• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

There had been a time, not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, when he’d used the equipment in this room for purposes not quite legal—as much for fun, he could admit, as for profit. Perhaps even more out of simple habit.

He’d grown up a thief and a grifter, and such habits were difficult to break. Especially if you were good.

He’d always been good.

So good, it had been a very long time since he’d needed to steal to survive. He’d shed his criminal associations and activities, layer by layer, slicking on the polish money could bring.

He’d made something of himself, he thought now, as he looked around the room. Had begun to, in any case.

Then there’d been Eve. His cop. What could a man do when he was so utterly besotted but shed more layers?

She’d been the making of him, Roarke supposed. And still, for all they were to each other, there was a core in him even she couldn’t touch.

Now someone had come along, some stranger trying to make him believe that everything up to now—everything he’d done, everything he was, everything he wanted—rested on a lie? A lie, and murder?

He crossed to a mirror. His face, his father’s face. All but one and the same, and there was no getting around it. It wasn’t something he thought about often, even considered. Which was why, he imagined, having it slapped hard in that face this way shook him down to that hard, cold, unreachable core.

So, he would deal with it. And be done with it.

He sat behind the glossy, U-shaped console, laid his palm on the screen against the slick black. It glowed red as it scanned his palmprint. And his face was set, like stone.

“This is Roarke,” he said. “Open operations.”

Lights winked on, machines began their quiet, almost human hum. And he got to work.

First, he ordered a deep-level search on Moira O’Bannion. He would know her better than she knew herself before he was done.

The first level was basic. Her date and place of birth, her parents and siblings, her husband and children. Her work record. It jibed with what she’d told him, but he’d expected that.

A good con required a good foundation, didn’t it? Who knew that better than he did?

She had to be lying. Had to be, because if she wasn’t . . .

Pain and panic crashed in his gut. He bore down, stared at the data on-screen. She had to be lying, and that was that. He only had to find the first chink, and the rest of her fanciful story would crumble.

As the layers peeled away, he studied her medical records, her financials, and those of her family. With a deadly calm he stripped away her privacy, and that of everyone connected to her.

It took him a full hour and he found nothing that sent up a flag.

He got more coffee, settled himself again, then spoke the command he’d hoped to avoid.

“Run search on Siobhan Brody, born County Clare, Ireland, between 2003 and 2006.”

WORKING . . . THIRTY-THREE FEMALES BORN DURING THAT TIME PERIOD UNDER THIS NAME.

“Subject is proported to be one of twins.”

WORKING . . . FOUR FEMALES BORN DURING THAT TIME PERIOD UNDER THIS NAME WHO WERE ONE OF TWINS.

Now his palms were damp. He was stalling, and knew it. Taking too many steps to find a single answer. “Subject is one of twin girls, sibling Sinead.”

WORKING . . . MATCH FOUND, SEARCHING . . .

“Display most recent image of subject while searching. Wall Screen One.”

DISPLAYING. I.D. IMAGE SIOBHAN BRODY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2023.

She shimmered onto the screen, filled it with her young, pretty face, her shy smile. Her hair was bright, bold red, drawn smoothly back from her head, her eyes a soft, soft green, her skin all roses and milk.

Younger, Roarke thought as his gut twisted, a year or two younger than the picture he’d seen in Moira O’Bannion’s office. And without that deep sadness, without the wear and the bruises. But the same girl. The same.

BRODY, SIOBHAN, BORN TULLA, COUNTY CLARE, IRELAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 2005. PARENTS COLIN BRODY AND PATRICIA CARNEY BRODY, FARMERS. SIBLINGS EDWARD BRODY, FERGUS BRODY, SINEAD