” I lied.

“What airline?”

“Continental.”

“What flight?”

“I can never remember. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Upstairs.”

“What time?”

“Eleven thirty-five.”

“Who beat you?”

I blinked, fumbling for an answer. I could hardly say I stabbed a vampire and he tried to kill me. “I fell. On the stairs.”

“Got to be careful there. Stairs can be tricky.” He looked around the room. “Which stairs?”

“They’re in the back.”

“How did you bang up your face? Hit the banister?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who’s Barrons?”

“What?”

“This store is called Barrons Books and Baubles. I wasn’t able to find anything in public records about an owner, dates of sale for the building, or even a business license. In fact, although this address shows on my maps, to all intents and purposes, the building doesn’t exist. So, who’s Barrons?”

“I’m the owner of this bookstore. Why?”

I jerked, stifling a gasp. Sneaky man. He was standing right behind us, the epitome of stillness, one hand on the back of the sofa, dark hair slicked back from his face, his expression arrogant and cold. No surprise there. Barrons is arrogant and cold. He’s also wealthy, strong, brilliant, and a walking enigma. Most women seem to find him drop-dead sexy, too. Thankfully I’m not most women. I don’t get off on danger. I get off on a man with strong moral fiber. The closest Barrons ever gets to fiber is walking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store.

I wondered how long he’d been there. With him you never know.

The inspector stood, looking mildly rattled. He took in Barron’s size, his steel-toed boots, the hardwood floors. Jericho Barrons is a tall, powerfully built man. I knew O’Duffy was wondering how he could have failed to hear him approach. I no longer waste time wondering about that sort of thing. In fact, so long as he keeps watching my back, I’ll continue to ignore the fact that Barrons doesn’t seem to be governed by the natural laws of physics.

“I’d like to see some identification,” growled the inspector.

I fully expected Barrons to toss O’Duffy from the shop on his ear. He had no legal compulsion to comply and Barrons doesn’t suffer fools lightly. In fact, he doesn’t suffer them at all, except me, and that’s only because he needs me to help him find the Sinsar Dubh. Not that I’m a fool. If I’ve been guilty of anything, it’s having the blithely sunny disposition of someone who enjoyed a happy childhood, loving parents, and long summers of lazy-paddling ceiling fans and small-town drama in the Deep South which—while it’s great—doesn’t do a thing to prepare you for life beyond that.

Barrons gave the inspector a wolfish smile. “Certainly.” He removed a wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. He held it out but didn’t let go. “And yours, Inspector.”

O’Duffy’s jaw tightened but he complied.

As the men swapped identifications, I sidled closer to O’Duffy so I could peer into Barrons’ wallet.

Would wonders never cease? Just like a real person, he had a driver’s license. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Height: 6' 3". Weight: 245. His birthday—was he kidding?—Halloween. He was thirty-one years old and his middle initial was Z. I doubted he was an organ donor.

“You’ve a box in Galway as your address, Mr. Barrons. Is that where you were born?”

I’d once asked Barrons about his lineage, he’d told me Pict and Basque. Galway was in Ireland, a few hours west of Dublin.